“The Labor of the Heart”
No, my friend, I am not a poet. My ink does not dance to the rhythm of stardust or weave sonnets from moonbeams. Yet, sometimes, my verses tiptoe along the edge of rhyme, whispering secrets to the wind.
I am a purveyor of elevated, lofty prose—a weaver of tales that stretch their wings toward the heavens. My words, like silk threads, spin stories of forgotten lands and lost loves. But poetry? No, that eludes me.
Only a storyteller, hardly sublime. I gather fragments of memories, string them together like pearls on a thread. Each tale a constellation, stitched across the fabric of time. My quill dances with shadows, not metaphors.
Do I write to find my fame and fortune? To chase after laurels and gilded dreams? No, my purpose is simpler, yet profound. It’s a labor—an ache in my chest that demands release. A hunger to give voice to the unsung, the ordinary, the fragile moments that slip through our fingers.
And so, I write. Not for glory, but for solace. Not for applause, but for the quiet nod of recognition—the communion between storyteller and reader. For in these words, I find my sanctuary, my refuge from the cacophony of the world.
My heart, a stubborn artisan, insists on its craft. It stitches together narratives, stitches that bind me to the past and propel me toward the unknown. And as I labor, ink staining my fingertips, I realize: Perhaps this is poetry after all—the rhythm of life, the ache of existence, the beauty in the ordinary.
No fame, no fortune. Just the labor of the heart.
Copyright ? Beatriz Esmer