Imperfect Poet

Poetry, short stories and other things.


September 2015


I have not written

in a while

not only because I have been busy

but also because

the words would not come.

Yet a time later,

my thoughts were consumed by them,

overwhelmed by the ideas,

yet I still could not write

and even now

I cannot find the words

that I need

to tell the tale of what my life has been

while my words were

silently asleep.

They have now awaken

and now they refuse to align

as they should.

The words are merely words,

images, ideas, moments

roaming free,

longing to be written down,

oblivious to the fact

that they are supposed to be



The sun

Before the sun departs from

this side of the earth

for the next,

he rests his weary head

on a pillow of pink clouds,

only for a moment,

turning the skies

the colours of his dreams.

He then journeys over the horizon

until the last of his beauty

has disappeared behind a mountain

or into the ocean

in the West

and then



in the East

of a foreign sky.

Busy body

Busy body,

busy body,

busy bee,

busy me,

yet not busy enough

it seems,

all that I must achieve

I did not achieve

all that should be done

I did not do.

Busy body,

busy body,

busy bee,

busy me?

Better to leave?

“Better to leave than to be left” said the page of her novel.

She wanted to turn the page, yet she could not. Her eyes were fixed on the words. These words of a thirteen year old fictional character has captured her thoughts and was not willing to let go. Is it possible that this thirteen year old has convinced her of her fate? Has he just given her the answer to her life long question? How can these harsh words, that is so unlike her, seem to be her salvation?

Is it really that easy? Could she just leave before she gets left behind or shoved away?

Yet, is leaving truly that easy? Is it truly less painful than being left?


How can choosing to tell someone that she no longer wants them, need them or care for them be easy or painless? Does she care too much or has this world turned heartless?

How can breaking someone’s heart, hurting someone, be so much easier that being hurt? Would one not hurt oneself in the mere act of walking away? That is, of course, if you truly cared. You would only be able to walk away without tears in your own eyes and a broken heart of your own if you did not care for the one that you have left.

She did care.

She cared so much. She cares so much for this boy who possibly does not care any longer. She wished that she could do the same and simply stop caring, but it is not that simple. Love is not that simple. Rather: love is simple, people are not. But maybe love is something that he never understood and that is why they cannot be friends.

This has to end.

Someone has to put the other out of their misery. Yet how does she look someone that she cares for, no matter how much they hurt her, in they eyes and crush both of their hearts? They say a strong person can walk away even if it kills them..

Maybe a thirteen year old character simply has more strength than she has, maybe he just has no heart, maybe he simply has no understanding of love and friendship or maybe she is the one who does not understand…

A letter of importance

I have something to confess and then something to say.

I started this blog because I wanted my words to be active, I no longer wanted them to be limited to the journey from my pen to my paper. I wanted them to fly. I wanted them to inspire. But I wanted to make a commitment that I would make a new post each day, and I did, until all of my already written poems dried up, then I was left with a little dilemma, you see, if I had nothing to post I would break my commitment. So I started a new commitment to write something new each day, whether it be a poem or a short story, I could then use that and post it that evening. Then i had a new dilemma: with school and homework and projects and tests I am quite occupied, and even though an idea for a poem comes up at any time of the day, most days i don’t actually have time to write that idea down or to form a poem or story of it. Thus I had to make quick work of my poems and rambled most nights(that is when I write my poems. Ether then or in Afrikaans period because the teacher is always rambling about some character in Die Potlooddief en die Engel or Breek), and I have also realised that the poems that I do take time with- or at least ask someone to proofread- have been receiving less likes than my previous work.

So I had a moment of sadness, that passed swiftly, and then I had a moment of thought and got angry with myself, I thought: “Daniëlle, what on earth are you doing? What are you turning this into? Since when have trying to inspire people turned into trying to impress people?”

And then I thought: “Well isn’t that what happens with all things after a while? Do we not feed on the acceptance of others? ”

If this is true, what has this world come to? And if it is untrue, what has my world come to?

So I am officially uncommitting (that’s not even a word but eh you know what I mean) to posting every day, and committing to posting when I have something written, not for my blog but for me and my personal poem collection.

I will no longer live or WRITE to impress, and I encourage you not to ether. The only person you ever have to impress loved you so much that He gave his only son so that He can have a relationship with you (now THAT is what I call a love story), so do not be bothered with what this world thinks, for you are not of this world.

PS. thank you for all of your support.


Spring morning, spring weather,lovely weather,

cold, yet not freezing,

hot, yet not scalding,

the morning breeze: cold enough to give you

goose flesh

as it  pierces through your sweater,

the sun: hot enough to warm you again,

a pinch of hope in the breeze,

a pinch of joy in the rays,

I do not believe in a favorite season,

yet I am especially fond of

spring weather,

lovely weather


Winter night,

winter bed,

book aside,

already read,

close your eyes and

rest your head,

forget the past and

forget the pain,

tomorrow will be joyful


I wrote to you.

I wrote a poem about you.


I wrote a poem to you,

one that you did not deserve.

But I did not write because

you deserved my words,

I wrote because

I needed to say how I feel

without interruptions,

without you seeing me weak.

I shed a tear for you,

one that you did not deserve,

but it was exactly that

that saddened me.

I forgave you.

I forgive you.

I let go,

not because you deserve it

but because I do.



standing over me like a shadow

too far to touch,

come over me like a blanket

and embrace me as your friend.


hold me in your arms

as we drift away over the horizon

into another sunrise.


come quickly, I beg of you.

Overcome my tired eyes

and my drowsy mind

and my weary limbs.


be my comforter.

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