Being a poet is a curse

Being a poet is a curse, because I feel too much— in moments others shrug off, I drown. In words they forget, I build worlds. I notice the tone behind the “I’m fine,” the weight in a silence, the ache behind a smile. And I carry it— quietly, until it spills onto a page like it’s the only way I can breathe. It’s crying in metaphors because real tears are too loud. It’s turning heartbreak into rhythm and hoping no one realizes it’s mine. Sometimes, I wish I didn’t care this much. That I could just live, not feel the need to write everything down so it makes sense. But maybe this curse— this ache that speaks in lines— is the only way I know how to stay alive.