Double Consciousness

I stand in my cold box bedroom,
Back to the window that showcases a characterising downpour,
Looking at a scene that once housed so much gaiety
And marvelling at how dark it is now,
While also being amazed at how time flies
And transforms things that once were oh so familiar;
I close my eyes and open them again,
The scene that I now behold is different yet recognisable,
It is a setting from five and a half months previous,
I stand silently and watch as her and I scramble frantically,
Unable to keep each other’s hands from the other’s body,
I stare jealously as we simply sit and gaze into one another’s eyes,
I turn away as I see in her eyes the butterflies she always spoke of,
I need not look with my now distant sight as I recall the joy I once felt inside;
It being summer, the rays glorify an already glorious scene,
It plays off our brown and blue eyes and lights up our tanned faces,
The entire day pans out before me, exactly as it happened so long ago,
And I can only stand helplessly by and be overcome with envy,
As I watch myself grab her and hold her against my wooden wardrobe,
Kissing her passionately like there was no five minutes from now;
I struggle to hold tears in check as I see us lying side-by-side in each other’s arms,
Sleeping, talking, gazing and just holding onto this precious instance,
And I watch as we happily waste the day away
And as we talk of the many more days to come;
Yet, as this perfect moment unfolds before my eyes,
Piecing together a time of impeccable happiness,
The scene flickers between then and now,
And as I watch something irretrievable happen again
I am fully aware of the reality in which I stand;
I know the bedroom is bleak in the January freeze
And not affectionately tender in the August sun,
I know I stand ominously by the window overlooking my bed
And am not lying beside her, listening to her heart’s beat,
And, worst of all, I know she is not smiling here with me,
As she is in this flawless recollection I am having right now;
My mind’s eye is experiencing the double standards of a double consciousness
That forces me to relive the past while still living in the present,
One that offers no way back to the moments that were
And offers no hope in the way of making them moments that are…

(two reasons for Double Consciousness' inclusion: personally, it marks the end of an emotional stranglehold of a futile, long-ended romance and, writing-wise, it's the first of a flurry of poems written in blocks with an emphasis on images).

I Try, Yet Only Succeed

I try to forget, yet
Only succeed in remembering more,
I try to write differently, yet
Only succeed in writing the same as before,
I try to move forward, yet
Only succeed in living behind,
I try to foresee, yet
Only succeed in possessing sight that is hind,
I try to listen, yet
Only succeed in hearing our memories,
I try to close, yet
Only succeed in opening past and future realities,
I try to make amends, yet
Only succeed in shutting more doors,
I try to go out again, yet
Only succeed in creating mere chores,
I try to walk tall, yet
Only succeed in hunching,
I try to look up, yet
Only succeed in watching branches crunching,
I try to smile wide, yet
Only succeed in wearing a forced grimace,
I try to hold the tears back, yet
Only succeed in distorting my wretched face,
I try to make you notice, yet
Only succeed in pushing you away,
I try to make time reverse, yet
Only succeed in making you shout “not today!”
I try to find inspiration, yet
Only succeed in narrowing my vision,
I try to form a united front, yet
Only succeed in finding love’s division,
I try to stop this pointless drivel, yet
Only succeed in writing more lines,
I try to cease this self deprecation, yet
Only succeed in making more rhymes,
I try everything except the obvious thing, yet
Only succeed in worsening the worst,
I try the obvious thing, yet
Only succeed in falling at the first,
I try to follow what others do, yet
Only succeed in disappearing at their side,
I try to joke and laugh and all those things, yet
Only succeed in being cruel and snide,
I try to leave behind the charm, yet
Only succeed in gaping and gawking,
I try to distance myself from you, yet
Only succeed in talking and stalking,
I try to end the obsession, yet
Only succeed in increasing it tenfold,
I try to look at another, yet
Only succeed in acknowledging your vice like hold,
I try to avoid what others couldn’t, yet
Only succeed in spiralling into depression,
I try to leave it all behind, yet
Only succeed in writing my confession…

Dublin Pleasures

All around the wet, busy city centre,
In the rainy, windy night,
With cringing faces and half-shut eyes,
Huddled into their own bodies,
Wrapped in clothes that fend off the weather
But can’t fend off what’s inside,
People walk with stories to tell,
Some happy,
Some sad,
All unique and relative to their own lives…

