If we were to sit around a campfire, never mind that in my thirty something years I have never experienced it, I'd be the adult munching on her crisps nervously getting her many words straight.
I stummer while addressing a crowd, however huge or small it is. This is probably why I am so lucky while doing this. It is way much easier meaning I am more fluent in coming up with written sentences than I am in spoken word.
I hail from the East side of the black continent. I am made of colonised blood and was raised in a raided home.
And even with such disoriented roots , words still found a home within my rebellious being.
Here, tales of oppression linger. There are those of a depression too. Inner battles tend to silence these pens from time to time but somehow, the passion for scribing frees me every damn time.
It is the how poetry still has away to free my hidden pain that made me fall for it. Followed with the way it allowed my perverted pens to bask in the beaches of erotica and fall deep in the abyssals of romance.
I have been healed of unshareable pain. Freed of intangible amounts of dead emotional weight. I have been taught of a whole lot of things I didn't know about myself. To me, writing saved my life.
But reading will always come first.
So here's to a timeliness full of reflective pieces and prose. One leaking of sensual poetry and romantic cliffhangers.