A Little Bit Of Sunshine

"One of my favourite writers, T. De Los Reyes, or just Tee to those who love her, keeps me on the edge of my seat waiting for her next piece. Her words are not elegant or particularly inspiring. They just are, they just be. Honest, brave and free." - by Naledi Biyela Something Small: I've been reading  Read A Little Poetry  for about seven years; an amazing archive of poems collected over the years. Its curator, T. De Los Reyes, painstakingly selects and shares each poem, along with her own delightful and gut-wrenching commentary.  In 2021, when I felt stuck in my own writing and purpose, I leaned on the Read A Little Poetry newsletter that filled my inbox everyday. Then T mysteriously went on hiatus in August. A month went by with no new poems, so naturally, I wrote her a letter.  It was a feverish, fluffy letter I sent around 4am. I never received a response, but I didn't need one. I'd written it for myself as much as for her. Anyway, I forgot all about it.  C...

Growing up, I realised there were two kinds of kids. The kind that filled a room with adult laughter and delight – and then there was me. I was too much, too chatty and I asked too many questions.  I induced heavy sighs and complaints from family and teachers alike. My clever jokes were met with awkward stares. I wasn't sure how I was getting it so wrong, so I stopped trying at all. I wore silence like a safety blanket and hid my face in books. In private, I conversed with myself – the only person who understood me perfectly.  Then the buzzwords 'introvert' and 'extrovert' took over the internet. I consumed hundreds of quizzes, quotes and media content, all confirming the same thing; I was indeed a loner, but that didn't have to be a bad thing. Introverts were cool now, enjoying benefits such as sarcasm and obscure movie references. I'd all but forgotten that my silence wasn't a quirk, but a survival tool. I grew up feeling suppressed by my environment,...

Every time I look at my body It’s as if it’s the first time There are new lines, new spots I don't recognise It’s strange, being a stranger to yourself Alien to your skin Entire parts of me hidden, for others to find  Wanting or wonderful The lines of my back are like a map I can never read,  Reminding me that this is just a vessel Carrying far more precious cargo,  A vehicle I traverse through time with Soft, changing, impermanent

Today I'd like to revisit a poem I wrote a few years ago, titled  Workless .  I wrote it when I was 22 years old. I was lost and confused – I had no idea what to do with my life. I looked all around me and projected my fears onto others... Thinking of how terrified I was to become like them, with broken dreams and diverted plans. I was so afraid of falling short of my aspirations, that I saw failure everywhere I went. Now I understand... that no one who gets up every single day and commits to any job or pursuit (no matter how small) could ever be considered a 'failure'. As you grow older, your dreams change and evolve, just as you do. Not to mention, life has a habit of getting in the way. I've come to understand that success is about trying and learning, and revising what you thought was right for you.  In the poem, I was referring to the sorrow one feels when they're not where they wanted or planned to be – which is a normal and relatable human experience. But I...