Taken Path

Whatever is handy is the taken path,
Overcomplicating the load is unnecessary,
Pretension sought and found, lived through and hidden,
Looking glass fogged, blanket covering
Up all those who are happy, blocked from
Begrudging glances;
Seeking a time when wishes breathe in life,
Bouncing from dreams like a rainbow arising from
The crest of a wave, banishing the rain
To a dark cloud in the Atlantic, while all the colours
Flourish in the sky and in your mirror-like eyes;
Hope haplessly given and taken away in two words,
The same two words, positively negative
In their structure, playing prospects with a
Turn of phrase, but not so much lies as a
Change of mind;
Glasses are worn to prevent tears, blue shining
In the drops held back at the sight of the opposing green,
And all I wanted was to take your hand, to flee
This suffocating standard imposed in the institution
Before its grasp sucked all the youthful enthusiasm
We had spare from us;
But you are caught in it now, heading back West
To establish your name as the others all fall away
And while I sit alone, writing about rainbows and blue waves
That just make up another poem about something lost
That I never had.

Stands

Stands manned by people close at hand,
Smiles wide inviting them to turn the tide,
Shouting, laughing, objectives graphing,
Alone I watch, helpless at hand.

Pins see the sky bringing a gasp and a sigh,
Bodies crush as people pointlessly push,
Staring, scathing, fearing their world is changing,
Alone I watch, and I can only sigh.

They snatched the confused while they mused,
Thieves of time gifting only rhymes,
Passionate in trapping their early mapping,
Alone I watch, not snatched while I mused.

And I have never been so close to friends
And still felt so lost,
And I have never been more alone in a crowd
Then when useless by the stands.

The Crocodile

Wrapping paper ripped apart in excited greed
And envious glances are cast my way.
I got the biggest present of the lot.
I tear to shreds the green paper with red
Presents decorated all over and am faced with
An unusual thing – a crocodile.
Initially, I laugh, joining in with the joke that
This crocodile is the perfect present for me
With its green skin and still greener hoops.
Then, it starts happening all around me,
The people do what they have failed to do
For the last two and a half years and actually
Revel in one another’s company outside of a
Classroom – and all I can do is sit here,
Crocodile hanging loosely from my hand,
Wondering when it was I last left my house
Without fearing ridicule from ridiculous people.

Snide comments passed by the standard bearers in the presence
Of the other better people, the other important people,
The ones who saved the publication from the mundane
And made guardians and independents take notice.
As they pretend to live in reality, the coldness of my lids
Reverberates down my body every millisecond,
Slowly, like a groping glove seeking the hidden problems,
Only without the warm intention to cure those problems,
And tears come so close before becoming cold themselves,
Retreating so far away the thought makes me want to cry
All over again, all over the people.
So I turn to the crocodile with hopes of a reprieve
From a present meant to make me smile, surely?
But the crocodile has no words of wisdom, no
Philosophy I can borrow; it just sits there,
Unemotional, quiet, with dead pan eyes and
A stitched up mouth preventing attack on open wounds.

Yet there is something else about the crocodile’s indifference,
A reclusive charm hangs about it, with a knowing air,
And I realise then what I missed in its absent glint;
This crocodile is laughing at me, mocking the blood
Coursing through my veins, and the life that blood brings
To my heart – only to allow it all slip away in whirlpools
Of doubt and despair, with death not even an option
Because I am not allowed to die the way he did.
In its entire idleness, its unnerving uselessness and
Its dead in every single way nature, this crocodile
Has finally enabled me to understand a grim truth;
I am as much use to those I call my friends
As this crocodile is – stuffed, lifeless and of
Value to nobody in the harsh reality of things.
Yet I am kept around, purely for entertainment,
Cheap, over apologetic, and utterly humorous to all
But I.

And as my mind walks away from yet another
Unfinished jigsaw puzzle missing its major pieces,
I attempt to console myself by withdrawing with
The crocodile into isolation;
The din of the party they had without me, though,
Follows behind like an annoying child,
Tugging at my ear lobes, smashing my drums,
Getting louder and louder the further away I go,
Repeatedly hitting the great time had by all off my face
Until blood begins to flow from my nose like the
Slowest and most elegant of waterfalls.
And I shout, and I shout, and I shout, and I shout,
But I am drowned out by the invisible long over party,
And I fall silent out of hoarseness, as quiet as this
Crocodile now occupying the foot of my bed,
As opinionless, voiceless and completely choiceless
As this stuffed loon.

(I got a crocodile for Kris Kringle and look what it made me write).

