And if I can’t tell the story like I lived it
with all the marvelous plot, twists and turns;
the ones that made my insides bubble in a million hiccups
all but in one breath of life-threatening laughter…
If my voice is not one for sound effects;
the ones that lace a conversation with reverberating intonation
and cinematographic-ally capture the mind and steal the emotion,
but if I don’t know how to steer the conversation,
like the captain of the ship, in the right direction
to the place where time flies unnoticed and no effort into attention
tell M.E why I shouldn’t write it…
for my heart and mind are but ink on paper.
I forgot how to talk when I learnt how to write
because I realized the words I spoke had to be vetted and sieved
to please with displeasure a particular kind of audience;
I said what I said because it’s what they expected M.E to say
or what I wanted them to hear.
It stifled my opinions, baffled my understanding, disregarded my
creativity and downplayed the person of M.E.
Amazing, different M.E!
and in personal vendetta against myself,
I slinked away into a book where I could be M.E, not them.
M.E in a world free of stereotypes
because the greater life in M.E couldn’t settle here:
the only place a writer is at peace is in a book that gives space for ink and
ink that leaks of thoughts,
thoughts that are surrendered to expression.
for words written are a reflection of the soul