"OUTPUT OF A THINKING WRITER" By: David O. AKANO

Someone stopped loving (me) because I write, because her mother said I cry alone with my pen shedding the tears, that I am a free bird with a free birth and no recognition, no celebration only tears of ink.

Someone stopped believing (me) because i spice up my words and weave my meanings amidst my voice and not because I drive my car, build my house on the structure of white and materials of black and/or blue. That I only sleep on the railing with a big dream of myself flowing in high places.

Someone ceased trusting (me) because I can only thrust the end of my weapon on paper and make people blush and not bleed. Claiming that I'm not competent to hold a sword of two edges not to talk of the one with four edges. She stopped trusting my sorry because I've spoilt her with it coming from different genre of sorry's and majorly because I write.

Then someone pleaded (with me) that I should spring forth and do the right thing, claiming that when the time comes, I will be what I've got to be. That i should try and employ letters from Hey to Zeed then send on errand all around the globe that my writing shall be the tax payer and my passion will be the way paver.

Who am I to bank on??
What am I to think of??

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Every time I feel this way This terrifying kind of pain These twitchy palms and muffled sobs These weakened sights and mindless slob I would think of something To put me at ease, anything At times, to leave my world And be someone else, not a dud Often times I would write on plain sheet Write till my limbs felt weak Write till the page is covered in ink Write till the painful times shift. ©-Marvee

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