Spark

There is a light in Donaghmede that can bring more shadows than sight,
A spark that can start more fires than lighters,
She makes the book of love into a drama without the bland,
Forever seeking attention from two close at hand,
And age goes by so slowly for them all,
Each one waiting for the other to call.

He claims to have walked in with eyes wide open,
A fog brought by her blinded his way,
The orange glow carries him home five nights straight,
Dimming in hope as each night passes,
With the mildness of the beginning dying so fast,
Wind and rain soon doubling confused pain.

And that phantom no longer himself leaves her house,
Heart uplifted at the renewed vigour her words brought,
He is completely unaware of the tangle in which he is caught,
Strung along like a puppet by a friend played like a piano,
String and keyboard at the end of her shared bed,
A box of matches at her bedside.

She strikes a flame as all sparks do,
Searing the next scene into the grass of her back garden,
The smoke rises in the shape of the soap opera’s end.

Sort of

A certainty no longer guaranteed turns my head this way and that,
Options not even viable become the main focus of my confusion,
Somehow I have succeeded in pushing away true feelings,
In their stead comes silence and shut doors with taken keys;
Things are never so simple as they seem in the book of love,
With phrases like “sort of” often used as a ‘get out of jail free’ card,
And it is sad how one request can be met with such disdain,
Asked three times in total, the replies cease to come;
There is nothing to bury myself in now,
The realisation of three years wasted takes away all motivation,
All I can do is sit on my hands and wait for two semesters’ end,
Then I can walk away from the pointless things and begin again;
The touch of others close by offers a dangerous temptation,
Desires not reciprocated drag my eyes away from the game,
Which is so much worse to a broken mind and a broken heart,
Well, to a mind and heart that never had an act together in the first place;
And in the end all I really want is a big hug from a close friend,
As at least in her hug I can close my eyes and escape the real world.

Snowed in Salt

All is not sacred, the snow preserves nothing,
Frost may still lakes but it never stops life
Or the falling pieces caught in the brief glimpses of
Moonlight that show themselves through cloud breaks.
People slip on the ice but get up every time, dusting down
To press on with the day or night ahead - this, though,
Is not true of now, the break in play that feels like
A break in time; even though it has just sped up.
Love’s fragility can never be underestimated
Yet when its final chapter is written in two people’s lives
The shock reverberates through the streets, bringing
Feelings of endless emptiness in stomachs’ pits and
The odd tear of sympathy that lands in the snow,
Untroubled, as it becomes part of that blanket of white.
Footsteps over footsteps, forever trampling and unceasing
Despite the sight of a blown out light in the room next door,
Where warmth once emanated, heating passers by,
Lost thoughts of freezing wonder rescued by it.
Now, it is smoke and ash for reasons unknown; burned-out
Flames make eyes drift away from the facing facts,
Allowing the most important thing to be pushed out altogether.
Snowed in before it had ever fallen, making the love impossible to retrieve,
And no amount of salt could clear the sought path or the
Realisation that believing it would last forever was the biggest mistake.

Queen

The Queen in sparkling blue presides over her audience,
All dancing, individuals lost within individuals,
And the Queen is just a tarted up, personality stripped version of Grace,
Slightly older with a beauty extending to movement only,
While a Voice self proclaimed as God speaks to the masses,
Thinking His control of the beats gives Him control of the people;
The Voice makes meaningless statements and sentiments
When all the revellers want to do is throw themselves at each other,
Showing the signs to those they find attractive,
Dropping the eyes when contact is made with the Gorilla;
Every turn is met with the sight of grinding, drinking and border-line riding,
False pretence dominates as the ugly believe they can snare a minx,
The good looking smile wryly while struggling to stand,
They will not be undressing for the Gorilla tonight
No matter how many times they are chased around the dance floor;
And as the politics of drunken deliberation and spiralling hormones is played out,
The Queen rules with mediocre movements that entrance
All the races and animals of this enclosed world equally,
While the withered old Mother looks up at her daughter’s throne
And remembers when her two-step shuffle was wisdom enough to be Queen.

