…born in the legacy of a poet, both blessing and curse

A poet who poured his drinks as often as he penned verse.

Hasty, swift, trembling wrists, alternating, tipping and rising.

I thought it was a game, a movie, he was always disguising,

Compromising his health, family, soul, yet blinded, stoic.

Till one day his poisoned blood decided to stop flowing.

I was born twice, once in death, had to learn early I must keep going.

Left with half a soul, from its withered branches growing

A voice, echoes of hope, pure love, stability, an ability

To deal with life's…

By Madalina Schiopu