Life on the Red Carpet for a Poetess

Life on the Red Carpet for a Poetess

I never set out to walk the red carpet. I never planned it, chased it, or dreamt of it as a little girl. I had other things on my mind. Like writing poems late at night when the world fell quiet. Like counting pennies in the corner shop. Like loving the wrong men and getting back up in broken heels.

But there I was, standing in a long black dress that fit like it knew every part of me. I wrapped myself in a coat so rich in fur it felt like wearing power. Heads turned. Cameras clicked. No one asked if I was a poet, but I could feel it. I carried that fire in every step.

The truth is, I write to survive. Some women bake. Some drink. I turn pain into verses and call it healing. It is not always pretty. It is not meant to be. Some of my lines come from days I barely got out of bed. Some come from moments when I felt strong enough to take on the world. That mix is mine, and it is honest.

The red carpet felt soft under my heels, but my stride came from hard ground. I was not invited for fame. I was not trending. I was simply there because I believed in myself when no one else did. I knew who I was, and I decided to show up.

The whispers were there. They always are. About the way I walk, the way I dress, the size of my waist, the dip of my neckline. Let them whisper. I spent years learning how not to shrink under small eyes. I walk louder now, even in silence.

This was not a moment of transformation. This was a moment of confirmation. I had already done the work. I had already lived the pages I write about. What they saw was not a debut. It was a woman who had earned her place and wore it with intent.

Later that night, I changed. A brown fur coat this time. Dark blue dress. My hair loose, my makeup bold. My blue eyes caught the lights just right. I felt like every woman who was ever told to wait her turn and finally stopped waiting.

This life is not easy. Some days I have no words. Some days the words pour too fast. Some poems come shaped like wounds. Others like warnings. But they are mine. I do not write to please. I write to release. I write because I can and because it works.

I was there on that red carpet, it inspired this story, this moment, this power trip in my mind. Only one problem. That night, back in bed, I desperately needed a wee. On the way back from the loo, the penny dropped. I had watched a film in bed earlier. My favourite one. And suddenly it all made sense.

There was no red carpet. No flashing cameras. No whispers. No fur coat. I hadn’t walked anywhere.

I had fallen asleep watching a film, and the whole thing had been a dream. In my sleep, I was the chosen one. In reality, I’m just a poet in need of a lucky break.

And here’s the twist I should have seen coming. The fur coat. That alone should’ve been my giveaway. I am very much against real fur. I would never wear it in waking life. Animals should never be killed for fashion. It is something I could never support. I respect the animal kingdom deeply, and in truth, I wouldn’t feel strong wearing death on my shoulders.

Sad? A little. Funny? Definitely.

Typical me? Absolutely.

Till next time, my lovely followers.

For now, it’s eyes down, thoughts to pen,

Then pen to poem.

Ha ha 😝