Spent Dream

You invite me in, purple dress playing off your blonde hair
And blue eyes while you smile a smouldering smile,
Full of passion, wanting just one thing from this meeting.
Forbidden and desirable, we remain chaste for all of
Ten seconds - innocence melts away before our fire.
The door to your bedroom nearly came off its hinges
We burst through it in such impatient haste, as if this
Perfectly imperfect moment was about to slip through
Our fingertips back to the reality of the situation.
I thought to myself that this was so wrong yet it felt
So right if not long overdue as I tore through your clothes
And kissed your breasts while knowing we would never again
Get another chance - every kiss was filled with all the life
I have lacked in recent weeks, proving to me that you are
The missing link I can never have; secretly, I have always
Known this to be true, but ignorance of the reality we live in
Was always better than accepting it and slinking away in isolation.
We stop as our eyes meet, me looking down and you looking up,
Attempting to put everything into perspective as our illogical sweat cools
On our naked bodies - we know the consequence of our urges,
And we reaffirm in our minds that this is all either of us want,
A forbidden fruit so tantalisingly close that to stop now would be
The biggest crime either of us could commit - and we make love
All night long, releasing the pent up frustration of the truth
Before falling asleep in each other’s arms, sorely spent,
But hopelessly happy and just wanting to wake up to the sight
Of the other’s eyes the next morning.
But when I woke up, the night still hung like a cloak around the room
Which was not yours but mine - and I lie alone, exactly how
I had fallen asleep whilst watching the days of Summer,
And all the life you had given me begins to slowly fade away
As my dream quickly becomes a memory that never happened.

(I had a random dream and this was it, exactly as it happened in my sleep).

Rising Smoke

They dance, forgetting any potential problem they have,
Me at their side, unknown to them but known to me,
And I use the safety of introductions in ignorance as a scapegoat
To get lost in the rising smoke.

They drink, celebrating the birthday of an age old friend,
Me at their side, celebrating in isolated, silent sobriety,
And as they circle the birthday boy in his naked birthday suit
I get lost in the rising smoke.

They shout, demented in their deliberate drunken state,
Me at their side, unaware of being sucked into their oblivion,
And I drown myself in their yelping yells and my standard sub-vocals
To get lost in the rising smoke.

They link, jumping around the birthday boy singing “Happy Birthday!”,
Me at their side, humming the tune in distracted disinterest,
And as they cheer and clap amidst the shenanigans of ropey randomers
I get lost in the rising smoke.

Wondering when again I would get to wield my weapon.
A perfect pen forced painfully into prostration.

(another night out poem where I was more concerned with typing random lines into my phone than having a good night).

Light Through the Leaves

Rhythmic drunkness is a release sought by many,
The rhythm alone is all I have.
Patience is a virtue that has faded into history,
Mine needs to be never-ending.
Darkness becomes darkest as temperatures drop,
And it seems as if the opportunity has been lost.

But our generation never do things by halves,
Your vodka and coke loosened your tongue.
We come together amidst random faces,
Our eyes meeting and keeping with every step closer.
The music escalates along with our laughter,
And we forget where we are and why we are there…

Caring only for the coincidence of our chance meeting.

Our dancing feet tear holes in the floor,
To the dismay of our friend the home-owner.
We got swept away by the rush of the moment,
So we leave to find privacy outside the packed room.
Sub-zero temperatures cannot match our heat,
Hidden by the nearby bushes.

Then, a terrible thought rises to the top of my mind;
Everything happening around me is separate to me, myself.
Devoid of feeling, emotion, physical movement,
Even though I should be in control, I should be happy.
The last thing I see are a set of car lights through leaves;
You cannot feel things in dreams…

Those emotions hit you in bed as soon as you awake.

Let's Run

How about we run, run away from here,
Out to a place free of restrictions,
Come take my hand, my hand and run,
Out to a place without distractions.
Or let’s go back, back to the start again,
When bliss was ignorant in a newfound friend,
Or get aboard a train, a train to Galway,
Where time is precious without an end.

Allow me to help, help unearth you,
Buried in the ground beneath pretension,
A single sign, a sign with information,
Should I continue my constant extension?
It could be kept, kept our silent secret,
So beautiful hidden in our eyes,
There would be no need, no need to run alone,
Or to make true feelings lies.

So just grab on, grab onto my hand, let’s run,
Just hold on, just hold on and we’ve won.

Dither

Convoluting confusion teetering towards a crushing confession,
Danger dithers while we discuss the diversions,
Sought solitude fails spectacularly to sink or swim,
Instead initiating a sound suspension inclusive of intermediate instances,
And all along we wait alone for another aspiration or aversion,
But being loved leads the blind back to before,
Repeating ripe mistakes made right because they are wrong.

And so it was...

And maybe she thinks me a creep now.

**************************

And it was me, I did it,
No one made me,
No one helped me,
I did it alone because I wanted to create something beautiful,
And I didn’t want to share it with anybody.

**************************

And it starts,
Every single person looks the same;
And the pieces fall apart at the seams,
Bodies try and fail to come together;
And the cylinder mirror jumps left to right to left,
The reflection I see is as distorted as the reality;
And bevy after beautiful bevy swan past,
Amplified arrogance barges in pursuit;

And I never stood a chance, did I?

