Tireito

See, I grew up using a metal basin to bathe. You’d need to scoop water with your palms cupped and pour over your whole body repeatedly scrubbing your back cause mama would always run her finger down it to determine if you washed yourself real good or were going for a second round.

I would always dip my index finger in the water first, then decide if I’d shower or not.

I did this every other time although I knew the water was always cold.

Even though I knew whatever decision my index finger and I made, I’d still shower because… Well, because mama was mama and in her house, kids shower whether water was warm or cold.

I’d do this even though I knew no way my mum would let me into her house without showering.

Now I’m all grown and I don’t have to use basins or cold water but I still test ‘waters’ .

I just don’t make decisions (well, atleast the good ones) . I decide if it’s worth it or not.

You see, sometimes I even ask things hypothetically just to see responses and therefore know how to proceed.

I’m not a people’s person but I have once tried being a chatterbox in a group just to see how I’ll feel. How they’ll react. If they’d love me extroverted.

I still do many things all in the name of testing the waters.

Only difference is mama is not here to make the final decision for me.

© Blackgirlpoetry🌼

The girl that used to write.

The girl that didn’t care about your callousness.

The girl that loved daisies but thought other flowers are plain ugly and irritating.

The girl that found lady bugs a work of art.

The girl that loved wheat fields.

The girl that thought one day she’d write like Mufasa.

Play like Fischer.

The girl that was inspired by Archer and Sheldon.

No one felt it but she felt her writing healed her.

Her form of therapy.

Her little escape.

The girl that no longer writes.

The girl that chose to cover her eyes from the light at the end of the tunnel.

I miss that girl.

I am that girl.

© Blackgirlpoetry 🌼

The air is so acrid in here

It is much more worse on the outside

The world is unforgiving to someone feeling like they’re lesser than everyone else

Every step outside makes me feel like a human debris

The lowest form of unworthy

No one mentioned this will be hard

Reached out but there’s no one really

Watched the last one bailing out

Can’t blame them of course

No one wants to hang around filth

Couldn’t even bring myself to tell them they were the last piece holding everything in place

There’s no hope here

No belonging in this place

Just years of emptiness

Of being lost

Of craving

Of wanting to die

Of being damned

© Blackgirlpoetry 🌼

Whoever gives;
Gimme brains
Whoever makes;
Make me a grandmaster (pipe dream)
Whoever lets;
Let me be smart. Real smart.
Let me play like Bobby Fischer (pipe dream)
Let me read a million books before I die.

I feel like writing but then again I don’t have anything to say

Words thud and pound in my heart but they just won’t come out.Maybe I should write about writing. But then, what is there to write about writing?

The fact that one day you wake up and you don’t feel like penning down anything because everyone else is callous?

Or that writing is not entirely therapeutic as y’all put it?

Or that sometimes what you want to write seems so feral that it could burn down your world?

Or better yet, that what you want to write would make Tolkien turn in his grave?I want to write but what keeps popping up in my mind is, ‘two fluffy pancakes’ .

First, I don’t like pancakes, especially fluffy ones.

Second, If I were to eat pancakes I definitely wouldn’t eat two. Say three or four… okay I’m kidding.

Third, I don’t know why two fluffy pancakes popped up. Well, atleast it’s an even numberI guess I just like how ‘two fluffy pancakes’ sounds. Talking of which, I realized many years ago( okay, I’m lying. It’s not many years ago) that there are words that I like just because of how they sound ‘Fiddler on the roof’ excites me in a weird way which makes me wonder if y’all have random words that you like. ‘Fit as a fiddle’ is another one. It’s ironical because I’m nowhere near fit. Don’t even get me started on fitness….I used to love how ‘y fronts’ sounds but well, a writer ought to leave insides inside and y fronts being an insider shouldn’t be included in something public like this piece of messy writing. But well, oops! I included it

Now back to writing, where was I? Writing about writing or just writing another piece(For the Tolkiens; There’s erroneous between ‘another’ and ‘piece’). Well writing should really be something…hell! There goes two fluffy pancakes! Again!

Dear diary today I have nothing to say because ‘two fluffy pancakes’ keeps popping up.Maybe I should get two fluffy pancakes and see how it goes on the morrow. But just so you know, I really wanted to write today : (

Ps: A writer ought not to leave insides inside. Let them out!

© Blackgirlpoetry 🌼

Some time back someone asked what my daily inspiration is.As simple as it seems, I found the question difficult

What inspires me?

What insipres you?

Is it someone?

Something?

An event?

A book?

A song?

Nothing?

Many people wake up and have a reason to work hard, to not give up, to smile and bla bla bla.Maybe that’s their inspiration or motivation or whatever you want to call it.

I thought I was inspired by Miriam Makeba once. However if you ask me how so, I don’t have an answer. Did she inspire me to be who I am today? No because I’m still a nobody. Did she inspire me to be Afrocentric? No, I already was. Did I wake up everyday (or maybe even once) and say I want to be this and that because of her or I want to be like her? No. She was a great human but at this point I think I can safely say she didn’t inspire me. Rather, I admired her. I think admiration is the right word.Inspiration to me is deep.

I came across the concept of wabi sabi not so long ago and I think it insipred me without even knowing. I’m not sure if inspiration is the right word or I just got interested in the concept. I think we should all embrace Wabi sabi as a way of life.

I’ve been pondering about my source of inspiration for the past few days and believe me when I say I have no constant inspiration. I don’t have a philosophy or mantra that pops up in my mind every morning and inspires me to go for what I want.I have been listening to Mike Posner’s Live Before I Die on repeat and if I am being honest it has had an impact on me. Maybe you can call it an inspiration but like I said, I have no constant inspiration so I know even this will die out and then I’ll go back to being uninspired : )

I know I should search myself and find my true inspiration. There has to be one. Or two. Or many.

Until then, I have me to my introspection. I am still searching the drawers in my mind hoping there’s some inspiration hidden in one of em.

© Blackgirlpoetry 🌼

https://ablackgirl.poetry.blog/2021/07/01/98/