Being the “Reality TV Junkie” I am, I decided to catch up on Vh1’s The Cho Show. In this episode, a psychic informs her that her va-jay-jay is haunted. Apparently, the haunted vagina causes writers block. It made me wonder if my very own vagina was hosting it’s very own phantom as well. Though my creative juices are pumping out blog entries non stop, I haven’t been able to write a quality poem in years!
Before my vagina became allegedly haunted, I spoke in rhymes. Even my thoughts rhymed. I could pump out some deep Maya Angelou type shit in less than 5 minutes. Now I’m stuck. Totally stuck. Years ago I vowed to limit my selection of “Scorned Bitch” poems. I don’t care about other people’s heartbreaks so why should I write about my own? Poems declaring my undying love for a man are plain ol dumb seeing as I haven’t managed to stay in a relationship longer than 11 months. I’ll leave the “Strong Black Woman/Race” poems to those who choose to perform with a set of bongos on stage. Instead, I wrote about moments of self-discovery. Those days are over.
My view of the world has completely changed.
With age, my thoughts have turned out to be more radical & to the point. Rhyming doesn’t come as easily to me anymore. I’d rather spend the time being blunt and just saying whatever the hell I gotta say. Maybe advanced English classes in high school wore me out on analyzing a writer’s words. I got tired of people always looking for the deeper meaning in everything artistic. If a painter draws a black dot in the middle of a blank canvas, people are quick to become analytical.
“Maybe the dot represents the Black struggle in a White world.”
“Maybe the blackness of the dot symbolizes that an individual person is stronger than a world of people who merely blend into the background.”
“Perhaps the rounded edges of the dot are a statement against the sharp edges of the canvas it occupies.”
Hell, did anybody take the time to think the famous artist realized that he/she could paint any random thing and idiots would analyze it, therefore driving it’s cost up. Mo’ Money, Mo’ Money, Mo’ Money! Rich people buy anything.
I say thank you to the ghost in my vagina. Thank you for blocking the poetry avenue. Thanks to you, I don’t have to worry about people overanalyzing my work for years to come. I know you must have been an off the chain old woman who was to old to give a damn about what people thought. I embrace you, and pray that I will be the same when I become elderly.
(well at least for the month of October 2008)
to the grouchy – outspoken – “I don’t give a damn” – old woman’s ghost
Hauting my Vagina.