And the days of politely asking a lady to ballroom dance die and die again,
Its replacement a shadow dance filled with false smiles and dawns;
And now I close my eyes one more time,
Lost;
And I stand alone amidst a million strangers,
Abandoned;
And I don’t want to wake up just to piece everything back together again,
And I just don’t want to wake up;

You could stand there forever, holding the same person.
You could stand there forever, holding the same person.
You could stand there forever, holding the same person.
You could stand there forever, holding the same person.

**************************

The world has no need for another glory hunting ‘intellectual’ who claims to have our species’ best interests at heart and who claims, in print, to have the solutions to all our problems.

Red

I bought a big red balloon today
And tied it around my right wrist,
It was my friend to talk to all day,
Red was there when others were not;
I took Red to the seaside for a walk,
We had a heart-to-air as the tide
Came in and the people pushed out
Toward the nearby ice-cream van;
We got some funny looks from
Those beach folk, who just did not understand us
And the way our friendship worked,
That single white string the only bond we needed;
She turned out to be a guiding light my friend Red,
Offering sound advice as she floated innocently by,
The only problem was I found myself watching her glisten
In the sunlight rather than listening to her words;
You see, an epiphany struck me late in the day
Like a car on the motorway - in those hours we spent together,
Walking the coast, I had come to really like Red,
And all I wanted to do then was kiss her inflated body;
So I leant into Red, really thinking she
Felt the same, but she had untied herself
From my wrist, and floated straight up,
High into the sky above, where she burst into shreds.

(I didn't actually attempt to snog a balloon, just in case you thought it was going that way - to be honest, though, I don't actually remember where the idea for this poem came from).

A Broken Promise (To Myself)

Sitting across from me is every feeling in my chest,
So close, on a crowded couch surrounded by people,
And as she laughs in the only five minute gap she has,
My mind drifts to the messages we exchanged not so long ago;
My eyes read the confession while they were shut tight,
Ignoring the sheer impossibility of the current circumstance,
And as I allowed myself to dream of something special once more,
I forgot about the promise I made to myself;
Since resuming hostilities with the institution and its heartless sarcasm,
Our paths have crossed only fleetingly with your time not your own,
And as I ask you to come out with me again and again,
I find myself crashing to the ground harder every time;
You are buried in work for a paper buried in pretension,
Living your life through it and through the friends you have made through it,
And as I realise the inconvenience my advances must cause,
It becomes clear that my presence in your life is an unnecessary distraction;
And back in the present I see you walk away one more time,
And I see that infectious smile on your face at the thought of the day ahead,
And my feelings for you continue to grow despite the futility of it all,
And I begin to let go of something I should never have snatched at in the first place.

When is Too Many?

So, there I am, right,
It’s four o’clock in the day,
I’m staring at this computer screen in a friend’s house,
A middle-aged man’s wife has just left him,
And he can’t remember the cause,
If it triggered him or if he pulled the trigger, making her leave.
Everything since the day she walked away is a blur,
One giant blur, every second culminating at a bottle’s end.
Vodka is water, and he drinks like a fish,
Resulting in his being fired from doing what he loves.
Pretty sad, yeah, but he gets a hefty pay-off,
So he ups and leaves, to hit Vegas, to “drink himself to death”,
Not before burning all of the things he doesn’t want to bring,
Including a picture of him and his wife together.
He can’t tell whether or not he was drunk in that photo,
And he doesn’t really care as the flames lick through the centre of the picture,
Splitting them, then disintegrating them,
Exactly like he wanted, exactly how it was.
So he goes to Vegas, four weeks worth of money,
His aim to be broke and dead by the four weeks’ end,
And there is no Hollywood recovery for this man,
He dies in a crappy motel room in the arms of a hooker he hardly knows,
But who he claims to love.
And then my friend walks in, secretly upset, his tenth bottle in hand.

Got to Be

Swings her hips,
And looks to me,
Then she says,
It’s just you and me now,
Then I see,
That we are free,
And I know,
It’s got to be we now.

It’s got to be this time.
It’s got to be this time.

In her eyes,
Sudden surprise,
As she sees,
There are no lies now,
Only love,
She doesn’t want,
And she knows,
It’s never or now.

It’s got to be this time.
It’s got to be this time.

(I allowed myself a return to Joy Division mode one day - I wrote this while listening to Ceremony so these words can fit in with the music of that song).

Wave of Changes

I wake, two sets of eyes,
One in the present, living,
Another in hindsight, observing,
One set living through it all,
Another watching it happen again,
One set ignorant to time,
Another pining for it back.

