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Raj Arumugam Oct 2010
me no spit English, me no no Englis, OK?
me barbarrrian, why u one me speak Englis?
u teach me inglish then u want me slave, ya?
u teach me englis and mik mee go from nuture,
from da trees and de lakes and hum of me ancesdors, ya?
and you teach me englis
glive me your stinkin additudes
mik me pollute wold and **** wold like you, yes?
I del u, me spit no englis but sdill u offer skolarsips
and mik me shange name, and then tick on Englis name, ya?
then peeple call me englis name like tom, *****, hairy
or my wife become susan or margate
and me become kristian, yeah?
why I say no englis still u want to tich me englsi
and give me book and mi say, mi say,
luk at my nikid bady laik da die I was born
liiiv me one
don't tiich me englis
or wan day I will kurs and swera in inglis
like who, who, who, like that monster I hard play story
is he nime Caliban, yeah?
me barbarrbaian, dun't mike i civilized like u;
me no no inglis;
me happi with me lunguge and me hum
and my trees and likes and annncesdral places¦
I no wants to spit engilsi and khanges my name and culturte!
and un I no wan to go fom humen!
leave me lone wan, I say! me no spit englis!
or I put u in *** if you no go!
on haaw englsi changasz lifvez and woold
Jy ry op die hanekraai
en kom le in my oor.
Jou tree 'n bekende geluid.

Jou teer drafstap deur my drome
maak my seerste monsters stil.
En sus my in 'n doodsluiterse rus.

Jou oe laat my handsaamslaan
op die lumier van meer as een.
Jou aansig maak van my gelowig.

Jou luim is 'n seestroom wat stoot en trek
en ek sit vasgekeer in jou rooi getui
en ek mik dieper , ek mik dood!

My liefste jou aanraak stuur gode
deur my dooie are en ruk my terug
vanaf die donker sluiers.

Jy is die maan, die sterre- nee
die nag! wat om my toevou
en my wieg wanneer my arms na niks gryp.

Jy is die openbaring waarna lewelose streef
en die anker waarna vryes verlang.
Bring my terug, na die gelykstreep,
voor die tyd ons invang.

Ek wil jou prys met woorde
wat God se toorn op my sal bring
maar dit hang aan my lippe
soos ek wag vir more se son om jou te besing.

Dit is my vroegoggend gedagtes,
van my lieflike laatslaper,
wie ek nooit akkuraat sal kan prys nie
, want ek is maar net 'n versotte ou dinkgaper.
Ek wil gedigte en boeke oor jou skryf . Jou met odes eer en met heilige woorde jou beskryf in die lyne van 'n epiese gedig... maar *** meer ek dit wil doen, *** meer verslaan jou werklikheid my en vind ek 'n gebrek aan woorde om die presiese emosies te verduidelik wat jy my laat voel. Dit is tye soos dan ,wanneer dit voel of my verstand gereed is om jou te besig , maar my mond hang oop... wagtend op woorde wat nog nie bestaan nie... om te beskryf wat jy aan my doen.
Plaridel Marquez May 2015
Maybe we were meant to drift apart,
Maybe you were meant to taste something sweeter.
And maybe I was meant to stay right here,
Maybe I was meant to be all bitter.

Maybe I was meant to watch people fall,
Maybe I was meant to write it down.
Maybe I was meant to stay right here,
Maybe I was meant to feel so down.

And maybe it wasn't meant for me to touch love,
Or touch hearts, or veins.
Maybe it was meant for them,
So I could observe it and tell the difference.

Now it's all ****** up,
I was meant to grief for all that I've wasted.
I was meant to notice that there's no chance for me to win it,
I was meant to **** the person in the past full of happiness.
I was meant to be lonely.
Alone, Dark, Blue.
Whatever it is, I'm just sad
Or something more.

But maybe that's not it,
Maybe you're not the last.
Maybe I could still have a chance,
Maybe cupid still got his plans.
Maybe it was still the right decision,
Maybe the decision was for you to taste more,
To taste something better.
Maybe it was for you to evolve from a mud into a gold.
And maybe it was also for me,
For me to end what I've been destroying.

