Some souls do bear extraordinary gifts:
Some children bear the wisdom of old age;
Some athletes’ strides are powerfully swift;
Some poets’ words paint life upon the page.
But genius or talent does endow
With burdens that do weigh upon the heart
When onlookers do wholly disavow
The pain that does accompany one’s art.
For giftedness is not of iron made;
It is a blossomed bud with tender leaves
That hears the heavens’ call and does obey
But burns like fire beneath a gentle summer breeze.
For gifts do hum at higher frequency
Their songs of joy are wrought with misery.
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