Mirror Reflections

She is still,
she stares,
lingering around her
is a calm air.

Deep brown eyes
almost black like her hair.
Dark circles
and skin so bare.

Embellished cheeks
of which she is well aware.
Some marks are easy,
others a stubborn affair.

One brow
seems to have more hair,
the other wanes.

It’s a little unfair.

But she’s clever
when she busts a rhyme
she’s clever,
always on your mind.

The last stanza is an adaption of a song called “Cleva” by Erykah Badu who soulfully ruminates on what I interpret as the value she finds beyond her physical appearance. 


Empty room
Stripped mattress
Empty shelves
Clear walls
Spotless floors.

Pumping bass
in my ears;
a song
on repeat.


Freed ears
Freed mind.


Grey skies.

Plane above.

Empty courtyard.

Beeping cars.

My thoughts
become the lyrics.

My feelings
become the melody.

My doubts
become the key.

And my hopes
the bridge.


This poem is based on a blog post I recently read on Medium, entitled ‘The Most Important Skill Nobody Taught You’ as well as the silence that came with ‘move-out day’ at my accommodation.

“When you surround yourself with moments of solitude and stillness, you become intimately familiar with your environment in a way that forced stimulation doesn’t allow”.

Garden of dreams

The garden is familiar.
Previously planted footprints
adorn the
green grass.

Trees reach so tall
she envies the gallantry of their branches.
Birds chirp with a joy so contagious
the apples of her cheeks
into a smile.

The sky is so clear it’s blinding.
A breeze creeps softly over her skin.
The sun is seductively warm;
a red dress in a field of yellow
brown eyes in the sun,
coconut milk and macadamia.

The garden is familiar.
Only this time,
she needn’t leave.


Let all I am wait quietly before God,
for my hope is in him
the psalmist says.

A bucket list
remains unticked.

A door becomes unhinged.

Years of life planning,
a little amiss.

Told there is no time
like the present.
You wish that were a lie.
You wish you could lie down and cry.

Oil and water.
The expected
the unexpected.

The expected cries out.
For what?
A new home.

Seems to be

‘She seems so this’,

‘She seems so that’.

Ceaseless speculation on the tips of their tongues as they try to figure out who I really am.

But, pause, wait- take note of the word seems,

A word that represents an image of who or what they think I am,

An image formed by fragments.

Fragments taken from the meaningless conversation we had a year ago,

Fragments taken from an observation of me across a crowded room.

But they don’t know me and they never will,

For in their heads lies the false image of who they think I am.

When I act out of character, breaking up the superficial image they formed of me, all I hear is ‘I didn’t know she could get like that’ or ‘is that really her?’

Now, the people that say this are usually the talkers, bystanders and assumers,

Usually on the outside of your circle peering in,

So they confuse fact with fiction,

And refuse to appreciate that to know someone is easier said than done.

So I’m sorry if I’m too quiet,

I’m sorry if my behaviour does not correlate with your false hopes and expectations.

For it is you that has chosen to form an opinion of me from afar.

And until you know me, I will continually seem to be in your eyes.