No!
It is not you who I've been trying to euthanize.
It was me all along,
You've received your freedom.
You've told me that I am forgiven.

Maybe,
Just maybe..
It's time for me to forgive myself,
And share my deepest ******* affection again.
She was the best so far, yet we had to end it for the better.
Fey Jun 2022
Rays of mik-white porcelain
covered her delicate fingertips -
as she painted the vast sky
a crescent companion.

© fey (05/06/22)
Vandag vloek-groet ek die verlede
en spuug die suur naam uit
en rig ek al my groot gebede
om gistergoed ook weg te smyt

Maar koester ek die kleine vrees
in die diepste van my hart
sal more net soos gister wees
breek die ook van die smart

en deel ek in vertroulikheid
my woordsopregte eed
as more soos 'n spiel wil lyk
sal dood my uit ellende sleep

Tog, mik ek vir die kruine
- droom my silwer droom
,  vermy vergete pyne
van 'n toekoms palindroom.

Want as my lepel andersom
dieselfde as tevore lyk
wees jy ook nie te verstom
as ek na sagte doodsoen reik.
Owlman May 2015
j,mnsfnxznhjhn  gx mh  klhmg mg
[12:38:45 AM]  :.ghj xl,' xg gM ZSLG
[12:38:46 AM]  :gx  ;asxgm .xamg
[12:38:48 AM] :  xgjm ;.mhg m.a xg
[12:38:49 AM] : a' xmgj >SMXG .g
[12:38:51 AM] : l ;xmg srxg glkza;'gr
[12:38:54 AM] : 'a sgm .askg' mik; sgz
[12:38:55 AM] : ' sxghm xlsg<M SL
[12:38:57 AM] : ;s rlxma;l gx,ag'
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2019
how long as it been?
perhaps too long,
or perhaps just the right
time in its coming,

not exactly heroism,
modern day heroism:
paying the bills,
"hunting" for food
in a supermarket...
      getting the window
seat on a plane...
my my,
          we're just so
heroic of all,
      but these days...

svá ek ríst ok í rúnum fák,
at sá gengr dauðr gumi
   ok mælir við mik

     ᛋᚹᚨ     ᛖᚴ
                ᚱᛁᛋᛏ       ᛟᚴ      ᛁ
ᚱᚢᚾᚢᛗ         ᚠᚨᚴ
       ᚨᛏ         ᛋᚨ
         ᚷᛖᚾᚷᚱ
                     ᛞᚨᚢᚦᚱ         ᚷᚢᛗᛁ
ᛟᚴ
    ­          ᛗᛇᛚᛁᚱ
         ᚹᛁᚦ                        ᛗᛁᚴ

i can so carve and
           colour the runes,
that the dead man walks
and talks with me
...

vikings season 1,
episodes 7 & 8...

      it just had me thinking...
the blatant disregards
for poets
              by the anglo-saxons
by the brother of
the king...
   (episode 7)...

   and then...
the complete reverse of
   the norse king and his
high regards for poetry...
poet: chronicler...
    
                even now...
day to day outer suburban
day to day...
        i have found
that it might have began
with plato's criticism
of poets...
            
        but then the same
trend continues with
                   monotheism,
notably Islam...
           and yet...
these pagan barbarians...
held ars poetica
in high esteem...

              probably because
while the anglo-saxons
paid their court poets
for lies,
   bribery and a vanity
project...

   the norse kept their poets,
gave them everything:
except money...

                that's the only answer...
if someone gave me food,
shelter, drink...
    why would i need money?
Daan Aug 2021
Staat de micro uit?
Dan zal ik je eens vertellen,
in jouw zakje doen die duit
een gewezen oordeel vellen.

Ik vermoed dat enkele vrouwen,
waar ik nooit bij ben geweest,
alleen van foefjes houden
en niet poepen op een feest.

Er is er zelfs eentje bij,
die groter is dan ik,
voldoende reden voor mij
en dat ik er op mik.

Maar dat moet niemand we-
ten eerste ik was zat,
ten tweede ik meende dat maar half,
ik lulde zomaar wat.

En tenslotte, al zakkend van schaamte in de grond,
dacht ik g*dverdomme dat die kutmicro uit stond.

— The End —