Bestseller

How many a writer perch at a desk

By a window looking over nameless shrubs

And struggle to squeeze out a sentence off his sweat,

While nursing birth pangs of a plot.

He wouldn't believe it for a second if I tell him

That in the acts sown seamlessly into the scenes

Is the subtle unfolding of my becoming.

Do you marvel when you glimpse my glory?

Could it possibly be you do not know my story?

I hide in the moments that take your breath away,

Like a plume of whisper riding the alpine echo,

I am a best-selling story.

                       

Perhaps, you have witnessed my daily walk,

Or maybe, ya'll heard the simpleness of my talk.

Yet, know not an inkling about the myself of me.

Let me put you through with an allegory:

I am a pick of poetry spotlighting a piece of plain prose,

Like a wink of sunshine busting on a thousand prairies.

I strive for the fullness of an exceptional life:

I'm a million tiny drops building up a tide.

You would never know for sure what you're missing,

Until you look me up on the bestseller list.

Anonymous, unknown and unbeknownst to you,

I am a million-copy best-selling story.

                       

When I exhale it's a unique story,

Challenges are my entourage to the threshold of HIStory.

Skim through your newest writing project,

What you see between the storyline are prospects

Of an ordinary me living lavishly legendary,

Still standing strong in one beautiful black body.

Posterity mines the archives to glean my magic,

And witness there ain't nobody betters my story,

That the life I live today is for real

And endures like bite marks on fossil.

Eternally, I am rebirth splintering husks of sun baked

raisins,

I am a best-selling story.

                       

                       

Eneh