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Imperfect Poet

Poetry, short stories and other things.

Tag

love

Water my soul

Water my soul,
my love,
and let these flowers grow.

There has been a drought
and these forests have long
not been green.

These flowers have long
been withered.

This heart has long
been waiting.

This soul
has been longing
for love, my love.

Please hear my plea,
hear my heart yearn
for love like yours.

Water my soul,
my love,
and let these rivers flow.

There has been a drought
and the ground has long
been dry.

These streams have long
been still.

This heart has long
been waiting.

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anonymous

i do not have
a lot of money
but i want
time
to be a currency
so that i can
spend all of mine
on you
so that i can
spoil you with my minutes
lavish you with my hours

i would spend
all my hours
on you

Sometimes you meet someone
and you get to know
quite a lot about them
as the stars dance
and the sun
travels to your side of the world:

You get to know what they love
who they love
how they love
and why they love.

You get to know
the way their eyes smile
without their mouth moving
and how they enjoy
keeping their eyes fixed on yours
as they do so.

You get to know
how they don’t care much for words
and enjoy the silences

And you get to know
that such as most things in life
you only get to know them
for the shortest while
before all this is
treasured
only in memory.

And it is beautiful really
the way some people
were made to be there
only temporarily.

This body is mine

Do not touch me
like this body is yours rightfully.
Do not look at me
like you can see what lies beneath my clothes.
Take your hungry eyes
off of me
and do not “mistake” my
no for
maybe
because maybe I’m not playing-hard-to-get
maybe I’m not being stubborn
maybe your touch discomforts me
maybe your hand on my leg
makes me feel dirty-
like I am merely something to touch
and not to be understood.
Maybe I am not teasing,
maybe I am uncomfortable.
Has that crossed your mind?
Would you even care if I told you?

Do not assume that I enjoy your embrace
or your attention
do not mistake my kindness for an invitation.

Do not touch my body like it is yours
rightfully,
because this body is mine,
it is my home, my temple
This body was mine
before the beginning of time
before the starts were born
my body was made as a host for my soul
it was made for me.
It was never made to be touched so carelessly
by someone who thought
that it was theirs
before it was mine.

It is time
society
that you teach your children
that admiration is not love,
exploration is not love,
infatuation is not love.
But respect,
respect might be the truest form of love.

It is time
society
that you teach your children
to respect
rather than claim
to ask before they take
to think before they do
and to love without expectation from me or my body.

As musiek ‘n troos was

As musiek ‘n troos was

sou jy my troos wees?

Sou jy soet stiltes

in my oor kom fluister

en met ‘n melodie al die seer kom stil maak?

 

Sou jy my aan die slaap kom sing

liefling?

 

As die liefde minder boos was

sou jy my met jou liefde

kom omvou?

Sou jy my omhels in die reën

en my vir ewig daar vashou?

 

Sou jy my saggies nag kom soen,

liefling?

 

As ons geweet het wat more sal bring,

sou jy die sonopkoms vir my bring?

Sou jy die dag vir my gee

as ‘n geskenk?

 

Sou jy jou toekoms met my kom deel.

liefling?

 

 

 

He was willing

he was willing to

give her

the moon

and the stars

yet he could not understand

that all she ever wanted

was his love.

Your voice

The noise of this world rushes in

 and fills my head 

and clouds my mind 

and blurs my vision

But I will not listen

I will hold on to Your voice.

When I grow up…

What do you want to be when you grow up?

I have heard this question so many times before. And every time I was able to answer it confidently. A writer, an actress, an event planner, a cake designer, a hotel manager, a drama teacher, a preacher,a psychologist.

And this list goes on and on and on.

As you can deduct, I have grown a lot in my time and so have my interests. But since I was able to read, all I ever wanted to do was write. I wanted to write stories and books and even poems once I started to understand them. I wanted to feel a pen in my hand or my fingers running over a keyboard. I loved to see how the words grew as my story unfolded. I always dreamed of living in an old house looking over some beautiful view, whether it be of city lights or the ocean, I did not care.

Yet soon enough I realized that this dream would always be just that: a dream.

A writer is someone who is able to create a new word or put into words that which people g to hear or to see or to feel and I am definitely NOT that person. I can’t even put into words that which I feel. I can’t even capture that which already exists. How then am I supposed to be the person that creates a whole new world for people to escape to?

What do I want to be when I grow up?

I used to be dream of all that I could be in the far future in which that question would be answered. Yet here I sit: the future staring me in the face, screaming this question at me and I have no idea what I am supposed to say.

What am I supposed to be when I grow up when I can’t even do the only thing that I am mildly good at?

 

When you find…

When you find
that which
inspires
you, you find
that which you
love.
When you see
what you
write about
you see
what you
care about.
And when you
discover that which
motivates you
you discover
what you want.

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