"ons" poems
Met jou patetiese pantomiem teen n God wat jy haat
verkrag jy harte en bevestig sy bestaan.
*** seer voel jou vuiste as jy slaan na die wind?
*** groot voel jou ego met die roem wat jy vind?
Swakelinge swig soos skape voor jou opstand en hype
Jou talent is verduister in verganklike tripe.
Jy is nie die eerste of laaste wat laster,
wat liefde verloor met die haat wat jy koester.
Ons is almal maar net wasems wat verdwyn in die mis
tot verniet gaan ons woede en onheilige twis.
Daar is nog genade terwyl die son skyn
om omkeer te maak van die krakende pyn.
Feb 2, 2010
Feb 2, 2010 at 10:33 PM UTC
Rooi rosige wange
En n eerlike mond
n Hart van goud
My Ouma
Ek sal nooit ooit my Ouma met Rooi wange En die mooiste glimlag vergeet nie
En jou lag
Jou stewige lag
Jou Hart Wat so vol liefde was
My Ouma
Ek sal nooit vergeet dat dit was jy Wat vir my afrikaans geleer het
Ek het dit altyd met jou gepraat
My Ouma
Jou geselskap was altyd eerlik En jy het altyd my hart verstaan
My Ouma
Wat so lief vir Facebook was
My Ouma
Van muis stories
En my Ouma
saam met Wie Ek gebak het
My Ouma Van rose
My Ouma Van liefde
My Ouma Van lang goodbyes
En altyd ons ding
Waar ons het gese
Ons is so lief vir mekaar
My Ouma
Ek sal altyd dankbaar wees
Vir ons tyd saam
My lieflike Ouma
Ek sal jou met Rooi wange
En blou grimering onthou
My regte egte Ouma
Ek sal jou lag altyd ****
En jou laaste glimlag sien
En lippe Wat gese:
"Ek is so lief vir jou, my skat. Altyd."
Ouma Ek sal jou nooit ooit vergeet nie
Ouma
Ouma
My mooiste ouma
Van rose
En Rooi wange.
Totsiens my Ouma
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 4:14 AM UTC
You're just a tiny bit minimalist in your own unique way
a white star I have to squint to see in daytime sky
not a Mercedes five point but a Nissan Micra car
you park neatly in a three point turn by my netsuke
and put a circular dent on my platonic furniture
Your two humble rooms devoid of any bold sculpture
except a fold-out table and a miniature bubble chair
and a futon for a bed which is troublesome to share
you draw the line at adornments but allow a wallflower
A bulb in a bowl is your ornamental garden feature
mealtimes a nibble on grated carrot celery cucumber
you run so long on empty you're an eco friendly teacher
stretching out the energy is a passion of my lover
engaging in lessons on sustaining a resourceful nature
Your shoes two pointe ballet slip ons easy to care
barely there g-string thin cotton underwear
nothing loud to upset your understated figure
slight as a pin drop your bottom's semi-derrière
sits so light on feet I'd swear you float on air
I rarely get to hear you come before you're in my hair
with a voice pitch high as a smitten kitten's purr
your upper reaches get a score sized single 'A'
nice when it fits into our schemes of feng shui
I carry your bundle home on the roadway rivers of light
yet you only burn one ray of candle power at night
born of scintillating atoms which flow along each vein
containing so much love without clutter in your frame
a brave star small as wings formed of minuscule wire
flutters in your eyes with minimal flare
but deep desire
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 12:54 PM UTC
Kyk! Kan jy dit sien?! Dis wolke.
Dis waar! Dit is gemaak uit spoke.
Mamma roep ons, lyk soos kos vir wolwe.
En boetie sin lyk soos 'n klomp golwe.
Ek kyk op en sien 'n hartjie.
Dit is groter as my hele handjie.
Mamma se ek moet my kos eet.
Maar ek hou glad nie van die beet.
Ek kyk weer op en weet ek speel in die sand.
Wolke is vir my so, so interessant.
Sep 4, 2016
Sep 4, 2016 at 12:38 AM UTC
Trek my siel uit met swart onlogiese krapmerke op my pick n pay strokie.
Breek my fingers af op n hout skryf blad
en hou die honde naby vir die bene wat spat.
Vermergel dan my vellies
en gooi dit op n graf
en se dis vir al die girlys
-dis van papers wat smag.
Edel en opreg is die regter se kaf.
