Exhale of tremulous timidity
It’s daybreak and I’m wondering why my razor beak is pecking hard at my self-worth. Not that people are joining in the peck yet this demon of perfection is only grabbing harder at the hilt of my sword, formerly dunk in courage and the blood of hope. Now, whenever I look at my body, full of raven hair and candlewax, I smell insecurity so thick it could make your lips curdle. Why is it that as artists, we always feel that our brushstrokes are never enough? We never feel our emotions paint brightest. When hope begins to trickle in, as we imagine ourselves kings and queens of the spit and sand of Mother Ingenuity, our royal garb almost always ends up swallowing the dumpsters. With such acuity! Because there’s always that hue that is misinterpreted, that brushstroke that wasn’t applied with tact, that inner light that never caressed the dark away. That word that didn’t quite fit the spirit of our muse, that final creative piece that now sits as sand dunes on our poetic drought. The apple sauce to glaze over my crusty talent is no longer thick and savory, it’s insanitary, full of winding twine that gripes for the kill. Goddammit, why is it so hard to create and let go?
David Agyei-Yeboah is a writer and artist from Accra, Ghana. He has work published/forthcoming in Literally Stories, Afritondo, Deep Overstock, The Quilled Ink Review, Decolonial Passage, Ethel Zine & Micro Press and elsewhere. Dogs make him smile, always.
