In past and even more present times, when left alone with my rhymes I’ve cursed my inability to sit down at the odd given times and put them down with utter versatility.
I would try to put pen to paper and write perhaps a caper, or whatever else I imagined I should be able to write…. Romance, a story about a slow dance, a slow chant…or a story about crime, or maybe even a story to make a grown man cry… I tried.
But at times like that like I once before told thee, my pen would forsake me. It’d run metaphorically from my mind screaming catch me if you can, kinda like the gingerbread man…
And I in my mind would give a chase long and hard…. Till those mental legs of my reasoning seemed like they’d previously been scarred and I was mentally outta breath from trying to catch that which should never have left. Sometimes I’d be like a Yoruba mother you see on the way to the market standing by the left screaming at her little boy like “PEN!!!! TI O BA BO SIBI BAI N’SIN!!!” And my pen would take a sarcastic bow…. and just leave.
The idea that I couldn’t write was ill conceived so bereaved I would simply sit staring. Waiting & wondering when my pen would follow the map down the path which my mind wished to go…. I started to wonder if I was mentally challenged…or even worse, I started to question if in actuality I had any talent.
But at the oddest and strangest of times, like a little boy who ran away from home till he realized that he had totally no food & no money and that he was all alone and simply wanted his mommy, it would come back to me. And at times like these, I can write whatever the hell I want. I’d catch the truth by the toes and the nose, and put it all out so that everybody knows. I’d bare some random part of the deeps of my soul & sow together a coat of many statements for my reader to wear. I’d create fear in the minds of the feeble and fake, and as they quake in their boots cos a real person walked by, I’d smile, knowing the strength I have, because I write. I could even write the greatest love poem ever known, and dedicate to a woman I’ll never know. Or maybe I’d think up some fictional prose. A story that may end up being too crazy to be told.
Whatever, it really don’t matter. I could write whatever the heck I want right then. Cos totally bold is how I feel, when I’m one with my pen.