am I selfish
for shutting the door
when love is standing there
with a bouquet of flowers?

am I insecure
for questioning and examining
when love utters words out to me
with hopeful eyes?

am I jealous
for dry crying
when I see love trying to move on
with all of love’s might?

am I fair
for wanting attention and desire
when that love is not meant for me
With for me alone?

– Lita



a little tale
to hold you over
through all the turbulence,
when you talk
and those words slide out
of your mouth.

My arms interloop
like an interlude to the silence.
behind my lips
teeth clench.
behind my eyes
my soul rages
behind my swaying form
calculated thoughts ricochet.

a little tale
to hold you over
through my waves
that rip through
our conversations
that all end with the
inevitable reluctant,
“No, I am not mad.”



To put things in perspective, I was born after the 1st mp3 player was created. So relatively speaking, even though I’m no spring chicken, there’s still a whole world that I’m basically a stumbling duckling to.

So sometimes I stumble upon photographs, paintings or music that strike a cord within me. Usually much older than I am which turns the appreciation into a research mission to understand the context in which it was produced.

There are a plethora of  creators in so many different mediums and sometimes I feel like even though I get exposed to their work. It’s always a fleeting moment in time and suddenly they’re gone in the wind never to be seen again ( unless I see them in my search results.)

I won’t really go deep into what this ‘series’ of posts will be centred around – you probably already get the gist of it.

I’m just going to jump straight into what I have discovered recently (who/what).


Before I bombard you with the history of this photograph, I’ll divulge into what I felt and thought when I initially saw it.

When you look into Yoko Ono’s eyes, there’s this emotion that I spent a couple of minutes to verbalize – to put in words but I can’t quite do it.

It’s almost as if she has dissociated herself from the this world. Her mind seems to be elsewhere. Yet at the same time there is this yearning, as if there is something beyond what we could comprehend that she desires. However amidst all these emotions, a peace is present – the same kind that you get while you’re floating in a pool.

A pleasant nothingness.

John Lennon has visually completely encompassed himself into her being – her essence. I like how his hand is threaded into her hair – her free flowing hair. To be a poetic sap for a second ( not that I’m not usually one.) I drew a parallel between this action and how the hair of women is highly romanticized and given power in the work of some poets and writers alike.

For the sake of having an example( so both you and I can be clear on this point.) I’ll drop Philip Larkin’s “Waiting For Breakfast, While She Brushed Her Hair”

Anyways back to the photograph. I was shocked Lennon. To be pressed up against Ono, there isn’t even an opportunity to have a guise of space. I love the way that gently cradles her head – perhaps he has deep respect for her mind and all that she contains.

My mind always floats back to the way he has moulded himself into her. I realized it was direct consequence of how in mainstream medium it’s always the other way around. That’s why this photograph seems so strange so out of place – why it impacted me so much. As well as the feeling of committing an intrusion of a private moment that it invokes.

The photograph was taken on 8th of December 1980 by Annie Leibovitz.

I’m going to go ahead insert an explanation of the context taken from The Study:

On December 8, 1980, Leibovitz was commissioned by Rolling Stone to photograph John Lennon and Yoko Ono, as part of the promotional efforts surrounding their joint album Double Fantasy. While Leibovitz had hoped that both Lennon and Ono would pose nude, Ono was uncomfortable with shedding her clothes. But Ono’s reluctance led to a legendary improvisation. Of the experience, Leibovitz has said: “I was kinda disappointed, and I said, ‘Just leave everything on.’ We took one Polaroid, and the three of us knew it was profound right away.” Later that evening, Lennon was shot and killed outside of his New York City apartment building. The magazine ran the haunting image (sans headlines) as its cover the following month.

That pretty sums up most of it. If you want to see more Annie Leibovitz work ( you could search her up.) or alternatively you could click here.

Thank you for sticking through it. Hope you experience something good today.



took more than our mouth’s fill,
couldn’t shut
nor swallow

felt it oozing out
the corners of our lips
running past the veins

in our necks

over our pulsing beats.

tried to wipe at it.
– trembling hands and all –
maybe catch at it.

it slipped through
the tips of our fingers
then stained our place.

– Lita

couldn’t even stomach it.


that night
you tugged at my shirt
pulled me flush against your skin
i stared into your eyes
you couldn’t hold my gaze
you seemed drunk and unstable
you stuttered out a” kiss me”
then pushed your lips up against mine.
took my first kiss

i turned my head away
in the moment,
consent never crossed my mind
but that’s what i never gave and you
so took from me,
with your drunken gaze
soaking into every pore of my skin
uninterrupted by my soft yet certain pleas
to be anywhere but in that moment with you.

yet you said
“I love you”
with the innocence
of a school child that just had wet themselves
and i crumbled at the hopelessness and
confusion that clouded your face
as i began to explain that
i felt anything but
the same.

that night
i lost my first kiss to you
traced a finger over my lips
you spoke out “you’re mine.”
– and there was no beauty in that claim.

– Lita

My world was shattered.

Foreign Land

I was hurtling towards the earth before I even knew that I had lost control. Now I find myself typing up my life story in the far east of Russia, thousands of miles away from the only place I’ve ever called home.

I’ve seen the world. Felt the bitter cold. Been embraced in loving arms and been flung into the unknown, all before I hit 19.

I suppose before I divulge further into this whirlwind of a story I should reintroduce myself.

My name is Lita, once a starry-eyed 17-year-old who pondered about love and the world, now a 19-year-old, forging her way through her the world.

I’m a South African who moved halfway across the globe to one of the coldest country known to man, Russia.

To be flung into the unknown is to reach within yourself and scrape up every bit of your essence and to put it up to a tiny spark then pray it is strong enough to flicker into a fire so bright that it can guide you out.

It’s difficult to explain to what extent my views and opinions of the world have grown and evolved yet remain intrinsically the same.

However I’ll try and perhaps we’ll come to create a different bond with each other, a stronger one.

Part of me would like to say that I am sorry for being tardy to the 2018 wave of writing but I’m not sorry.

After all, great things come in due time. 

– Lita

Precocious Bloom


Precocious Bloom

Flowers grew in her backyard
She called them pretty
With a foreign roll of her

Flowers grew in her backyard
She pulled me to the back
Hands winding

Flowers grew in her backyard
She called me a man now
Said – men take flowers from
Girls like her

Flowers grew in her backyard
With boyish hands and
I picked them.

– Lita