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being gifted is sadistic in the sense; I am told to keep delivering;
as hysteria flows through my letters until my hands are quivering
the slate symbols sting like ants on my skin; leaving inky blisters
but I must go on because there mustn't be any whispers
my muscles have well memorized the unwanted obligation;
the cycle of- examinations, evaluations, and qualifications
-my quill bleeds on the paper,
but I must keep delivering;
because who am I if not gifted?
YOU ARE READING
Throes of Spring ✔️
Poetry[FEATURED] godhood is just like girlhood: a begging to be believed
