My creativity
isn’t a hobby,
it’s the quiet revolution
inside my heart.
It’s paint under my nails,
unfinished sentences in my throat,
ideas scribbled
in the margins of reality.
They told us creativity
was a talent for a few,
a trophy,
a gold star.
But I see it everywhere—
in a nurse humming under her mask,
a worker lining up tools like a small orchestra,
a parent turning leftovers
into a feast.
That’s creativity.
Not just galleries and spotlights,
but the everyday magic
of turning “what is”
into “what could be.”
My creativity isn’t separate from yours—
same river, different waves.
You think in blueprints,
I think in color,
but it’s the same ancient fire
that made us paint on cave walls and say,
“I was here. I felt this.”
You were born creative.
The proof is your daydreams,
the ache you feel
when something beautiful whispers,
“I want to make my own version of that.”
Your creativity isn’t gone,
just waiting for your permission—
in the ugly first draft,
the off-key note,
the shaky line that doesn’t rhyme
and doesn’t need to.
So open the lense,
pick up the brush,
hum the melody.
The world isn’t only falling apart—
it’s asking us to imagine it, again.
Every time you dare to create,
you’re not just making art,
you’re making proof
that the universe still believes in us—
and that you, right now,
are part of the great,
wild, beautiful
work in progress.
— C. James
Creative Soul
Wild Rose
A wild rose breathes against the breeze,
a whisper of pink in a restless world.
Delicate as dawn, yet rooted deep,
she holds her ground through rain and ruin.
In her bloom lives a quiet courage—
beauty not meant to be tamed,
strength that doesn’t shout,
only opens,
and opens again.
— C. James
Apple of His Eye
Eve holds the fruit like a dare.
Adam took one bite,
and everything started to change.
An Astro-God-like Angel
is hovering nearby,
“Hey Adam… you sure about this?”
But love doesn’t wait for instructions.
Love jumps.
Love risks.
Love falls.
And the serpent just watches,
smiling like he’s seen this story
a thousand times.
Immortality?
That was never the point.
The point is…
Would you fall
knowing you’d break—
just to fall with them?
And they did.
– C. James
Down Greenville way, the river hums low,
The Delta breathes stories the cotton fields know.
A red blues guitar whispers, the twilight replies,
Blues hands shape sorrow ‘neath old-painted skies.
The song rolls like water — tender, unbound —
Birthplace of the blues, where lost hearts are found.
— C. James
Greenville Blues
Delta Whiskey Blues
Red guitar cryin’ under juke joint light,
Mad Dog whisperin’ through the night.
Heart broke easy, strings stayed true—
Ain’t nothin’ left but the Delta blues.
— C. James
In the dim archive of memory,
faces flicker— half-known, half-faded —
a soul in a room,
a bird that once spoke of endings and beginnings.
Ink bleeds through time,
words dissolving into whispers,
a letter never sent,
a circle unbroken, yet incomplete.
Each image—a pulse from another life,
stitched to the present with thread and longing.
The past does not die;
it rearranges itself into paper and dust,
into eyes that still search,
into symbols that mean only what we can no longer say.
Here lies what was kept,
and what was lost—
a collage of living ghosts,
the quiet archaeology
of who we have been.
— C. James
Ephemera of Existence
Remnants of a Dream
In the quiet drift between waking and gone,
memories scatter like torn paper —
edges soft with time,
ink still wet from another life.
The eye remembers what the heart forgot,
a flicker of color,
a half-formed sound,
a sky painted in fragments of thought.
Dreams do not end,
they dissolve —
leaving only traces:
a cloud, a whisper,
a line that once meant something
in the architecture of the mind
— C. James
In the low-lit glow of a juke joint night,
Bottles clink soft, laughter burns bright.
The band kicks a tune, hot and alive,
Feet hit the floor, their spirits revive.
He takes her hand, rough from the field,
She spins with a grace no hardship can steal.
Calloused palms, weary bones,
Here on this floor they’re flesh and soul alone.
The harmonica wails, the guitar moans sweet,
But the rhythm says freedom in every beat.
No cotton, no hoes, no back-breaking sun,
Just friends, just family, just joy hard-won.
Their lives may be heavy when daylight comes,
But here they are lighter than the rolling drums.
Two hearts in motion, loose and free,
Dancing away their history.
And when the night winds down to hush,
They’ll carry that spark, that tender rush—
Knowing in the juke joint’s golden flame,
They were more than struggle, more than pain.
— C. James