Heilig is die helde van die bars van die nag.
Ons onthou die spoke van Oranje stad,
Ons kleef aan hulle woorde soos n tros vol kak.
Ons hou van die serries en die doef van Jak,
En moenie met my stry nie ek sal jou in pak.
Melodie jou wysie met ewige tone,
mengel mooi jou woordtjies met jou oulike drome.
Hou die fort van veiligheid en nasionalisme,
Wees n patriot en vermoor Anglisisme.
Beskerm jou mother language teen n kombuis taal.
Daar is niks in hierdie wereld wat die taal mag vaal.
Jan 25, 2010
Jan 25, 2010 at 8:55 PM UTC
Met boeke vol helde, soos ek en jy
Potgieter, Trichardt, Smuts, Kruger selfs De LaRey
Almal met die doel, om hul volk te bevry,
Die Afrikaner, uit te brei
Om hul families, van leiding te bevry
Selfs, De LaRey
‘n Lafhart, wou eers nie beklei
Later die held, wat die boere, verder wou lei
Familie man, vader seun broer en gesant
Ja, die mense was ook bang
Maar met passie,
Met drang
Met dit wat slange vang
Het hulle als aangevang
Kyk na jou vriend
Kyk na jou maat
Kyk na die, anderkant die straat
Dis jy, wat hul toekoms baat
Dis jy, wat hul vereen, ou maat
Die Afrikaners, was plesierig
Dit, kan julle glo
Nou gevul, net met gierig
En al hul misnoe
Ja, dit kan julle glo
Waar is ons eendrag
Waar is ons mag
Waar is die dae, toe ons nog lekker kon lag
Waar is ons helde, van vandag
‘n Held, in elkeen wat die taal verstaan
Elkeen, wat n weg vir Afrikaans wil baan
Elk, wat sy man wil staan
vir die taal, wat min verstaan
‘n Kultuur, wat net ons verstaan
‘n Kultuur, so ryk aan helde soos ek en jy
Helde, wat die Afrikaner wil bevry
Helde, wat nie bang is om te baklei
Helde, soos ek en jy!
Oct 23, 2010
Oct 23, 2010 at 2:36 AM UTC
Was dit my sonde
om te droom, te wens?
Was dit wreed om te
verwag dat jy my
iewers in jou soet
woorde sou vind?
Kyk ek dalk na jou
met die oorhoofse
afwagting van 'n kind?
Sal jy met sjarme
my kan vermaak of
is teaterkuns
'n masker vir jou haat?
Ek smag na jou taal,
jou moedertong in
my uitgehongerde mond.
Oh die beeld-
wat ons
met sulks silwer stem
kan skep!
*** sal jou brief my vind?
Sal daar 'n tuin ontstaan
as ek jou antwoord naslaan?
Se jy sal bly, net vir my!
Se my brandewyn asem
het jou inner kind bevry!
Se net jy is lief vir my-
en ons sal saam
die tonnel-oog wereld
met soet liefde en
dronkmans woorde verlei.
Skryf saam met my in
hierdie silwertong,
en kyk *** die wereld
in afwagting verstar.
Die liefde wil blom
wanneer twee skrywers
bymekaarkom.
Die wereld raak nat,
met die geuiter,
van ons silwer tong.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 2:50 PM UTC
electromagnetically
feelings occur,
responsive to going ons,
pineal gland awakens the senses.
and almost every woman has heard it
"you're so emotional."
so electromagnetically aware
and we don't remember this,
now,
the womb,
the beat maker,
she tunes the
energy of the babe.
mothers wave of
waves fractionally
lay a deep foundation
of the babes waves.
I tell my children
if they can't find me
to look in their hearts
I reside there…
my rhythm, my beat, my heat
lives on.
my womb
charged that spark
that started the parting
of molecules
fractionally
creating its imagine
time and time again, (as we do)
until, begin again,
a new life.
rest your head upon my chest
child
for a recharge.
in our civilized world
we send mothers to work
in a make believe cycle of need.
babes heart searches
for mamas tone
she only cries short
cautious of overspent energy
first dose of sickness.
and EVERY woman has heard it…
"you're so emotional"
notably more so
during some part of her
moon cycle.
so obviously the moon
is more electromagnetic
than we guess.
and women are more emotional
because we are the heart
of the species.
we co-create the heart
of the species.
we require the emotional
antenna
to summon the essence of the heart.
we didn't come from a rib…
our ribs vibrate the
harmony of life through our time!
our hearts beat
the pulse of the
sun
and the dark side of the moon
and infinity.
we are electromagnetically
inclined to emotions.
systematically processing
the energy of existence.
perhaps the first title I will accept
a claim upon my being,
the feminine sensitive.
