Maclawrence Famuyiwa Poet Narrative

A Masterpiece Conceived

I’m fully out of my slumber,
now knowing poems aren’t born in dreams,
but from a mind dipped deep in ink,
a brain awash with quiet resilience.

Yet in its silent agony, the paper stares blank—
befuddled by the jargon the nib dares spill,
deepening laughter in the sponsor’s folly,
rejoicing with the writer’s block
still unperturbed within my brain.

But there’ll be no excuse for defeat’s glare to scare;
so long as my mind stays sane and sound,
my “impossibility” shall be read as “it’s my possibility.”
Just give me time—and my fears will flee.

So fill again the pen that refused to write for glory.
Where is that page that once denied my excellence?
Within its belly, a masterpiece lies full-term,
ready—aching—to be born.

Take strength, my weary muscles.
Flee away, all stubborn sleeps—
for your absence shall birth my excellence.

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