A green container home to a team,
Harboured by children, then by teens,
Moved, replaced by a running track,
An artificial river and a grey building,
All more efficient in their use,
Yet none replicating that feeling of home,
Or the memories of past matches.

And one set of eyes live through the changes unawares.
And another set watches them all through streaming tears.

A class of seventeen, separated by circumstance,
In need of knitting, it never sowed,
Groups of four and groups of one,
A unison only found in its division,
Both sets of eyes sadly agreeing,
Three from seventeen is a bare figure,
Where did the other fourteen go?

A girl younger than I, flaming on top,
Is pregnant, when she herself is no woman,
A child inside a child, not nature’s way,
Another girl, a year older than I,
Has two already, with more to come,
The sets of eyes have yet to live life,
The girls will never get a chance.

And both sets of eyes turn as sirens come to punish the same crime.
And both sets of eyes can only watch another wave of change pass them by.

Sky Stands Still

The sky stands still while cars zoom slowly by,
A scene painted in tranquillity with the volume muted,
Seven swallows’ wings flap silently in formation,
Working together like a beautifully well-oiled machine,
Not something one sees everyday.

The sun peaks a select few rays around the clouds,
Groping for a place to shine without being too bright,
Children clasp parents’ hands for fear of falling,
Youthful innocence taken away one year earlier all the time,
A terrible truth in a changing world.

The train roars underneath the bridge, shattering reveries,
Carrying people to destinations they could walk to if they tried,
Two individuals stroll separately from the local church,
The grip of religion dying bit-by-bit, day-by-day,
An acceptance of its diminished role growing with age.

The wind whips up the Autumn leaves in golden turrets,
Little tornadoes brushing off society’s various visages,
Some of whom deal in the dark with hands well hidden,
Hoods thrown over the masks circumstance has given them,
Their true faces lost beneath the corruption money brings.

And all the while the sky stands resolutely still with a shifting scowl,
Day and night, the only thing here not to have changed with time.

(I was collecting my little brother Conor from school - as I came over the Hump-back Bridge heading into Baldoyle I looked at the sky and it looked like a perfect painting).

Three Minutes, Fifty-Four Seconds

Strings gentle begin as I lay with closed eyes,
Seeing twenty years unfold in three minutes fifty four seconds,
Memories of a youth of spoils come back to me,
Reminding me of the difficulties I posed to the deaf and dumb;
Four silent years marked me out as a mute boy,
The other sixteen have been spent making up for lost time,
Except when the Big Man took his unnecessary leave,
All went quiet then, bar the rain drops,
Rolling down my bedroom window like tears on trembling cheeks,
As I gazed blankly away;
The soundtrack to anything becomes a song for me,
Things clear when a crescendo begins its slow ascent,
Especially the mistakes made in departments supposedly superior to the standard;
The yells that leave my mouth in anger are just like the Big Man’s,
He bubbles beneath my surface, holding a grip from his grave,
It contorts my face and raises my swearing,
Bringing fear to my brothers’ eyes, his sons’ eyes,
A leader exists only in the past;
Even though my lids are shut, this all plays like a reel in a cinema,
Never a dull moment, only the pictures and the music,
The happy times play their part and I see for the first time my own face light up,
While in real time, a solitary drop escapes through a crack in my lashes,
As never before did I notice the emotions that are visible in my expressions,
My face is like a book of poetry,
Each wrinkle containing all the joy I never thought would leave,
The glow flickering in my eyes really believing this;
The same score, the same three minutes fifty four seconds,
Represents everything I have ever done, happy or sad, good and bad,
The excited laughs and the tortured empty stares fit into this one piece,
The losses, the gains, the things that just remain, resolute in their permanence,
Because those three minutes fifty four seconds play in repeat in my mind.

To a Destination

A fox lies dead in the middle of the carriage way,
Ears pricked up to hear it all pass by,

As windmills at the heart of the ocean spin clockwise,
Electricity defying conduction and the currents,

And a cathedral stands tall against the painted evening sky,
Goers looking up, enlightened, while the priest skulks away,

Fields of gold rolling across his eyes’ sight, and further again,
While cattle and sheep graze the day away, every day,

A lone mountain looms larger, shadow outreaching,
Blocking out all sunlight, darkness devouring all the cars,

With castle ruins, crumbled and broken, regaining their former glory,
Horses’ gallops shaking the Earth to protect a reborn kingdom,

Overlooked by a giant oak tree, offering a throne that sees everything,
Out to the soulless sea and beyond the heartless horizon,

Watching the three cars line up two hundred kilometres down the road,
Uniting in friendship and in a journey to one destination,

Every action taken in blatant disregard to the bordered up houses in the empty town,
Always thinking of the Worm’s Hill that awaits them at this trip’s end,

Its sheer being coincidence enough to warrant a visit.

