Poetry: I Am Not That Girl/Boy


I am not the girl kind of boy
who chickens out in the midst a fight.
I fight my fear even when I’m not there.
Be it in the ocean or with the devil’s bear,
I will use the life boat and a hidden spear.
I am not the girl kind of boy
who has a bald face to my loins
because I admire another chest heavier than mine.
No! I do not go girlie on such boys.
I am straight not close to being crooked.
As a boy who loves girls,
some call me a lesbian.
I am not the girl kind of boy
whose mouth leaks,
or enjoy been petty cause I’m a thespian.
I make straight the desired path,
and walk on it like a boss of wind.
Forgiving myself for picking the wrong apple,
and eating cucumbers that looked ripe.
I am not the girl kind of boy
who writes only to mend broken bridges
and carve a perfect love.
I tell myself to believe not
the commercialization of the love sold on TV.
I buy mine with all risks involved-
wise risks of course. I’m careful of sweet biscuits.
Yes! I am not the girl kind of boy
that argues the universality of this poem.

The deception tasted better.
The stream flowed without blockages,
Like a paper boat freely drifting an open ocean.
The heart glowed in the darkness of lies.
The contentment thence radiated on her assumed skin,
Long rehearsed, she’s starting to believe it.

The truth has this bitter aftertaste,
Gag, there’s nothing to throw up.
The truth sticks like a heated polythene.

Trying to squeeze her squared self into the round hole of her reality,
But the truth feels like a baggy out-of-date gown.

The lies and deceptions felt like a spotlight,
But the truth feels like a metallic casket.
Lies must be the life,
But, truth?
That must be overrated.

If i were that boy,
I would grow in vain.
I would fetch you the river
so you forget the rain.
I would start fires
To burn up your emotions.
I would flood your heart
To drown your affection and keep sorrow afloat.
I would save you to die.
I would consume and cry-
wake you up at night,
fall into bouts of forsaken friction.
Feed you regret and force your inhibition.
I would die, Abiku. I would come again!
Wrapped in same chain of glorious grief.
I would be the thief, wreck your plots of happiness
To unmask sorrow. I would give you enough to make you borrow.
I would watch you mourn, and bathe in your tears.

I am that boy who decided to choose a name.
…Who is ashamed of looking up to heaven.
…Who is not ashamed to masturbate.
I am that boy hanging portraits of benevolence.
That boy who held you too tight,
Whose hands around your neck were necklaces
Forming bony lockets.
Whose tears filled up your empty water buckets.
That boy, whose filthy hands
dried the river streaming on your face.
I am that boy,whose first few words were ‘Ma. Pa.”
Reminding you that happiness doesn’t only come in gold,
But stories of fulfillment from generations told.
I am your son, a daughter.
A friend, a teacher
Drowning in my night of autism
To paint the exact color of your heart.

The boy I am,embarked on an unprotected transit
Of love making with maturity.
Took a long time to come Into the promised land,
A land of milk,honey and sand that molded
Blocks, which erected the structure accommodating the inside out of that kind of boy.(Me)

I am an offshoot of maturity via my childhood
The back of the front you see.
The heat of the cold you feel.
The flesh of the bone you pinch.
The silence of the noise you hear.

I am that kind of boy
With a kind heart that can kindly
Wipe the floor of your tongue with
sweet titles you can’t hang round
The neck of that kind of boy.

I’m not that kind.
Who loves pink over black.
Sprint over track.
Not the kind seeking every truth in lies.
Not the stereotypical type.
Sparkles and soft spots.
Jukebox junkie, black Barbie.
Concealing all those scars, seeming perfect.
Not that kind.
That smiles endlessly on a first date for a come back.
The one not offering flirtation for unneeded love.
Who doesn’t laugh out loud out loud.
Not a type that wants to grow up faster.
Still wishing I am daddy’s little girl.
Not the girl who needs saving.
I am that girl saving you.
Not the girl you want to know,
But grown to the woman my daddy raised .

I am not that girl who is defined by her weakness.
Every saint was once an aint.
Then why judge me by my stains?

I am not that girl who is perfect
Though million eyes frame a honest prefect
she can’t be named amongst wantons.
She doesn’t dance to the rhythm of the night.
She has never done a one night stand
She is the virgin Mary of our time.

I laugh when I see how you define my life
Your praise for lots doesn’t equate my act

I can decide to lust after her when I am done with him
I can fly over board to kill my keen
I remember when I was a(eigh) teen
Life had green and fountain feel
We got away with sin because it wasn’t termed sin

Now I sink in red holes…
Feel the slightest wrong in my gene
I am not the girl you see,
There is a whole lot hidden in leaves.

Rachel Charles
I am not that girl,
The one with shifting eyes,
Always doubting, never sure.
At least I like to think she’s not me.

I am not that girl,
The one with the timid thoughts,
Too scared to raise a finger
And point her way to the truth.

I am not that girl
The one who will bow instead of flow,
Her flaws weigh heavier than a mountain
So she cannot lift a foot.

I am not that girl
The one who built castles in the air
And thought her saviour was a man.
Never once did she look into the mirror.

I am not that girl,
Walking around with a mini skirt
Hoping she would stay relevant,
Till her rickety legs give her away.

I try desperately to be her
But each time I fail at it.
My fractured legs too broken to skip.
Forget the heart, perhaps another day.

I raise a motion,
To do better than a shapeless peg
Suppressing the notion,
That it might never fit into any hole

So I try to be this girl
Smiling endlessly into forgiveness.
Living life like she should
With a piece of fresh linen, everyday.

You haunted your demons
They became afraid of your courage
Your presence made them cower
Kindness fluttered your manners
Your tears seem always ready to drop
You tossed fantasy and reality in a pot, cooking blissful balance

I look in the mirror
I see you have lost your hue
You float in black and white
Reality stabbed you unconscious
Your pot stinks of melted visions
I look deep into your soul
I see love has drifted to tamed lust

Who we were resides in an open cage
Guarded by daily ruggedness of life
I see we made a choice
Not to be so soft soul
Not to be the caged girl…

Omolola J.
That spitfire
That burns with anger
The works of the ungodly
A girl she is
Not that spitfire
That she is.

That songbird
That thrills and stirs the soul
And wraps your heart with sheets of warmth
A girl she is
Not that songbird
That she is

That feet that weaves magic
Patterns on air that tell tales
A girl she is
Not that dancer
That she is

That slim stroke of rain
A girl she is
Not that slim stroke of rain
That she is


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