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 5:19 PM UTC
Jou intrieke detail
En fokus, riem deur
Jou werk soos are...
En ontmitologiseer die
Twyfel rondom ń
Onbetwyfelde meesterstuk...
Jou woorde is die huid
Van ń poëtiese mens
Wat sy stem verhef
Oor die onbenullighede
Wat my begaan , en
My fyn moed,
So breekbaar soos ma
Se porselein goed...
Raak jy verlore of
Raak jy aan my hart.
Raak jy dalk moeg
Vir die bleeksiel wat
Vêr verlore raak in jou
Oneindige insig.
Want jou woorde spoel
Oor die blaai in ń
Vloedgolf van misverstand,
soutwater smart streel
Jou alliterende liefde
Wat verby my rym...
Ons was nog altyd ń klug.
Verlief op ń digter.
Onbenullig, die metafoor.
Tussen die lieflike lyne
-Sal ek myself verloor.
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 8:05 PM UTC
I'll have me an Irish Coffee,
make sure the coffee's fresh and stout,
add a dash of dairy cream,
and do NOT leave the whiskey out!
http://beautyineverything.com/4819896887
Here's the ****** recipe:
"Black coffee is poured into the mug. Whiskey and at least one level teaspoon of sugar is stirred in until fully dissolved. The sugar is essential for floating liquid cream on top.[11] Thick cream is carefully poured over the back of a spoon initially held just above the surface of the coffee and gradually raised a little.[12] The layer of cream will float on the coffee without mixing. The coffee is drunk through the layer of cream. To ensure the integrity of the ingredients of Irish Coffee, NSAI, Ireland's national standards body published an Irish Standard, I.S. 417 Irish Coffee in 1988.[13]"
D-NOTE--It doesn't say a ******* THING about adding Bailey's Irish Creme or canned whipped topping and a plastic shamrock to the top of the ********* drink, now does it???
Anyone making Caife Gaelich with trendy ******** add-ons should be beaten with a shillelagh!
Oct 12, 2010
Oct 12, 2010 at 3:07 AM UTC
As ek snags
in ons bed
met my koue voet
jou warm kniekuil kry
dan voel ek
die ewige geluk
ook al is môre
dalk alles verby
Oct 13, 2017
Oct 13, 2017 at 6:03 AM UTC
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…
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 3:35 PM UTC
Is moeilik om te begryp,
en nie rerig mooi nie.
Dis 'n spoegspat soos 'n herrie-
'n gemmors wat langs die kar staan en bedel.
Dis 'n gemoedsbekakking... ag verskoon tog
verswakking soos die breakdowns innie gossip magazine.
Ag shame , hulle dra ook maar swaar aan society se crimes
en al dai drugs is maar ommie pyn te verlig.
Kyk nounet daar , sterre wat pyn , is seker maar
'n metafoor. Vir wat? Se jy my!
Jy wat my analiseer en dissekteer...
want daar is geen meer sterre wat pyn nie,
die woorde wat rym ennie
ander goeie goed is lankal van alle kleur bevry
in my agterkop waar dit donker is soos
'n land waar hoop 'n feeverhaal is.
Dis te donker om nou te rym,
maar te donker om in te hou...
so ek sny maar die kanker stuk vir stuk uit
en bloei nonsens-ink op die blaai.
Aan die einde is dit nie net die gedig nie.
Dis die ganse wereld wat rym.
Elke herrie en spoegspatter
elke gerookte ster en hartseer kokkedoor
ek , jy - ons almal is 'n gedig.
Ons almal rym...
ons is net te moeilik om te verstaan
en nie altyd mooi nie.
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 5:07 PM UTC
Writing,
for you
--is a river
a revelation
a sleepless constant gift-- so out-to-see
in a flimsy boat
you built by mathematic rote and laced with ivy
to hold together ******* boards of crazy
with the ease of breathing
Your giant storehouse
wealth-of-words
Your granary of data
the grist of
Music
You imagine wine
from mind
almost without limits
You command it all!
Dancing
in the grapes of moonlight
with tides of words
Their endless-- almost blind
come-ons and gone
in waves!