They Don't Know

Rumours are rife that the dark days are gone,
Yet this city, ugly, pulses nightly,
They can’t see where it all went wrong,
So I, arrogantly, ignore them blindly.

Knowing they don’t know.

Running wild across my mind’s landscape,
Pondering, always, how to escape this maze,
They can’t see my mentality’s shape,
So I, crazed, just give them a blank gaze.

Knowing they don’t know.

Sleepless hours thinking about sleepless hours,
The walls, looming, suffocate the brooding,
They can’t see the moment where it sours,
So I, losing, smirk and keep musing.

Knowing they don’t know.

Everybody believes they deserve what they have,
Yet I, daily, resent what I alone gave me,
They can all see a reason for having what I have,
Yet I, save me, know I don’t deserve me.

So I’ll go, knowing they’ll never know.

Old Romantic

An old romantic born in the wrong decade
tries to swoon the one he desires with roses and chocolates
while everyone he knows cringes in embarrassment.

She just smiles politely and accepts the gifts,
unsure of whether or not she should speak up now
and let him know this is far from what she had in mind.

He continues to wine and dine her in futile hope,
seeking to sweep her off her feet and carry her over the threshold
to lay by her side having made beautiful, passionate love all night long.

She sits quietly in false pretence while he writes the cheque,
afraid of breaking a wonderful heart who wants to bring only joy
to her life, a smile to her lips and love to her world.

And as he approaches her door, hand clasped in hers,
he swoops for a kiss that he has imagined in his mind
over and over, believing his dreams were about to come true.

But she stops him, as she was always going to,
a lone tear welling in her eye, and she says sorry
over and over, one thousand times in all before shutting her door.

And that night they slept in separate beds three streets away
from each other, both thinking of the other but for different reasons,
One living in lust, the other wishing for love and someone to hold.

(this is the poem I wrote having watched 500 Days of Summer).

There We Go

There we go, hand in hand,
Walking along the endless sand,
Moving in slow motion now,
Embracing this, kissing her brow.

Side-by-side at the tide’s edge,
Making to each other an undying pledge,
To never let go no matter what,
Even if in life’s rush we’re caught.

All of this is recorded on tape,
It now provides a grateful escape,
When things fail to go as right,
I can replay this moment and remember that night.

I smile watching myself kneel before her,
Producing a ring to secure our future,
A solitary tear rolls down my cheek,
As she bursts out crying, unable to speak.

And no matter how many colours life refuses to show,
I can turn on this tape and just watch us go.

Shades

A pair of shades plonked on my face while I lay blinded,
Stopping beams to let me see through a cold light of clarity,
A ceiling awash with shining brightness is reduced to pockets,
And I can finally gaze upon my friends’ faces without fear.

A feeling erupts in my chest with ever increasing drumming,
Pieces are preciously placed within the well-worked gear box in my head,
A year behind is left behind with the dead, gone and loveless,
And I can finally look forward with trusted people at my side.

Songs selected are more positive than at anytime in recent memory,
Beats and rhythms, laughing and singing, preferred to introverted piano sounds,
Companionship and dancing sought instead of silence in solitude,
And I can finally move freely without thinking of only gaining.

Every thought, choice and action is carried out to live right here and now,
Every jaunt and venture undertaken to create memories to cherish in old age,
Reckless abandon is the only philosophy adopted by any of us,
And I can finally follow it without any self inhibitions and sly intentions.

A pair of shades plonked on my face have restored my sight's line.

(I was in a friend's house, lying flat on my back on his bedroom floor while six close friends sat on two beds, one either side, three and three - somebody plonked a pair of sunglasses over my eyes and the idea for Shades came to me).

The Coast

Walk out along soaked sand and dead sea weed,
Out to the vast and endless sea,
And wonder while you walk in shallow puddles,
Does anybody ever stay to watch them roar?

As others walk their dogs along the coast,
One old man walks his on the seabed,
Fearless of the tide’s unpredictability,
Dispelling irrational fears.

A woman collects shells inside the coast wall,
Each shell reminding her of a friend,
Everyday she finds four new shells,
To leave on four friends’ graves.

Shadows of ravens soar in the sunlight,
Ominous in their black pack,
One white gull follows slowly behind,
Encouraging in its caw.

As you smile at seeing such relieving sights,
A sunbeam flashes for a split second across the sky,
In its shape you recognise your father,
And you know everything will be ok.