One man walks by,
Suit and tie, briefcase in hand,
Anger, confusion, hurt all in his expression,
As he braves the cutting wind
He toys with the idea of asking
The question to the one he loves,
Yet fear of rejection and damage to his ego
Prevent him from doing so…

His chance will go begging, breaking his heart…

A young girl walks by,
Hood over her head,
The label on the front stereotypical,
Her eyes are an alleyway leading nowhere,
Beneath the sleeves of her coat
Scars from her mental battles lie,
She is toying with the idea of leaving it all behind,
She’s a burden, who would care?
A lone tear drips down her face
As she plucks up her resolve…

Her body would be found in the Liffey the next day…

An old man walks by,
Fighting to keep his cap on his head,
Wrinkles showing years of wars and wisdom,
His teeth are false and his bladder is non-existent,
He moves stiffly and the cold cuts him
Like a thousand knives cutting through butter,
The years are taking their toll on him now,
His wife left this world five years ago,
He has no children, no other family at all,
He knows his time is coming to an end…

He will join his waiting wife in two days time…

A group of four lads walk by,
Coming from one of their cars,
Shirts on, studs in their ears,
Heading to their favourite night club,
All with thoughts of ossification
And of pulling tonight firmly in their minds,
Their lives revolve solely around these things,
Seeing and doing other things doesn’t come into it
Because they are young,
They have all the time in the world…

A car crash kills them all; the stories in the papers will paint false pictures of those lads…

One woman walks by,
Mid-forties, shopping bags in either hand
As well as the bags under her eyes,
Life has not gone according to plan,
She wanted to see the world,
But has only ever seen Dublin,
With three children and a deceased husband
Her dream looks like never being fulfilled,
The pressures of single parent hood cripple her permanently…

She would die without ever escaping the place she hated most…

A middle-aged man walks by,
Official looking, money to the seams,
The economic meltdown affects him in no way,
He has three houses, foreign investments,
Stocks in all sorts of money-making ventures,
He thinks he is fixed for life,
He can imagine it now, his life on a private island…

Within a year, bankruptcy would leave him foraging in bins beside his old office…

A teenager walks by,
Woolly hat on his head, headphones blocking out
The noise of the city centre,
A distracted look on his face as he bumps into people,
He thinks he’s insignificant to everyone else,
He can’t bring himself to ask out the girl he likes
Because he feels she would never want to go near him,
So he just consoles himself by saying ‘I will, I will…’
And never doing anything except write about his feelings…

His procrastination will see him lose her and a number of other girls…

A foreign couple walk by,
Visitors to our country,
Taking in all the sights,
They’re trying to find a particular place
And ask anyone who passes for directions,
Everyone ignores their query for no apparent reason,
They approach one particular group of lads,
Scumbags, hoodies up, cans in bags,
The scumbags sense their chance
And lead them astray…

The two bodies would be found stripped of all money and valuables…

Another young boy walks by,
He is easily affected by the things going on in his life,
He comes from a broken home,
Every little thing can elate or deflate him,
He doesn’t know how to deal with everything happening inside,
He fears the future…

He would become an alcoholic and a junkie…

A boy in his early twenties walks by,
Essays, projects, presentations
All swirling around his clouded mind,
College has taken its toll on his life,
Preventing him from spending time with the people he loves
And from doing the things most important to him,
He’s only in college to please his family
Who want him to work in a nice white collar job,
Despite the global recession hitting the people already in those jobs,
He just wants a job in a nice quiet place,
So he can spend time with those he cares about
And do the things he’s always dreamed of…

But he would get the white collar job and would struggle to make quality time until the end of his days…

Another girl walks by,
On her way to a fancy dress party,
She’s a fairy,
She blocks out the depression of a boy she cares about,
Blocks it out while saying to herself
Semper Fi, semper Fi,
She’s convinced in her own mind she knows his mind,
She’s convinced he won’t do what he writes about always,
She knows him…

Not well enough; he would be found hanging from his bedroom ceiling three weeks later…

Two people
From two different counties,
Think about each other day and night,
Trying to second guess the thoughts of the other,
They were one once,
But circumstances drove them apart,
And, despite the elimination of those circumstances,
They are afraid to approach each other again,
As the little doubts have crawled inside their minds,
Making them fear the loss of their friendship
More than the loss of their love…

