Jy was my maaitjie,
Vol lewe, vol praatjie...
Jy en jou “ninnie”
Nou is jy nie meer hier nie
Behalwe in my hart…

Lieflike sommers dag,
Julle swem en lag,
In huis toe om te eet,
Scrambled eggs, of het jy al vergeet?

Jy gaan buitentoe, klaar geëet,
Swembad oop – ons het vergeet.
Na ‘n ruk soek Rina jou,
Hol buitentoe, sy het onthou…

En daar lê jy, die water koud,
Mietie spring in, jou pols is oud.
Boet is vinnig, bel hospitaal,
Maar Rina is koud, Rina is vaal…
Want liewe Jesus het haar baba seuntjie kom haal.

Ek pyn nogsteeds 10 jaar later,
My maaitjie, Jy – onder die water.
Familie kind, die helder liggie
Dof skyn nou jou gesiggie –
Behalwe in my hart…

Ppl say im to young to get sober i just wanna leave the childish **** alone as im getn older got ppl who count on me tired dof breakin hearts an thats why i think getn sober is my best start

Yut lycking

Ctu tcking

**** frumping

**** frazes

To tragedy a spontaneous dance;
Cuts the wire to their own thread.
The spoll they use to measure and examine,
The wait for the murdered to be murdered.

Which is, is what has already happened
See what is, is what is willed.
And will happen.
And thats the epiphany that curses me

Who knew living in the moment, would affect what hasn't even occured, the choices made by (now) a past self, determines the mental and emotional state of what parallels may exist.

Like two magnets touching, but moving hours apart.

Frumping a man

Cut the dof

Uty ylcking

Ibuo tio

lasi siem

Snshk ehesm

Why does it have to mean,
something?
Why does everything have to mean something
to
someone?
Why?
Does someone steal a part of someone when they go?
And so you are left empty
Almost unfinished, but you were at some point.
Finished or whole.
You just left the conversation going and open
Almost a rant, but without meaning.
Since you were looking for a punchline, a final thing to say.
As "Goodbye" would never do it.

"Have a good life"
How improbable.
What a sour


It ended

And my uncle says charmingly - as always:
‘It seems like only yesterday, mon petit chou.’

And - for the umpteenth time - my brother-in-law shakes my hand off:
‘Wow, congrats on the DOF position!’

And - like clockwork - my best friend puts a ******-happy arm around my shoulders:
‘To be perfectly honest, y’know like, you don’t look a day over thirteen, cross my heart.’

And I think to myself (******-offedly but politely, as you never know who’s telepathic around here):
’I could sit here fixed to this very patch of fading upholstery for the next 365 days with a flute of champers in my hand and still travel as far as you all believe I have, achieve as much as you unfailingly give me credit for, and look as fresh-faced as my oldest nephew...apparently.’

And then it occurs to me:
’Beneath the ill-contrived compliments and the misplaced confidence; despite their infallible ability to misconstrue my every word and complete disinterest in what and why I read out aloud for a living. They turned up. As they do every year. And we annoy each other. But we wouldn’t have it any other way. Santé!’

Wat zegt het over mij
dat ik voor jou niet kan beslissen?
Misschien schort het aan wij
en moeten we ons wissen.

Laat toch vallen, dagelijks,
drie woorden
vervuld van romantiek.
Avondlijks, mistig, dof,
zie eens *** ik in de zetel plof.
Morgen werken, 'k ben toch niet ziek?

Soms drijven, soms scheuren,
klaarblijkelijk het gevolg van
afwisselend kijven en dan zeuren,
of van *** het huishouden huishouden kan.

Zeg schat, een nieuwe auto, bouw of kind,
stemt dat jou ook terug goedgezind?