Her life, a requiem to ancient Queens, princesses,
hand maidens and slave girls alike. Everyday she falls from grace only to rise again in glory.
you’d be forgiven for thinking that’s all that’s in her story.
All about guys wanting “Pretty Girl” up on their “Pretty Girl” mantle,
or on their arm …
just the perfect place for some “young” arm candy.
But princesses grow into Queens don’t they?
So a throne in a Kingdom would be more apt … dare I say.
A throne you ask?
Last night she was … “taking shots to the head, drinking n twerking,
in torn jeans, her T tied up, showing off her rib tattoo.
Styrofoam cup in hand, And Queen you say?”
She’s tattooed, drinks and likes to party, The belle of the ball, Yes!
Still a Queen no less.
A walking contradiction,
our broken history’s reflection,
the present’s interpretation,
of our enslavement and overdue emancipation.
In every Queen is a girl, and sometimes … Sometimes “girls just wanna have fun”.
Whether Dressed to the nines,
walking on cloud nine.
Or dressed for the mines,
for the day’s hard grind,
brother she’s still a diamond.
Talking loud and refusing to be pushed around.
Crying over a broken nail
or an outfit that won’t gel.
Late for work because of the neighbour’s cat from hell.
She is still deserving of the title.
She lives from breakups to make ups, good guys passed up,
to wondering if she could ever put on too much makeup.
Of course she needs to hide yesterday’s mistakes.
Her smile belies any knowledge of heartache,
her royalty thunders in every step she takes.
Every morning she talks to her mirror. Yet she doesn’t believe in fairytales, she just lives them.
Not an Angel, but a devil neither.
She pirouettes on the tight rope, a fine line between the light and the dark, the placid and the pixilated,
the vivid and the stark.
She’s a good girl,
but will gladly twerk on the wild side for a night out with the girls.
Now is that not why they write? Is that not what we’ve learnt? Is this not what Cleopatra’s life taught?
She understands that life is bittersweet and there can’t be any rewrites, so … She lives the the poetry she cannot write.