Tea
Amber Tea
Filling My Cup
What A Beautiful
Sight
What A Beautiful
Scent
What A Beautiful
Sound
Filling My Cup
With Amber
Tea

Buzzing blue beetle
Tumbling clumsily
Over my head;
Striking my chest and
Falling into my lap,
Apparently unbothered.
How did you get in?
It doesn't matter.
I'll place you outside.
You open your wings
And spring off into the air.

I remember the first time
I tried to take my own life.
I was about or nine years old.

I'd forgotten a project in
mister McCollough's class,
and he gave me a failing mark.

I was devastated, but
my friends told me they
received failing marks
on occasion.
Even my teachers
assured me that this
would not be the death of me.

I felt better, but when
I told my mother about
it, I was accosted.

I had never heard
her scream in such a way.
She was so angry she
debelted herself where
she stood and began
to whip me with it.

She told me that I
was a failure and
how disgusted she was
that she had such a child.

I was utterly shattered.
I tried to take my own life.
I was eight or nine years old.

I don't think I've really
been functional since that
day. My grades fell and
so did my ability to arti
culate my words so well
and i fell into a deep slu
mber of sorts that got dee
per with each passing year
and suicide attempt and
mental break and my friends
were so patient but ev
en they lost hope on me
after a while and no
thing could be done for me
and it all goes back to
one memory.

Now every time it gets
just about to the breaking
point, I hear my mother's voice
telling me how disgusted she
is that she had such a child.

I was eight or nine years old.

On this night, I saw
Through a tree's dark silhouette
A perfect, bright moon.

A tiny flower swayed silently in the wind.

He knelt and cupped the blue petal in his hand.

A voice he didn't recognise echoed in his ear.

A tear fell from his eye, but he didn't know why.

Welcome to a Taco Tuesday
With the Boys from Outer Space
It is Such a Weird Delight
To Acquaint the Human Race

If you Listen you will Hear
That the Lions now give Chase,
And ****** the Revolution,
That Ignites upon the Wastes

Elke dag bring ek notepad op,
En begin ek om te skryf,
Maar die woorde kom nie.
Ek kan vra en ek kan smeek,
Maar hul wag langs die kantlyn
En spot my stil.

To my left there's a small book bound in blue;
It's faded, but the letters glisten with golden hue.
On the inside cover is a note from an old friend;
I sigh, for I don't think I shall hear from her again.

Daar's 'n plek in ons siele,
War die seer nie kan inkom nie.
Maar waar is hierdie punt,
Waar lê dit binne ons?
In die diepte van ons harte,
Agter die mure wat ons bou,
Kan ons kyk tussen die krake,
En vind 'n Sleutelsteen
Wat ons heel hou?

'n Klein onbreekbare IETS
Waarin ons vergete hoop nog slaap?
'n Picture van wat ons is
Voor die ligte uitgaan

Maar wat sou ons dit noem,
As ons dit selfs kon vind?
Sou ons dit selfs kon herken,
As dit ons in die oë sou staar
En sê: „Ek bestaan“?
Sou ons daarna kon luister,
As ons dit selfs kon **** —
As ons selfs kon onthou
*** om sy taal te praat?

'n Klein onbreekbare IETS
Waarin ons vergete hoop nog slaap
'n Picture van wat ons is
Voor die ligte uitgaan

Daar's 'n plek in ons siele,
Waar die seer kan nie inkom nie.

Skryf poësie in die sand
Dis altyd soeter deur jou hand
Sien *** die letters smelt as die gety inkom
Dis nou te laat om weer huis toe te kom
Kom ons hardloop in die nag
Wilde harte is op jag
Vasgedruk hier in mekaar se arms
Lê ons veilig, bly en warm

Ek wil jou vra, kan ek soen jou op die bek
Soos ons gedoen het toe ons nog verliefdes was
Om vriende aan die einde van dit als te bly
Was wat ons wou, maar dit gee geen vrede nie

Wees is 'n werkwoord,
Want soms is dit harde werk,
Net om te bestaan.

Maar ten spyte van al die seer

wat ek regtig verdien het —

daar was ook pyne

wat ek stil gedra het

wat nie my las was nie.

It is you that I love.

Every hair upon your head is dear to me,

Not for the beauty of each hair,

But for that it is yours.

It is you that I love.

Was ist das Kämpfen?
Und wie kämpft man immer weiter,
Wenn man schon so müde ist?
Meistens bin ich mit dem Leben
Fast zu Tode gelangweilt;
Jeden Tag muss ich das wieder?
Aufstehen? Arbeiten? So tun als ob
Alles schön und fein ist?
Und warum? Wofür? Weshalb?
Auf welchem gottverdammten Grund?
Damit die Menschen die mich tot sehen wollen
sich bereichern können?

Was ist das Kämpfen?
Und wie kämpft man immer weiter,
In einer Welt die Betrug und Schwindel
Belohnt, und die Profit aus das Leiden
Der Ehrlichen ohne Zögern schlägt?
Mir *******das blöd; ich fühl mich öd.