The Interview (Spoken Word)
Usually I don’t post these over here, but this one’s slighty different. Here you go. Reviews coming soon.
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I sit down with my journal in my right hand under the bright light as a lady dressed in all white asks me…
“Can I write?”
I almost laughed.
I wiped off my black Nikes and slowly began to gripe. I don’t think they understand the effects of my plight. Lady, I can’t even relax or go to sleep at night unless I write to relieve stress in my life by somehow ranting about wrong and right…doesn’t even matter whether I’m wrong or right… I been doing this my whole life, and my whole life’s been stricken and smitten with sorrow and strife but in spite of the mess in my life, somehow I still manage to spin my problems in a positive light…
She asks me “Is that right?” Well I don’t think it’s wrong. It’s my personal truth, I’m surprised it’s not my theme song, although I make beats and rhythms in my head all day long and spit vicious punchlines custom-made by my design. And my design comes straight from the inner-sanctum of my Mind, and my mind says my lines are fine, but… something I’ve realized well over time is that people think I’m crazy when I begin to pen my rhymes…
She asks me “So why do I write?” Did you really have to ask? You ain’t seen what I’ve heard. You ain’t cried how I laughed. You’re not living for the future, you’re just living in your past and that’s why you have no real presence, and that’s really just sad.
She didn’t understand the answer, so I told her to sit and maybe in due time she’d understand what I had just spit… The way her thoughts were derailed told more of the tale.
You think I’ve gone mad? No I Think you’ve gone mad because all you see is bad and all you read out of context are the lines on my pad that bleeds from my pen until that particular train of thought ends. I call it a writer’s cycle, not un-similar to the one you go through that puts you in a pissy mood.
I could see the offense on her face, so I quickly went into what I had to say and told her that for me it happened every couple of days. I just sit in my room, thinking of how to pray To God for Him to help me and show me a better way of escape and I expect to hear something, but really all I hear Him say is “Write..”… so I write just in spite of all of the drama surrounding me, my friends, and my family in my life…
She asks me if I might be overdoing it… That’s a good question, and even if I was, I honestly couldn’t prove it or stop myself from doing it. I guess it’s my own personal drug, but writing’s better than me deciding to empty slugs or initiate a violent rivalry with a thug on the block until cops stopped the shots. Or added to them.
She looks down to ask me another question, but I knew the next one and I beat her to it stating that I might need me another outlet soon, and I’m aware how many people are clueless when it comes to doing this thing of writing… but I’m talented, and I plan to use this one until it’s useless…
She nods and stands up asking is there anything else she needs to know…My sarcastic self responds “Am I free to go?”
She leaves without a word, although I gave her several… I picked up my pad and pen and started to write again and for now, this is how the story ends…