(my sullen heart)....
still stays
I am digging here
in a low spot
seeking water
with robins and a sparrow
in the puddles
Awaiting rain
Flipping-off the muddy shallows with our wings
I suppose their songs
will count for something
Tasting happenstance
of bugs in flight
maybe catch a firefly or two
at the edge of day
Tearing half a worm
from weeds...the brown of drying grass
near the small lagoon
collecting
'neath my car
Hiding
in an afternoon
too warm for flight
resorting to a place of shade
to smell the fresh-mown
sweet grass
Riding with my training-wheels
in the parade
Like a fool between those bikers' “Hogs”
Turning down my street
by mistake
laughing at the dead-end
of it all
Pulling poetry out my ***
___
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 2:33 PM UTC
Met skewe takke,
met 'n krom stam
en die seerste dorings
wat in my vasklou
Daar waar die bloeds
aar le vind ek jou
in die donker nag
met die skeinheilige lig
wat ons altwee verblind
En so ontmoet ons
in die rooi valende duine
met die vonke
van 'n vuur binne my.
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 5:46 AM UTC
Independent clauses never see cause for a
But, we coordinate conjunctions like its our job and,
So we work independently to avoid fused run-ons since who likes those anyway?
Pause,
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 5:38 AM UTC
It drives me insane when people see me holding a girls hand and ask
“So who’s the guy? You know, who wears the pants?”
I want to scream and say WE ARE LESBIANS. Firstly, neither of us are ever wearing any pants. I want to scream and say WE ARE LESBIANS, and i’m angry because lesbian does not always have to mean woman but where did you get man from? I’m angry because maybe sometimes one of us does identify as a guy. A gay boi with an I. A soft boy. A proud hairy legged 5”4 boy. A drinking pints in the pub with my dad and us both liking that same woman’s tattoo boy. A cries every day boy. A feels cool when drinking beer boy. A boy that had to teach themself to like beer boy. A boy who sometimes does not feel like a boy. A boy. A boy. Oh boy. Boys. You see, this question is confusing for me because when I was fourteen, my boyfriend and I would joke that I was the one wearing the pants, even though at that point I was very much still wearing skirts and hiding behind butt-length hair and also watching the L Word in secret when I got home from school but that’s besides the point. This question is obviously as confusing for you as it is for me because in your mind you see two pairs of **** holding hands on the tube and think: Lesbians. Now, which one’s the man? And I think to myself, there are two ways to answer this: Number 1: So I know lesbian is supposed to mean woman on woman, two vaginas, ********** strap-ons, veganism, art degrees (and a lot of this is true but let’s not stereotype). So I know that to you, although we appear to be two women, two snap-back wearing, sports-bra bearing- I mean I thought about writing ***** tearing here but it just doesn’t seem appropriate- women, the funny thing is that erm, you see, gender and sexuality: as different as my dad to my mum’s other ex-husband. We are not a man and a woman. We are two people and what do pants have to do with it? We are two people and why does one of us always have to be a man? We are two people and the awkward part of the point i’m making is that sometimes I don’t feel like a woman but you wouldn’t know that so let me say: we are not a man and a woman. We did not ask for your confrontation, we are not your designated driver, your answer sheet to an exam you haven’t sat yet, your house party when your parents go away, your girlfriend that you think is obliged to **** your **** even though you will not go anywhere near her **** You are not our three year old son who asks too many inappropriate questions. To you, we are strangers and to answer your question, you seem to think that you’re wearing the pants here. So wear them. By the way, Number 2: **** off.
Jul 18, 2017
Jul 18, 2017 at 12:13 PM UTC
I remember marble that wanted heels,
clip-clop echo of women who belonged.
I wore slip-ons with socks,
easier for those of us who come to scrub
other people’s lives.
The elevator was a box of mirrors,
infinite versions of me-
I bent my head to escape them.
His office door ajar,
his voice stretched thin across a phone.
The girlfriend cooks,
spicy food,
_place a ******** he said.
I had seen much worse-
houses where mold clung to the ceiling,
where grief leaked through the wallpaper.
The vacuum hummed its G-note spiritual.
I worked the nozzle into the skirting boards,
let my mind braid song and ritual,
a drop of lavender for closets,
labels straightened like soldiers on parade.
No one asked for these offerings-
I gave them anyway.
