Little Black Booking

Haven’t wrote in a while. I remember that episode in Fresh Prince of Bel Air with Will and his Little Black Book. Contained with the numbers of many different women. I wonder if I had a black book for the purpose of saving numbers of women would I be able to fill it? No. It would probably end after the entries of my mother, grandmother, aunt, and some good sisters.

I have this little black book not to fill with numbers or digits but rather thoughts filled with feelings. I find myself walking to class and simultaneously writing on the legs of her pages. Or when the professor fails to captivate my thoughts I whisper on the lines of her paper with a pen. When I should be writing that seven-page paper due on Monday, my face is buried deep in the crevices of her black leather cover scribbling away.

It seems the post for this blog has transition into my pocket, where it is for my eyes only. The book is sheltered from the province of punctuation where commas and semi-colons guard the entrance before the masses can read it. The little black book is protected from the cruel cynics’ criticism. There is no pressure to relate to other because in my little black book I am king, peasant, and slave. I write the words and at the very same time, I live it. But there are some things I write; I know it should be shared. At a roundtable discussion with my pen and my little black book, we agreed that the poem below will be suffice.

Rain reminds me of the day you left.
Gravity taking its course.
No matter how hard I tried to fight it with my umbrella of pride,
The wetness still found it’s way to my cheek.
And because it is cold, it refuses to dry beneath my pores.
I wish it would stop raining from my face,
And the umbilical cord that connects the cause and effect of emotion to physical output, would just erode away.