It’s a common thought as a creative to believe you are an imposter; not worthy of the work that lays before you. I’m probably an imposter of poetry, so who even knows ey?
I didn't make this,
I could not have made this,
I took it from Erika,
Or David or Chris.
I like it,
Clearly, it's good,
But I could not,
Have made good, great or more.
I'm an imposter,
A fake, a liar, a prepostor,
I am no creative,
These ideas are stolen,
A thief, true and native.
This line is Picasso,
This type is Spiekermann,
That colour is Myerscough,
The signs of a plagiarism,
Or that of a fan?
Perhaps creativity isn't original at all,
Perhaps I'm building myself for a fall,
You can only create what you know,
You know what of what you've seen,
Of the books you read,
Of the music heard and exhibitions been.
To be fake is to be what one is not,
To create is striking the iron when hot,
Dali stole, Turner stole and Goldsworthy stole,
Creativity isn't pure and whole.
Draw the line,
Between inspiration,
To be a true imposter,
Creating fine creation.
Every now and then, I do like to write a bit of poetry on the blog—even if it proves slightly less useful than a structure essay like usual. Here, in rhyming verse I’ve pointed the finger at a creative mindset known as Imposter Syndrome, where you believe that all your work is good not because you’ve made it that way, but instead you’ve stolen it from somewhere else.
But here’s the problem, all creativity is stolen. Picasso famously said “Good artists copy; great artists steal” but even that could be a plagiarism. So either way, I guess it proves his point.