They would end up with other people and their love would never be realised…

There are more people and more stories than this,
All these people don’t know each other,
All these people could be one person,
All their situations are relative to themselves,
No one in or out of this list could turn to anyone else
And claim their suffering is worse than any,
Each person has their own suffering to deal with,
Consideration of others’ circumstance rarely exists,
Self-centralisation is easier for us all…

This is Dublin…
This is life…
This is how we live it…

Days and Months

A time spent searching for something,
Days and months wishing it to be true,
Solitude and loneliness, what’s the difference?
Then I found you,
And learned exactly how to differentiate the two…

I had it all for a few weeks,
Something I spent an age looking for
Disappeared too quickly after finding it,
Now I wonder what it was all for,
As I find myself back where I was before…

Now our contact is minimal to void,
Your messages are getting shorter and shorter,
Dismissive replies and the misuse of the ellipsis
Are things I am used to seeing at this quarter,
Getting beyond you is a fight against brick and mortar…

And the time begins to slow down again,
Now that we have reached the end of our path,
A feeling lingers inside that we have something unfinished
But our conversations are split second since the aftermath,
I now know the meaning of ‘hell hath…’

So I try to get on with living life in this world,
While trying to hold something I cannot keep,
My actions since our final words as a couple to each other
Have been the ones of a stalker-like creep,
Too deep I have allowed old feelings to seep…

Even when someone else walks right into my arms
At the behest of no one but her own lustful heart,
I find it impossible to let go of the past,
As I fear blowing our non-existent friendship apart,
Setting me back further than the start…

I’ve qualified the new one as a mere trifle,
Someone to take me away from the brutal honesty
That I know I will have to face again someday,
That I know will slap me in the face when I finally see
That you have completely forgotten about me…

This is it Now

Reading too much into things
Is a flaw unforgivable,
I am the master of this,
It makes life unforeseeable,
These eyes wish to see a blue
Sky with clouds over a blue sea,
Instead, grey clouds roll over,
Blighting already dark scenery…

Where’s the help promised to me?
It’s all going to waste, yes,
This is it now, this is it,
What happens next is anyone’s guess,
Winds of change blow in my face,
Ripping up trees from their deep roots,
Men appear, holding their guns,
The leader steps forward and shoots…

The bullet flies at me and
Hits the mark, taking life from me,
Breathing slows, then ceases, blood
Flows, then blinds my eyes completely…

The Writer

The writer writes by dim candle light
About the shame that haunts his lonely nights,
The writer writes by the open window
As the breeze threatens to further his woe,
The writer writes in an effort to prevail
Against the sirens that in the distance wail,
The writer writes about the turmoil
That has come from a greed for spoils,
The writer writes all through the night
Until the coming of the first light…

The writer’s pen is his only friend
And it will guide him until the end,
The writer’s pen is his cherished escape
From the cruel world’s jibes and japes,
The writer’s pen is his shameful addiction
That comes without a doctor’s prescription,
The writer’s pen scrawls about how
Its owner struggles in the here and now,
The writer’s pen is a gift and a curse
That can make things better or a whole lot worse…

The writer’s soul was once whole,
Writing about ambitions and goals,
The writer’s soul was once caring,
Writing about the love he was sharing,
The writer’s soul was once adored
By those he once held close to his core,
The writer’s soul was once the framework
He used to access the place where shadows lurk,
The writer’s soul is now a token
Of the life that has left him broken…

The writer’s writing is terribly frightening,
It scares its readers into hiding,
The writer’s writing is restrictively depressing,
It prevents cut throat emotion expressing,
The writer’s writing can make one cry
Because of the metaphor of the word ‘fly’,
The writer’s writing can make one drown
Beneath thoughts of loss and life under the crown,
The writer’s writing is his be all and end all,
His only way of recording his downfall…

The writer has committed no sin
In writing about a life yet to begin,
The writer has committed no atrocity
By living a life in absolute animosity,
The writer has committed no acts
That should cause faith in himself to be lax,
The writer has committed no theft
Of literary works more deft,
The writer has committed but one crime,
That is of being born in the wrong place at the right time…

