My Betrothal to the scent of the Ink

As the morning kisses the earth
And the sky,
Slowly illuminates the silhouettes of the night
When the world outside is awash with blue
And the birds are busy chirruping
All I think about is writing.
As I open my eyes languidly
And scurry out of my deluxe bed;
Pushing the flannel sheets aside
As my foot first touches the cold floor
On my way to the bathroom
All I think about is writing
Yes! Writing.
My anxiety to write is recalcitrant;
So don’t stop me,
Just let me write.

I want to write;
Write about my dazzling dreams
Write about how I turned on the faucet to rinse my face,
With tepid water
I want to write about my fleeting moments
Those that I’m yet to tell anyone about
I’ll do that through drafting them on paper
I want to write about my thoughts,
Those that push me over the precipice, into a bottomless pit
As the sun stays wan and weak,
I’ll write about it in the open fields
Allow me to share my fog of confusion,
Through penning it down.
So don’t stop me,
Just let me write

My urge to write is so surreal,
Yes! Very recessive and perennial
That’s why in my floppy breast pocket,
You’ll never miss it
My ink spitting spear.
Never disappointing, always ready to spit
As I hold my spear in between my fingers
I feel relieved
Then I heave a big sigh
And close my eyes,
Like one receiving benediction.
And suddenly,
I’d start to write, on anything and everything
About anything and everything.
Should you find me,
Don’t stop me
Just let me write.

I want to tell her
But I can’t
I can only write about her
Yes! Her effortless elegance
Her attractive one-dimpled smile
Her flawless skin
Her faith-based obstinacy
Her unrivaled innocence
And oh! Her face…
As bright as a new shilling
As immaculate as a new white sheet of paper
And my love for her:
So desperate, so insane, so tender and complete.
I want to write about her knuckles,
How they form little cute dimples at the back of her hands
If only she could allow me to write poetry on her waist!

Through writing,
I’ll share with you my not-so-secret, secret of mine:
That the epitome of sophistication, is utter simplicity.
Dad, should you find me writing,
Add me another bunch of papers.
Mom, don’t call me when I’m writing
Niece stop nagging me
Big Sis’ I love you so much
I can only tell you that through writing
My betrothal to the scent of the ink is unfathomable.
Whenever I look at people,
And the events matching them
I see nothing but a wafting scent of the ink,
Like a burning incense, going to waste.
So let me be,
Just let me write.

By Jamin Clement

I’m Clement, a Kenyan storyteller and a poet. I’m also an apt reader.


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2 thoughts on “My Betrothal to the scent of the Ink

  1. This is lovely enough. Sweet.

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