Is it right to write just because I can or do I need to want to write to write? What gives me the right to write and expect you to read? Have I earned this rite of passage? Is it alright for me to power up the netbook, create typewritten words about whatever I feel is right and then click on ‘publish’? What is rightfully mine? While we’re on the subject, what are your rights? Most importantly though, do they matter? Do you matter? Do I? What’s the matter? What is matter? I am matter. She’s my Aunty and I do matter. You? Well, that’s a whole different matter, am I right?

Writing is easier said than done. RIP Eric Wright. Ice Cube used to write what he would recite. Jay-Z doesn’t write. At least, that’s the story. Naeto C doesn’t either… is that right? Three-in-one form from that singular inquisition but I won’t expatiate my meaning, if that’s alright with you? Stick to the script! I wonder, when Jigga ghostwrites, does he record vocals or bash the keyboard since his pen is for signing his John Hancock on the bottom right corner of checks? Or should that be left? Who declared the left wrong and right, right? Is this discrimination right? Do you care more about how I write or what I write? Be precise. It could be neither and that’s perfectly alright. It is highhanded to look down disdainfully upon the left handed and raise the right in victory. That’s plane not right, in fact, that’s not playing right. William Shakespeare, renowned playwright, you wouldn’t shake his hand if it didn’t come from the right? You admired his work, am I right? Would it be any less profound if his pen-holding hand was not the right? To you, that is. Are you the righteous or just a poor teacher who the preacher can’t reach, sir?

What shall I write? Why shall I write? Where shall I alight off this right wing? It’s frightening, writing, more so than even lightning. In the Night Inn, there is one for the day, so I’m right in writing… the right thing? I sure hope so. It Was Written, when Nas was spittin’ before Treach was smitten by Pepa’s kitten. The page glistens as the lines listen, intently, as the pace quickens – broader strokes evoke a sense of urgency as he tries to re-quote what his brother wrote. How do you emote in ink? Think! Blink, take time out to find out what it’s all about then write it all out. Utilize your arsenal like Ian Wright and attack the page; soar over Mars as you terrorize right backs who mark down that left hand side of the margin. Imagine. I beg your pardon! Don’t be startin’ what you can’t finish, a’ight? Like this here feature… poem… blog… whatever, this creature, that I do write… who will recite? Will it ignite a passion in your soul, unleashing an inner light? Like the police who don’t write you a ticket but just harass your life, read you your rights when it’s not right for depriving you of said rights in the first place. May they not trace your outline in chalk by the sidewalk because reporters will hawk over you and find something to write. And it shall be published, Pulitzer or gibberish, as long as they have a deadline, they will describe you in headline, aligned from left to right; like the photo captions that capture images worth a thousand words. But I’d rather write a thousand words, it brings me freedom like the birds… these words… in written form, that’s the norm for me to calm a storm.

Nobody writes love letters anymore. Just concerned with if the dress is too tight or it fits just right. Watch those dangerous curves before you crash and burn with bystanders wondering if you’re alright. For our very senses sense us swaying toward the sensuous which sends us sniffing after scents of attraction; reaction: sensory overload. That’s why we send off the sensors of Senators who aim to censure us with censors sent to us, salivating off the scent of us; who knows what their true incentive was? Now written writs are the gift we’re cursed with, even though we’ve done nothing wrong but express ourselves. We can sit quietly all day long and accept these wrongs or arise and fight till we set things aright. The writing’s on the wall. The timing is right.

Oh Blogger where art thou? I am here now. Right here where I belong; writing again, for you my friend and for myself. Who’s right and who’s wrong? Some write, some sing songs. White man, black man. White paper, black ink. What do you think? Irrelevant, irreverent? Incoherent deterrent washed clean like detergent. Writer’s block, these, right here, are your last rites. I’m here now…

Write where I belong!

 

 

Why do soldiers have to turn their eyes right?

I Am Random!