They taught us productivity before poetry. Survival before softness. Noise before nuance. But creativity, especially for Black people, has never been a hobby. It’s been a language of survival. Before we were “allowed” to write, we spoke. Before we could publish, we sang. Before we could rest, we imagined. Poetry lived in the field holler. In the blues. In the sermon cadence. In the way our elders told stories that carried memory when books were denied. And still, somehow, creativity gets framed as indulgent. As unproductive.... As something you earn after you’ve proven your worth. But what if returning to poetry isn’t escapism? What if it’s remembrance? What if creativity is us reclaiming a part of ourselves that was never meant to be extracted, monetized, or explained? Here’s the uncomfortable question: Who benefits when Black people are too busy surviving to imagine? #living #howsanguine