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Poetry: My Gift, My Burden

The empty pages in my notes
Demand to be filled,
The ink in my pen
Yearns to be used.
Everywhere I go, words fall from the sky;
If I don't catch them instantly,
I lose them eternally.
I see what others don’t,
I hear what spirits say.
Call me a prophet.

Like a pregnant woman,
She gives birth after nine months,
Becomes a mother.
But I—
I am the father, the father of poetry.
A gift, a responsibility
I carry everywhere I go:
My bag in the market,
My voice on stages,
My friend on rocky days,
Always there to lift me up.
The patient that needs attention,
A masterpiece, nothing less—
The son I am proud of.

I love poetry,
But the cost of love is always high—
So, I pay the price every single day
even when the economy is not smiling.