And leaving your stepped seat four rows down,
Will make you feel ten feet tall when the time is right.

SBS

I walk, and then we stop to admire,
You talk, and then we kiss to aspire,
Want to, but then we just have to give up,
Need to, but then we admit being stuck.

Walking backwards along tightropes,
Below, pure concrete coaxes, and I’m scared.

We go, and run right and left on a split path,
We sow, and shout and scream until we just laugh,
Want you, but my laugh is sad and resigned,
Need you, but my life has been pre-tuned and refined.

Swimming against the current in the ocean,
Below, circle the sharks, with teeth bared.

You leave, and ignore my calls to stay with me,
I grieve, and slowly start to drown in this empty sea,
Want friends, but fail to find any in this lashing rain,
Need friends, but find myself deserted with nothing to gain.

Standing on the brink of existence covered in cloud,
Below, my friends laugh, my loathing shared.

No Finale

Tossing and turning, hours restless,
First sleepless night in seven years,
One that has been coming a long time,
Overbearing heat betters me at last,
Radiating from my body;
Insomnia caused by fatigue during peace,
Only the sound of raindrops outside,
While somewhere across the world,
Gunfire and bombs, screaming and crying,
Keeps a child awake all night, every morning,
Listening as the woman he saw carrying water home,
Is drowned out of all existence;
Outside, in the wind, a plane flies,
Bringing people home to their families,
Outside that child’s home, planes swoop with intent,
Barrels unloaded on the armed and unarmed,
The pilot incapable of deciphering a difference anymore;
Insomnia in isolation is a nuisance,
Insomnia by war is crippling,
With no finale.

Window

The one window that allows stars to watch me sleep,
The mattress, weightless, falls away, making me fall too,
Bottomless, into the trap of being too comfortable.

They wink, candles of the night sky, lulling me to falsity,
Hanging there, unmoving and unwavering to thoughts or wishes,
Actions are impossible in this suspension of all drive.

Lead filled lids crash and grate with every forced re-opening,
With dreams tantalisingly close before I take them away,
Open eyes fixed on those unreachable stars, that unreachable space.

The only time in my life they watch me while I gaze back,
No curtains, no roofs, no street lights, no clouds, no moon, no obstruction,
Just our sights’ lines, meeting, overlapping, crossing and telling.

Telling me to forget their existence, and to just travel the distance.

(I was staying over in a friend's house and he was kind enough to give me a bed - while looking out of the window beside my bed it occurred to me that it was the first time I had ever been able to gaze at the stars while lying down to go to sleep).

Spent Hours

An hour spent queuing to spend an hour queuing,
An hour spent queuing to spend an hour shoving,
An hour spent shoving to spend an hour drinking,
An hour spent drinking to spend an hour dancing,
Only there are no seconds left come the drinking hour’s end,
So why bother at all?

We could be laying on sand, listening to the sea,
Gazing at the moon staring at its own reflection,
While white stars flicker above, on and off,
Like candles in the sky, lights lasting the length of the night,
Out on the beach, where there are no set hours,
Only our own judgement, young, naïve, filled with dancing.

But we spent the hour queuing,
Just to leave five minutes later, complaining.

Maintenance

Maintenance,
So high,
Pressure,
So much,
Constant,
So pointless,
Maintenance.

Never a moment’s peace.
Never a moment’s rest.
Never a moment released,
Never a moment caressed.

Only repetition.

Maintenance,
Unrelenting,
Attention,
Unceasing,
Paranoia,
Dominating,
Maintenance

There she goes, a happy excuse,
There she goes, a sorry face,
There she goes, a relieved refuse,
There she goes, a futile chase.

Always insufficient.

Maintenance,
Mends mind,
Footsteps,
Follow futility,
Envy,
Endless effort,
Maintenance.

Locked door without a dweller,
Locked door without a key,
Locked door without endeavour,
Locked door without a dream.

Distorted disposition.

Locked

Locked, the door and this house, in need of maintenance by one, who refuses to do the job while being unaware of this decision, living blissfully ignorant to that which looks them in the eye, smiling while lying, crying because of the dying feeling surrounding the house, incapable of breaking down the locked door with the battering ram approach which served so well in the past, but has now become obsolete with the passing of people and time, both as irretrievable as each other, yet both the only ones with the power to unlock the door to this locked house, as one is one, but has always been many, just at different intervals with bigger or smaller locks, depending on the circumstance and time of when the first meeting took place, with the early years spent falling hopelessly and the more recent encounters spent pushing potential away out of fear of producing more pieces for the house's mantel.

(not really a poem, more so a long winded sentence - the point was to say everything in one breath to get the effect of a person either shouting or pleading uncontrollably).