But he winked at me
while telling her _love you, babe,_
mouth syrupy with lies.
A twenty left on the hall table-
a tip that branded my palm.
Later, the bin bag tore,
Madras red bleeding into cream carpet,
pears bruised soft in their sweating wrap.
The stain spread like a hand
that gripped too long,
that would not release.
I cursed the ceiling,
the word **** echoing like prayer.
was only twenty,
scrubbing strangers’ luxury
to keep myself alive.
That day I left more than lavender-
a fragment of myself,
pressed into the carpet,
silent as the stain.
Sep 4, 2025
Sep 4, 2025 at 10:00 PM UTC
En soms in die vroee oggend ure **** ek steeds jou stem...
wanneer ek sukkel om te slaap,
maar my lyf deuretrek is van moegheid
, voel ek nog jou sagte aanraking.
Dan ***** jy by my soos die neurie van 'n lang vergete wiegelied in die agterkop,
of
die weergalming van ons gegillende stemme deur die lang gange van die lewe...
dis dan wanneer die hartseer my tref.
Dit vul die l e e m t e s wat gelaat is deur die s p a s i e s waar jou vingers altyd so
perfek
In myne gepas het,
in die dooie gevoel,
oor al die plekke waar net jou aanraking
soms
genoeg was om elektrisiteit op te wek
wat my nog vir weke speelvol geprikkel het.
Dan vorm dit saam in die [kamers] van my hart,
waar jou n.a.a.m,
jou < liefde 3
en jou ~legende*
vir altyd sal bly
... en stroom deur die vensters van my siel...
sodat ek weer 'n gesonde uitkyk op die lewe kan he.
Soos 'n magtige rivier
loop dit by al die voue af,
maar altyd met grasie...
en ek huil
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 6:42 PM UTC
DO I, DO I, DO I
Have to listen to what
everyone says, at-least to
capture an idea. I've heard
of tedious reviewing, but
can it be raw. Can it dare
to be something other than
structured. Concise is one thing,
but is stress another. If I were
to free-flow like the rest
of the world, would it be bad?
You may say it's trash. But are children's books
the same to a certain degree. May it be long,
may it be short, may it be?
Why must there be an end, when your mind certainly
doesn't, or would you rather talk
of death.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 4:16 PM UTC
Dis stasie was stil
en donker gelaat.
Die nag kwyn in lig
en die dag kry sy wraak.
Die spore le koud
verdwyn op die horison,
en ek wag vir 'n stoomtrein
wat nooit sal kom.
Karre jaag die lewe
in die stad duskant die spoor aan
en 'n sateliet voer ons inligting
vanuit sy ordinere wentelbaan,
maar ek verspeel my tyd
deur hier langs die spoor te staan.
My soeke vir liefde
was waar liefde ontbreek,
soos om te wag vir 'n stoomtrein
of om vir kos te smeek.
Ek soek nou vir liefde
op die verlate stasies
van die vandag se tyd
, maar al wat ek kry is 'n taxi
en die wereld lag my uit.
Ek wag vir my trein.
Ek wag vir jou.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 7:36 PM UTC
Gebroke sit ek
my hart vol emosies
my gesig uitdrukkingloos
Di masker groei vas-
almal **** ek glimlag
maar my hart skree van pyn
my siel staan snikkend
en my glimlag verlore!
ek wonder oor liefde
ek wonder oor haat
wnt in hierdi eensame wereld
gryp ons almal na hoop
verwagtend di antwoord le daaragter
ek verlang na jo stem
ek mis jo oe op my
en ek wil nt luister *** j asemhaal
wnt sonder jou voel ek leeg!
So hier staan ek mt my hart in my hande...
hopend jy gee wel 'n bietjie om...*
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 3:50 PM UTC
They warned us not to worry,
Just do our best in school;
Those worldly professionals,
Taught us work-to-rule.
They did a few case studies
On twins from day of birth;
There's a fifty-fifty chance,
A will be born first
They are urban fighters,
Of fire, crime and blame;
They live in high rise condos,
They return from foreign lands.
They wait over subway vents,
Their hearts and heads are bent;
They show-up in walk-ons,
They go without for Lent.
They fly in and out of space,
They don't identify with race;
They're picked up for vagrancy,
They dance cautiously in the street.
They volley warning shots
Across our private dreams;
They sign and seal a peace accord
They're sincere to a degree.
