To my God,
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry for the frowns in my heart and the crowns I put above my head.
For the times I didn't hold Your hand
when I should have, but instead I relied on myself
to face the giants along the way.
I'm sorry for bad habits that stay like
an old, stubborn stain,
and to every promise and dreams that
dissipates in mid-air
before I knew how to mean what I say.
I'm sorry I did not love
when someone might have needed it the most,
and for every lost opportunity to be the person that You have purposed in the very heart of my soul.
But still You took me as I am.
Unwanted and in debt,
Still You cared for me.
In the end of the day,
I'm sorry that You had to die
for someone like me.
Who am I, God,
that You should love even me?
I'm sorry always,
and for all these things,
please forgive me.
Dec 10, 2019
Dec 10, 2019 at 9:32 AM UTC
I wonder
What it's like to see nothing and yet
Walking so confidently like you did
The other day.
Perhaps you didn't notice me,
Which is good;
I was just behind
Staring at you counting
The number of dents
On the pavement
And feeling for the sharp corners, and
Wondering
if you were actually blind.
How were you so good at it?
Sorry I doubted you.
I have a weariness
For people
With black tinted sunglasses.
Aug 7, 2019
Aug 7, 2019 at 11:34 PM UTC
A free bird
Perched on the roof of an old man's brick, it sits
on the browning tiles
Talking to the rooster beside it saying,
"This is not my home."
The rooster does not answer,
It turns its head north.
A little while longer, the lung is caged
And home is prison-
The bird is not quite free again.
As is a plane soaring across the open sky
With wings metallic of touch;
Like a free bird, the
Cranes fly beside the window saying,
"This is not your home."
It does not answer,
And the cranes fly pass.
A little while longer, the lung is caged
and home is prison-
The bird is not quite free again.
And nowhere is anywhere can they say
This is our home,
This is our home...
But a Man holds it, the key
To the cage
And instead of stopping to listen for the groaning plane
And the cranes that cry to know
What kind of bird it is -
He looks up to his roof where
The free bird and the rooster perch on the
Brown tiles, musty from an old man's greed
And asks,
Where is the cage?
Where
is the **** cage?
So to his back he continues
Drinking his lukewarm coffee,
Swallowing the truth that even he
Might be misplaced
under his own roof.
Aug 7, 2019
Aug 7, 2019 at 11:32 PM UTC
"Mama... Mama!"
Mama sometimes doesn't wake up when I want her to.
Mama must be dreaming about the ocean.
And there are waves in the ocean.
And the waves are outside my window.
And I hear them.
Swoosh... swoosh... swoosh...
I draw the waves for Mama everyday.
They are squiggly and big,
like the messy lines on Mama's forehead.
Mama's forehead is big, big!
And the waves are big, big like Mama's forehead!
They are blue like the sky.
The sky is blue because blue is your favourite colour.
I like blue too, because Mama loves blue.
I want Mama to know that there are waves outside our house.
I can hear them swooshing outside the window.
Papa says: "It's just the wind."
But he's wrong, Mama.
Wind doesn't swoosh like a wave does.
I know, because I hear it.
You hear it too, right, Mama?
And you dream about the waves too.
And in your dream, the waves are swooshing outside your window.
They are squiggly and they fill our room with the big ocean.
They can even touch the sky.
And the window can't hold the ocean anymore,
and their hands go-
BAM!
Mama mama,
The waves are coming into our house.
Wake up.
They're coming.
They're coming in Mama.
The room is so small, and the ocean is so big.
Wake up.
Isn't blue our favourite colour?
Don't you want to see the blue sky again?
The waves outside our window are coming in.
And you sleep like they don't.
Mama.
Do you know?
I can hear the waves in you
Deep, deep inside you.
They are big, big like your forehead.
Bigger than the bed you are lying on.
Sometimes
you don't wake up when I want you to,
But it's okay.
Mama must be dreaming about the ocean again.
Jul 29, 2017
Jul 29, 2017 at 9:01 AM UTC
The line halts to a stop
and the heart goes
Beat.
Beat.
Bea.
*B.
.
Jun 30, 2017
Jun 30, 2017 at 3:48 AM UTC
It bends like
A joint would,
Swaying in the wind’s
Play, as would a joint
Be swayed by the fingers
Of the smoker.
But it is not harmful,
Though you would take them as one.
When the sun sets
In golden dips,
It turns into something
Beautiful.
Jun 30, 2017
Jun 30, 2017 at 3:27 AM UTC
Eyes closed;
Pathetic fallacy, I suppose
Raining stains on foggy windows
I left my heart outside.
Reminiscing
Under the evening shadows
And it plays on the radio
Echoing sounds of tomorrow.
Liesbeleid,
Don't you ever stop to know
I think of you dearly so
As the rain showers
And my coffee turns cold
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 8:32 AM UTC
The alluring simplicity unaware of
Lies simply in everything we are
Even naked eyes aren't able enough
To notice such things considered triviality by many.
And with each passing sight
Exchanged glances across the room,
Sipping morning coffee in the awakening of the mind,
But does it really open our eyes?
Little did we know
Of the smallest matters that mean the ocean to us
But you and I will one day realise
The enormity of the world
Shouldn't have mattered that much.
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 8:22 AM UTC
Her head,
thronged with a hollow absence
rests on the mattress of her dreams,
As though succumbing to sleep,
The world may spare these glass bones their last insult.
Reality never looked so transparent.
Yet she rests with an open eye
Drowsy and awake,
leaning against her barricade;
Like a front line soldier gripping to his fast beating
Heart against the mud wall
In the middle of a flaring night.
Flaring,
like the car lights through her windows
Traversing across the four walls in
A ghostly dance of a fairytale she
Once read,
But forgotten.
Her blanket feels
Too thin.
The world
Is peeping through the onion's layers.
A woven web around her skin
Peeped through,
Like a solider's needle pin.
Funny, isn't it?
Reality never looked so transparent.
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 6:07 AM UTC
I never called it a
Writer's block or what not,
Never did.
More to just a halt of the
pen that gathers dust and sand
Than the mind's mechanism rusting
With the passing of time and
Frame.
It's your afternoon nap in that hot
Sweaty state, drinking in
the world but
Never enough to satisfy.
Words don't come as you choose
And you're left spooning your
Own mouth.
You're a servant of your own.
It's a loss without restoration,
A poet's unrequited love.
And in that state of mind
you question
the void lying
On pen and paper.
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 9:31 AM UTC