It's in our bones, This desire to create, To leave a mark on the world. A finger print. It isn't enough to watch, To observe, To peer in through the frosted window At other lives. There's an itch Inside That makes us want to breathe life Onto the blank page, The canvas, The clay. Maybe it's our mortality, Tapping us on the shoulder, Reminding us that the time Is short. Or maybe we just can't ignore Our babies, All of them begging To be born. Why do you create?