A WRITER’S DEVIANT KIND
Creativity knows no matter nor color.
It knows no other than being creative.
It is relative, never absolute, for life would matter not.
It wanders beneath thought and expression; a soul searcher, a healer.
It paints in abstract and distorted reality.
It frustrates the writer yet comforts the reader or art enthusiast.
It breaks a virgin mind. It strains a rhythm kind. Walks in uninvited, unwanted.
It is human. It betrays the seeker.
Enslaves the teacher. Engraves the dreamer.
Braves the humble. Graves the struggle.
Paves way for a transformative kind, a creative kind.
A journey; a journal kind. A story told in metaphorical kind, the artistic kind.
It reigns in mountains and broken promises; a seeker, an imaginative kind.
It crawls silently. It mocks. It bothers, scatters, gathers, it shutters.
And if our minds could talk like humans do, what world would there be?
For creative thinkers are humans too.
And their thoughts have poetic inferences to mental;
Political, spiritual, economic, social realities.
And their works of art have emotions and gestures thereof.
They cry, they lie, they smile, they frown, they tell, they dwell.
They're deviants, truants. And so I am, human.
And a stranger that basks under shadows on shoulders;
Of the moon by the dark cloud.
A descendant of men and women that descended;
From ancestors of their descent.
A creative kind. A patient kind, but a deviant.
A rejected kind; a savage. But knowledge;
Is my golden kind. My chariot. My heritage.
My desert kind. My wretched kind. My faded kind.
My happiest kind, but a deviant. A timid young African kind;
Naively demanding answers unknown to men...
When questions surround in imaginative kind;
Drowsy but detained in matters of the past like a caged bird.
I'm a burden to this land of nature's innocent kind. But glad to be alive.
A stranger with strangest hands that touch and hold between toes of a virgin land.
And my throat swallows beneath friends of drunken masters as barren words;
Between their tongues they spoke but a deviant. And my deviant mind,
Is a broken smile of an orphaned child, a child slave to their mother's grave.
A writer's deviant mind. They speak their mind, they write. They paint.
They sing. They clap. They act. They react. They break;
A virgin kind. They seduce. They abuse. They confuse. They diffuse.
And so I am. But vulnerable like soils of a desert wind.
And you be the interpreter of my story. For I've long structured its phonetics.
And fanatics shall dwell in fantasies of their own imagination for ages.
Until they seem to be deviant like a deviant writer's mind.
So, would you suppress to depress your significant kind?
Or surround in hypnotic conclusions unknown to none?
Or be a moron that walks on the face of the earth, stubborn?
Or be a dusty soul that roars wildly by the evening shades?
Onalethuso PBM Ntema
The Voice of a Shadow, 2016