Descriptive Writer's Dust

Having creativity is to having freedom
As much as a janitor is able to change the name of his employer's wife.
A forced labor of imagination is asking for an uncanny strike
Of the gerbils churning the wheels that peel back the bands of time
Which allows the ability to guiltily forge creativity outlets.
Sometimes my product leaves me upset at pungent contingencies
That maybe my descriptive writer's dust is being held back by the agency.
Sometimes I say it blatantly,
Sometimes I dip it twice in a make over,
But as long as it's made from honesty
I can kick back to the chauffeur.
Wrong, as flintstone feet beat to pick up the lost profits,
A similar little patter that makes a pattern I haven't lost yet.
I try to bribe it with my two sense and a promise,
But the premise of this dismissal is pissing me off,
Steaming like the tea kettle's whistle;
I crept back into my croft
And planted the seeds that rebirth the tinsel that gilded the weak and soft.