A Little Bit Of Sunshine

"Inspired by the genuine  moment of  disappointment I felt when my butter would not melt." – Naledi Biyela, 2025 My butter isn't the kind that melts on a piece of toast  It stays afloat, mocking me with a gloat I've never been the kind of person to take things lightly They sit on my chest like a boulder That sinks as it grows My thoughts are not the kind that fit neatly in my notes They infiltrate the corners and fill in the margins They smudge, leaking out like ink My life is not the kind that's wrapped  neatly in a bow It hurtles forward in a rush, then slows It crashes into the people I know  Then, just occasionally, it flows  Into the most beautiful prose My heart is not the kind  that's easy to hold It flickers on and off like a ghost My love is anxious and makes a mess So I keep it buried in the folds of my dress But anyway, it matters less How you butter your toast  As long as you're satisfied and whole. 

Somehow, somewhere, I stopped being afraid of bugs and insects. One of my favourite parts of the day is when I see a little creature crawling through my living room, and I hustle to find a piece of paper to guide it back home. This isn't always a smooth process. Sometimes I'm nervous, but most times they are. They don't find it easy to trust. That's when my voice lowers to a hush, and I whisper, "I won't hurt you, I promise. Ask all the worms I know." And then I let it go back into the wild, where they're likely to escape again, and we start the entire process all over again. The reason I find this little ritual fascinating is that, a year or two ago, I couldn't look at a millipede, worm or caterpillar, without cringing or grabbing the closest weapon available (see: broomstick). What changed? I'll tell you... I simply got to know them. For the past few years, our yard has been infiltrated by an army of these tiny red millipedes every spring. Th...

Hi, friends! If you're new here, and curious about the person behind these pieces and poems, here's a little introduction.  My name is Sthuthukile Naledi Biyela, a writer and poet from South Africa, and also the proud creator of this blog. My favourite colour, because I think it matters, is cornflower blue. I can't imagine a better colour existing, and no, I will not reconsider. I spend my days working and journaling (some of which you get to see), and as of recent, saving every critter that crawls into my home from the garden. As far as jobs go, it's a steady gig.  I have been writing poetry for more than 10 years, and I created this space to give my thoughts and whims a home, and make me feel less alone. Sometimes I like to imagine I'm shouting into the abyss and no one is reading any of this...  But if you are here, thank you. Thank you for giving my words purpose. I didn't set out to change the world, I set out to change my own. That said, if anyone has foun...

God, forgive me for a thousand things  A million missteps  The least of which,  is having the audacity to exist  God, help me to be a better person  For I can't quite manage it I open my mouth and misunderstandings fall out  I'm always tripping on my feet  On the way to do the right thing My bucketful of good intentions  only makes a mess If the right path is before me it turns into the left. 

"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 environ...

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...

If you say 'Toni Morrison' three times in a mirror I'll appear, with a notebook and pen in hand Marigold caught between my teeth...  "It'th a metaphor, you sthee?" 

I spent my life waiting For a miraculous hand to free me Set me apart, declare me worthy I got emotional today, standing by the chilli pepper tree at my front gate...  Thinking of how something so small Of little renown, could blossom so elegantly ... and I was jealous Even though my life is filled with pain, no glamorous possession to my name... Could I ever be as great As the chilli pepper tree by the gate? Could anything so breathtaking  ever come from me? 

I grew up on a diet of fairytales Devouring every bit of magic I could get my hands on When Cinderella, Aladdin and Snow White ran out of steam, all that was left Were kitchen magazines They were sitting in a stack, waiting  for the next visitor to open them a crack  So I traded enchanted forests for Granite countertops and stainless steel sinks Whirlwind romances for state-of-the-art appliances  Lightwash cabinets and hardwood floors Became a new fantasy world to explore  My dream kitchen... green cabinets,  natural light streaming in was a picture Of who I could be, the kind of life I would lead Would I be the mother who baked treats  every afternoon?  A clean freak?  Or would we sit on the counters sipping  Coffee in our morning shoes?  I never stopped believing in fairytales  I just started writing them myself... 

I bought a set of paint the other day You couldn't tell me, with my acrylic set That I wasn't Da Vinci undiscovered yet Of course, I have only a single painting to my name, A sunset by the seaside  With pink and red skies  Ocean waves crashing on the shore. It was probably the best thing I've ever made  But I gave it away on Christmas day – it was worth it for the look of awe  on her face. 

Just seven more washing machine minutes And I'm free to go about my day Run a few errands, see to the hydrangeas growing on the driveway  and the chilli pepper tree by the gate Then I'll see if everybody ate, and set the table And wash the plates Just seven more and I'll have the rest of the day Except – sweeping the dust that accumulates  Every hour on the hour It'll only make sense then, to take a shower  and pore over my wardrobe for suitable attire  Wrangle up a hair tie And the minutes are sure to fly Just seven more and I might feel genuine warmth if I'm lucky Seven minutes and I won't have to worry if anyone could love me Seven minutes and I'll be worthy...  Sometimes seven minutes and eternity  Are the same thing.