They contribute to the run-off,
And spiked our holy water;
They enlisted Moms and Dads,
Then slaughtered sons and daughters.
They made rings from ivory,
And pale lamp shades from skin;
They list dissipation
As a personal sin.
Then they did unholy things
With wood and nails, then atoms;
They tore at our goodly earth,
Wreaked havoc with their mapping.
They distilled our alcohol,
Made smoking so appealing;
Then they rang the tower bells,
And preached we had no feelings.
They dug deep for wishing wells,
Grew stuff to **** our germs;
They bestowed us rods and reels,
And spades to dig our worms.
They connected us
Through wireless touch;
They counseled us on loneliness,
And the traps of busyness.
They pronounce death is art
When they hang it on a wall;
Then blame it on our women,
In a scene based on our fall.
They're newsy opaque,
In love or hate;
They are the ambiguous,
The they, them and all of us.
Dec 15, 2018
Dec 15, 2018 at 10:31 AM UTC
Before you, no one I had fallen for had ever really seen me naked.
No, not the literal way with the clothes off and the skin bare and the turn ons. More people than I'd like have seen me that way.
With you its like you see me, see deeper than my soft skin and deeper than my bones, you see right through me and break down the walls I've been carrying up for so long.
You've managed to see that I'm tied together with a smile, but with you I come undone. You see me, no guts, not glory, just plain, broken, unattractive me and somehow you find it beautiful. I know you do, but the fact that you do still astounds me.
After waking up so many mornings next to you, sometimes i wish it was the only way I could wake up anymore. Sometimes nights haunt me, and they torment me and torture me with the memories of my past and the shadows of my own darkness, but in the morning, its just you and me and I'm happy. I love how purely happy I am to glance over to your sleeping face and realize that maybe for once I did something right, maybe I chose right.
I'm falling in love with you, I hope you know. Each second the feeling compounds until sooner or later I won't be able to stop myself from saying I am in love. But for now, I'm content with falling. Most times it terrified me, it broke me down to tears, because I was fully aware the person I was falling for would not be there to catch me.
But with you? Oh you, I know you. You'd do anything to be at the bottom of that cliff, right where you belong, ready to catch me when I'm done.
You, the one who I never expected. You see me better than most people have in years. You are strong even when you don't fully believe it, and remain confident even when you feel insecure.
There is one promise I must make to you, unexpected one, and its this; I may falter and I may break down every once in a while, and you may feel like you always have to be strong for me, but I will always be there for you. I will always try to smile for you. I will do anything to make sure you stay the strong, confident person you are because I know that's who you want to be. I will try to keep you strong even when you feel at a loss. I will take down my walls and instead put them elsewhere to hold you up, and not quite protect you from the world, but make that strength of yours easier to bear. I will fight my disorder. I will for you.
Why?
Because you've seen me naked, and instead of wishing for the happy me or shunning the sad me or insisting the sadness isn't real, you held me and promised things would get better and promised I could be stronger than I think I am. And for that I will never falter.
Now that you've seen me imperfect, and now that I see you naked too, there is no going back.
And there is no way I would want to.
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 1:26 AM UTC
En wanneer hou ons piekniek op die maan
- daar waar die son nie meer skyn nie,
kan ek jou donker toevlug wees
as die dag se hitte steek?
en sal jy 'n skadu gooi
oor my en my lieflike hart
ons kan saam met strome swem
as die branders oor ons breek.
Voor vrees jy weer oortrek
en my noodloos in die noodlot agter laat
in 'n eensame straat, van drome
en ander herrennerings wat by my *****
van liefde en so ook my verlede
wat jy veronderstel was om te tem.
En in die gaap van stilte tyding
waar die wysers ons vermy, sing
ek my eensaam lied en vra vir jou...
**** jy die golwe huil vir die koeelronde maan?
Sien jy die spore op die strand?
Waar vat die pad van verdwaaltenis my,
anders as na Jonker se hand.
Vanaand is ek verslae.
Die maan se kind trek pêrels en rol hulle oor die hartseer berge. Vanaand le ek en dryf, terwyl ek kyk na die maan, en die sterre...
sal jy my wolkombers wees
, my glimlag pille vir kersfees,
want ek is dalk te arm
, maar ryklik met jou geseen.
Sal jy my korrel sand , my rooikruis , my boei
want my hart is reeds verweer
, keur my voor ek ook
in die see uitbloei.
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 3:41 PM UTC