A Poem is a Human

Why do I feel, when I sit in the garden of books, that African wisdom is trapped in a white man's muse?

Anyway, let me not digress.

What I wish to talk about is how frustrated a poem could make a man be – isn't it a strange, broken thing?

Creators of aesthetics and thoughts, oh, I mean people with creative and romantic imagination, please listen to my story:

It all happened one evening. It was dimly lit, as at dusk, and there were no stars to adorn the welkin with charisma and aura. Now and then, the breeze, so gentle and soothing, blew in all directions, and the soft-cover books on my bed opened up by themselves, showing off a few of their pages in conspicuous gaiety. As I lay in wine and foot-sated slumber, I heard the sweet voice of creativity seductively caressing my mind: weave letters into words and words into form. Form?

So, my eyes fluttered open, and I shot out of bed as the voice intensified. In seconds, I was sitting by my table that had books set like funds for a project. Por supuesto, I couldn't forget my lamp.

So, I took out my best friends, the pen and paper, and began with the word "woman." I then decided to insert a word that could mark a spoken phrase or word as imaginary, something like "oh." Then, I continued with "woman." Thus, the line read: "Woman, oh woman." For aesthetics, I wrote something like: "With the wine of gratification into ecstasy, you threw me... Oh, such a sweet metaphor! To further make the poem lovely, I introduced personification, and it read like this: "Your beauty has mesmerized my soul and that of the stars that they wish to adopt a more graceful pose for my camera." And then my thoughts continued to pour on the paper like an aggressive liquor.

I thought I had written it all. I thought I had a form so beautifully made until I woke the poem from sleep for a review.

"Most lines are empty and without purpose." Those were the words of my creativity. I believed him. After all, ever since my parents died, my life has been empty and without purpose. So, I changed them and added a few more aesthetics.

"Uncle, write the poem again. Create it in your image. After all, what is a poem if not the image of its creator, cast in his likeness?" - Huh! My creativity again!

I was so stuck in words and frustrated.

So, I decided to retire to bed and continue later, but my creativity wouldn't let me.

So, I looked him in the eyes and whispered: why do you frustrate me to write just a poem?

And then, he laughed and laughed and laughed, looked into my eyes too, and whispered: You call a poem just a thing? A form that can change society with its flowery language? My dear, a poem is a living being, and that's why you ought to be meticulous when creating it. You don't just pour thoughts; you consciously construct them with the intensity or depth of expression or inspiration greater than your soul.

Indeed, a poem is human.