Poetry; My Double Helix

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POETRY: My Double Helix.

It is often said that the gift of life is the burden of living.
I've been told that "heavy is the head that wears the crown, yet let him whom it fits; wear it!"
When the grand master of creation gave gifts,
He handed me the gift of conjuring images
With my words, I concocted narratives just as I see fit.

He christened my mind a creative beehive - see it buzzing with ideas.
He gave me the ability to use both speech, ink, and paper
To heal or to haunt, provoke or inspire,
Release or bind, coax or be blunt to the hearts of these listening souls.

In between my lines, you could find your oasis.
Yet at the extreme, you could find yourself in Sahara.
I could chart a course for the shattered pieces of your heart,
To the places you dumped the uncomfortable emotions…let's call it Bermuda.

I am a poet, of course, when I dress up
I have to wear my heart on my sleeve, so when I write, I come off as authentic.
I am a poet, of course, my hands get sore
From digging deep to find a connection, just so you could relate.

I am a poet, of course, my ink-stained fingers will tremble
To pen those words, yet go ahead to question my every line.
I am a poet, of course, I've realised that it's not only
The sun/moon that eclipses—you see when this unbelief spreads
Its dark self over my creative mind; it eclipses
Into something we fondly call imposter syndrome.

My creativity seems to have found herself a stunt double; writer's block!
For all the times I dared to leap, she tried to jump even higher.
I am a poet, of course, my blank page is my own judge,
The jury and still the executioner.


Poetry indeed is my blessing…that curses.
Poetry is my gift…that burdens.
I bring the fire only to realize that I too am a sacrifice.

Sometimes this well; it overflows,
Sometimes, it dries up.
Oh, how these words have given me responsibilities
Oh, how these blank pages stare at me like a hungry child that I need to feed.
The weight of expectations hits me hard like Sango's thunder.

And like adire fabric, I have these intricate coloured patterns of mixed feelings.
But beneath poetry's razzmatazz and rendezvous lies a complex question.
Is poetry truly a gift/a burden?
Is the space between silence and speech truly golden?

As for me, I like to believe that poetry is both—a curse and a blessing.
I like to believe that the fragile crack between the heart and the page
Is whichever colour we wish to paint it.
I've long embraced the forked nature of my dearest friend—POETRY!
Because this gentle torment ignites my creative fires.
This gargantuan weight feels light.

It's often said that the gift of life is also the burden of living.
And heavy is the head that wears the crown, yet let him whom it fits—wear it!
Poetry, though heavy, is the hot air balloon that'll lift me to fly.
It is by far my biggest investment—I will get my ROI.
Glowree✨