And Again/I Say No

And here I am again,
Square sweet square,
Telling a half truth
To escape future despair,
And despite the minor honesty,
I find my vision narrowed
By the thing not let go
Caused by feelings arrowed…

So this is set in stone,
This ache at my heart’s pit,
No ice or cold
Will freeze or defeat it,
She knows everything,
Yet desires nothing from me,
So now I must lose the ball and chain
That stops my being free…

The silence of solitude is sweeter
Than the freedom of exitlude,
But emancipation brings permanence
Solitude only dreams of…

And my home is a prison,
Locking me away with my feelings,
They haunt me night and day
Mocking my misgivings,
She wishes only to be pleasured
By someone who isn’t me,
So this pitiful struggle
Is pointless I now see…

Shaking tells me to give in,
Heart’s wish is mind’s command,
Fighting will bring more pain than joy
So walk away heart in hand,
It can be reused someday,
Maybe not tomorrow or the next day,
But sometime soon, I say,
When I’ve overcome this inner dismay…

The silence of solitude is sweeter
Than the freedom of exitlude,
But emancipation brings permanence
Solitude only dreams of…

The silence of solitude is sweeter
Than the freedom of exitlude,
But emancipation brings permanence
Solitude only dreams of…

But I say no.
But I say no.
But I say no.
But I say no.

(this is a song, very simple, to the point, but I quite like the chorus so I've included it here - also, the fact that I've managed some measure of control the words when I really just wanted to rant and rave is another reason for its inclusion).

The Times

Times are hard,
The country’s on its knees,
People start to fall away,
All the while I hear you pray
“Let me keep my job this winter…”

Bread and milk are the priority,
Food for the children is a must,
Luxuries’ are no more,
As the winter gets colder
Warm clothes need to be found…

Into the local shop you go
To get the perishables,
You thrust your hand into your pocket,
Searching for the coppers,
It’s all the money you have…

But there’s nothing in your pocket,
Panic takes over,
The shopkeeper takes away the perishables,
“I’ve been pick pocketed, I’ve been pick pocketed!”
But it makes no difference…

You turn your head wildly around
To find who it is that would do such a thing,
Every face is as guilty as the next,
Yet you can’t bring yourself to point the finger,
You leave the shop, empty-handed and broken…

The two ministers snicker slyly in the corner…

The Robin

Autumn leaves fall to the ground,
Stormy wind, the only sound,
Branches sway wildly in the breeze,
Flowers preparing for Winter’s freeze,
A robin swoops down over my head,
Enticing me with its shimmering red,
I follow it for reasons unknown,
I pray my faith in it is shown…

I’m walking along a wet pavement,
Turning over numbing sentiments,
Watching children fight the weather,
Watching the fall of pieces severed,
My head’s in the clouds, yet still bowed,
Surrounded by a dark shroud,
I’m carried by blind faith, not by thought,
Yet, I’m also carried by every thing so fraught…

I leave cityscape and come to a forest,
Hoping to rediscover what it means to be honest,
I’m drawn to a dried up riverbed,
While thinking of loved ones living and dead,
I see my reflection in its only patch of water,
But it dies; no other ties were shorter,
I follow the robin up a rising hill,
My feet are moving at their own will…

They stop beside a raging waterfall,
The icy depths begin their call,
Looking back, I see treetops in line,
Looking forward, I see a simple sign,
Looking up, I see the robin fly away,
Looking down, I see the end to my day,
I close my eyes and gravity takes hold,
All is dark now and permanently cold…

The Past is the Present

In my mind, the past is the present,
Nothing about my feelings has changed,
This could be seen as being romantic in an unromantic world,
Or it could be seen as being completely deranged…

Moving on is as tedious as fighting for her back,
I’m besieged on all sides by my own confusion,
I end up spinning in pointless circles,
In an effort to find the hidden solution…

All the while, my heart’s beat is no different,
Even though we ended what feels like centuries ago,
While my feelings are still chained to your heart,
Her feelings are on permanent show…

My life ceases to move, while hers continues to live on,
Her life is lit still, while she has stolen my shine,
I know her heart has been given to another already,
Now I need to find someone else who’ll gladly receive mine…

Even though I’m not ready yet to forget the past…
As I think it’s the present and I think I can make it last…