A Gift And A Curse Poem by Aya Poetess

Words
like vacillating waves
on her chest mounting
hot coals flinching
Slow death
is drawing near

What if she fills her head
with algorithms or science,
with palpable things
lacking metaphors
and lyrical prose
to feel numb
to stay away from torments

She feels too much
she bleeds so much
she says too much
perhaps words are better kept unsaid
to shield the heart
from briars and forbidden tenants

Perhaps this will be her last line -
To bare my soul
I no longer yearn
I should shroud my heart
with frost and metal cloth
for my repertoire
is coming to an end
Read me
in another lifetime

Being a poet is a gift
and a curse