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Nov 2020 · 312
Love Is A Parasite
Henri Coetzee Nov 2020
That slips into the mind
and changes you,
your actions
and your thoughts.

It can be a friend
or foe,
saving you
or suffocating you.

The worst part is
when the parasite leaves
against your will
it releases a poison.

A poison that burns
away at everything
you are and takes
what feels like forever
to heal.
Nov 2020 · 280
The Greatest Writer
Henri Coetzee Nov 2020
What if I told you
that the greatest writer
was a little girl
who filled
diaries with her wonderful
tales, stories, adventures.

She wove a world
as big as the sky,
lore as deep as the ocean,
she loved every second
spent with pen in hand.

When she was older,
she visited an editor.
He took one look at the
tattered diaries she brought
and burst out laughing.

Her dreams shattered,
she left in silence.
Hiding the diaries,
she screamed
until no words were left.

And so, the greatest writer
became an accountant,
hating every second
spent with pen in hand.

Day by day, month by month,
her love of writing faded
as words lost their meaning.
And so, the greatest writer
never shared her stories again.
Sep 2020 · 199
Sleep
Henri Coetzee Sep 2020
Sleep, sweet release
From life, from living.
Dreams, promises
Of better times and hope.

Sleep, cruel mistress
That leaves too soon.
Dreams, lies
Of false realities and hope.
Sep 2020 · 345
Voices
Henri Coetzee Sep 2020
You can run and hide
In your novels,
In your poems,
In your dreams,
But know,
We'll be waiting.
Sep 2020 · 284
Trees
Henri Coetzee Sep 2020
Their wisdom is old
and rooted in the earth
They teach the power of
silence
While we're too busy
talking
to listen to the lessons.
Sep 2020 · 3.6k
The words I’ll never say
Henri Coetzee Sep 2020
I think of you today, as I often do
And with aching heart and shaking hand
I’ve decided to write a poem, about you, for you.
Because I want you to know that I love you.

I love your hair, the way it falls and flows,
And the way you dress takes my breath away.
I love the sound of your voice
And the idea of your hand in mine.

Above all, I love your mind
Every shining star and every dark corner.
In truth, I love everything about you.
But these are the words I’ll never say.

Because if I do, I could lose you.
Instead I’ve started telling myself
I don’t love you anymore
And maybe, one day, I’ll believe it too.
Sep 2020 · 2.3k
Leaving the Friendzone
Henri Coetzee Sep 2020
I've never told you,
But I've loved you for years.
I know you don't feel the same,
But I always hoped that somehow
You would fall in love with me too.

I never minded waiting
Just being around you was enough,
But these days, you've become so distant
I wonder if you even care at all.
Even when I was drowning in my own darkness,
I answered your calls and listened to every problem you had.
And then, when I needed someone, I reached out to you,
But you ignored every single plea for help.

Now, my heart is slowly dying
And I don't know how to stop it or who to tell.
With its final fading beats it clings to my love for you,
But even that is slowly fading.
And somehow, I feel it's all my fault.
I fell in love with this amazing girl two years ago, but didn't know it at the time. When I finally realized, it was too late. She was already my best friend. Lately, we've been growing apart and I don't know what to do or feel anymore. Do I still love her? I honestly don't know anymore. And as with all my emotions I don't understand, I wrote a poem about it.
Sep 2020 · 485
For The Love of Poetry
Henri Coetzee Sep 2020
There exists a special type of insanity,
Only known to poets
And those who adore poetry.
It is something that cannot be explained
Or described, only experienced.

And those who experience it
Are never the same. They know
The burning need to write and read
And the comfort of finding yourself
In someone else's words.

This madness holds a hidden truth:
No one chooses this insanity.
Instead, it reaches out to those
Broken, disillusioned, embittered
And held captive, by life itself.

I do not ask you to pity the poets,
Or those captivated by poetry,
But the next time you see one
Ask them: Why do you love poetry?
And watch as their eyes light up.
The other day, I started talking about poetry and my friends couldn't understand why I loved it so much. That conversation led to this poem
Sep 2020 · 259
We live in a society
Henri Coetzee Sep 2020
We live in a society
Is a weak excuse for and an incompetent summary
Of our sad and broken world.

A world where women
Are prudish for being modest
And ***** for being anything more
Are objectified and criticized
For being fat, skinny, smart, stupid,
shy, bold, brave, cowardly
And so much more.

A world where men
Are so afraid of being weak
We lie to ourselves and each other.
The worst men are not the weak ones,
But those who fear the power of
Women who stand up for themselves.
These men will tell you that you are wrong
That women are objects to be judged
And that they need to be controlled.

A world where I
Want to scream that women
Are not flawed for the way they look or act
That the world is flawed for judging them
A woman is not an object,
Not a beautiful flower or precious pearl,
But a human being.


A world where I
Want men to understand
That standing up for women
Is strength and not weakness.
And that admitting weakness
Does not make you less of a man,
It makes you human.

I do not pretend to be better
Or know more than you
I am just so tired of hearing
We live in a society.
I have always hated when people blamed "society" for the way the world is and I suppose this is why I wrote this poem.
Sep 2020 · 515
The Unbroken Monologue
Henri Coetzee Sep 2020
A friend once told a girl I liked that I was obsessed with death
and I yelled and screamed as I denied it but it must have
too much for her as she walked away and never talked to me again
that night I punched the wall till my hand bled
it was that or the knife
that’s a lie I never cut myself why would I write that?
I was probably looking for attention that’s what they say isn’t it
it’s only for attention not because I don’t know how to feel
or how to deal with my emotions not because
I can’t talk to my friends
I’ll never say how much it hurts and so they’ll never know
Sometimes they do know though and they ask and I lie
Saying everything is fine when I just wait for them
to go so I can cry
but I’m just looking for attention so what do I know
now I wonder if my friend was right
the day he told a girl I liked that
I was obsessed with death truth be told
the thought of death does bring me comfort
Not suicide gods no but the idea of an
eternal sleep free of anxiety or emotions
to trouble me does seem quite tempting
and now I write poems about my emotions
trying to put into words what I don’t understand
and hoping someone relates
truth is I never liked that girl all that much
and my heart is dead but not quite
and life is grand I mean horrible and  
love is everything but also a lie and this poem
is like my mind:
a chaotic cacophony of thoughts and feelings all mixed into one.
First time I've ever written in this style, it was fun
Sep 2020 · 324
The Blacksmith's Heart
Henri Coetzee Sep 2020
He placed his heart on the anvil
And picked up his hammer
He hesitated less than a second
Before he brought it down.

The first hit was bitterness
For life had not gone his way.
The second hit was cynicism
For no one ever cared beyond themselves.

The third and final hit was hatred
For love had betrayed him
And in its absence, he realized
Hate never broke his heart.

He returned his heart to his chest
And a bitter, hateful cynic said:
Emotions are for the weak
As a tear fell down his face.
A little poem I wrote a few weeks back

— The End —