LOCAL WRITER

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Every human woman borne, whether September or October born, impacts two effects on others’ destinies, either builds or burn. While you’re shooting with your gun, your productions to some will be a source of fun, while to some will be a cause to mourn. Some critics would say before you even began, you’re done. Some will say the road to exhaustion, you’re bound to make a turn, yet, others will laugh and say you’re such a fun, and would like to eat you as if you were corn. So you see, whatever judgment people pass on what you do, you must not be gone; your wits must not be worn! What reactions must you give to condemnations if not to shun? We’re just beginning, please learn to condone, your books or notes must not be torn.

Thou, thee, art and thy aren’t my style, so they say my name is not likely to travel a mile; I did not say it’s a lie, I only let my strength gather and pile; when my name finally reaches the international file, my enemy will go and jump into River Niger or Nile. No writer is the best writer, let Mayweather fight Vandakeem before you pronounce him the best fighter, cinch economic stress tightly around Grisham’s neck, let Dan Brown’s be tighter, if their books still beat yours and are found on Asia-borne freighter, only then should you agree to being a local writer.

My eyes could be clear or pink; I might pass through situations that stink; I might ignore to lift glasses to clink or alcoholics to drink; I might not click if you send an interesting video’s link; I might ignore all seducers that wink; it’s all because I’m not a type that beautiful distractions can hoodwink. Boko Haram bombs all around me, I will not blink. I must neither stop nor run out of ink. I do not write to impress, I rather write to express. If you write to impress, you’re likely to fail at impressing and find yourself in a mess. But if you write uniquely to express, your works will be voted a yes, and you’d be a topic of the press. Well, I might not be totally right, no stress.

Some of my works are already in Indian translations, continue to think that I suffer literary incarcerations. Story for the gods is popular in Spain, continue to think I’m in pain. A Letter To My Son is an opening in a celebrated writer’s coming novel, in your illusions that I’m a local writer, continue to marvel. I abuse no drugs, no smoking of weed yet I still write like a spirited steed. Can you not see already that The Man Called Lord is born to lead? Okay, wait there and wallow in your mead, we’ll soon know who’s the local writer between the two of us. Local writer you say… Local writer indeed!

©Lord eBay(2015)

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3 Comments Add yours

  1. kauaiartist says:

    Your writing in this piece reminds me so much of myself when I write from ‘the well of my soul’. The music just appears and the cadence one hears starts the gallop and the waltz. I may be writing deathless prose or schmaltz. No matter. Take it as just patter should you wish, to me it is all poetish.

    Thanks for this piece,

    Brent Kincaid

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Lord eBay says:

      Hmmm… Thanks for the read and of course the comment. I do read your works and they’re great. Let’s continue to gallop through our minds and waltz through the pages, it’s all music only not with audible beats. Poetry for life! That’s our way of appreciating our souls.

      Liked by 1 person

  2. kauaiartist says:

    Yes, let us do that very thing. Communication of one soul to another soul is always among the most dynamic.

    Liked by 1 person

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