I Need to Thank You

I need to thank you,
Freezing shoulder makes me see,
Recalling my poor handling,
The mistakes it led to and the rolling eyes,
Can’t be everybody’s friend,
Especially not after a three week silence,
Can’t be perfect all the time,
Especially not at the age of nineteen,
An insult-cum-joke becomes an insult again,
Only with direct aim, at my big heart,
Not spiteful enough to keep quiet,
Yet spiteful enough to be minimalist,
And it hurts more than speeding bullets,
Knowing how I failed others’ perceptions,
Indifferent to the mistake itself for so long,
Uncaring to its effect on you,
But sad at letting everyone down,
Even though they don’t even know,
Ignorance is bliss but I can’t ignore this,
And I need to thank you,
For reinforcing my logic in shutting up shop.

Glow

Glimmering glow gliding gracefully,
Through the tomb toward the top,
Washing waywardly while wishing wistfully,
Hoping her hidden home hides here.

Living lustfully like lung looping liars,
Tormented thoughts throng through tiles,
Badgering bottomless bastards become bedfellows,
Seeking stoppage so solitude solely survives.

Dreams die deserted, defeated, destroyed,
Partial pieces patching past participations,
Clarifying concerns considered closely, constantly,
Bringing broken bails before backtracking boys.

Dream Screen

One sad thing about this life we live,
It has lived for so long before us now,
The word love is dead and gone,
Along with all the meaning it once held.

All I have ever wanted is to feel love,
From a young age, that is all I have ever hoped for,
Maybe if I was born in a different decade,
I could feel in return what comes out too often.

I want the fantasies we see on television everyday,
The job, the home, the wife, the children, everything,
My time has not yet come, and I fear it never will,
As love extends only to infatuation these days.

The film reel turns, playing back to me my birthday,
I slip into sleep and live my dreams there,
And it is no longer my birthday past I see on the screen,
But the future I wake up everyday hoping to be in.

That dream screen smiles at me without malice,
Showing me that our capacity to love has not yet died,
Only that it is ignored by most, who maybe fear its power,
And I know that once I embrace it and know people who embrace it too…

We can be anything we want to be.

The Race

Racing, always racing, looking to reach the end before the track runs out, before time suddenly stops and what seems endless in youth becomes sparing in age; snatches of it pass in front of my very eyes, within touching distance but transparent, vapour that cannot be trapped in bottles or on windows, that cannot be frozen or solidified in any way possible, like hope, belief, chance, love, hate, fear, sorrow, and all emotions big or small, major or minor, real or imaginary, like those mental diseases that many ignorant people believe are a self-serving myth, a massive attack of self-deprecation spawned from some ‘sick’ need to be appreciated, to be desired - imagine, wishing to be wanted, bemoan the human condition and its vulnerabilities, and pray never to succumb to the weakness of neediness for this, in the eyes of the ‘mentally tough’, is a cardinal sin, one punishable by being exiled, sent to live in isolation; spiralling off track in exuberant amounts of distraction and over-elaboration when the simple matter is an overwhelming need to escape this goldfish bowl of a nation with its corrupt bureaucrats and personal histories, to start anew abroad, somewhere big yet also small, a place to see and be seen, to live and be lived through, where experiences come and go daily in the people you meet and the surroundings you inhale; shaking legs show the pent up energy and frustration this suffocation is causing, fit to burst, racing toward the end without knowing when or where the starting block was, not knowing when or why the decision was made that this place, this house, this life, was too restrictive to breath properly in, or where it was the shackles were locked around the ankles, forcing the running of the race to take place in just one place, running a hole right into the same spot for the last three years as everybody else is released off the chains and out into the real world, with real ground to run into, with real lights, real sounds, real conversations, real feelings, real things they do not show us on the television anymore, out to where we can see that lies are what they are for ourselves; I just need to run my race, no matter where it takes me or how quickly it ends.

Twinge (I Do Not Want)

I can feel it again, that twinkling twinge,
That familiar feeling when someone breezes through,
Occupying your every thought, minute after minute,
Imagining all those things you could have done together,
Remembering all the things you did together,
And realising they are not the same and never will be.

One day of the week cannot come around fast enough,
The one time where we all go out together to dance,
To revel, to be with each other for a cheaper price than any other day,
Laughing, falling, paying each other’s way with money lost on the ground,
Drinking their alcohol while I drink my water,
Enjoying every moment nonetheless.

It was these nights where she came to my attention first,
Moving, smiling, not a single care, it was infectious,
A freedom I had not known for five months straight,
And that only comes fleetingly now, like a ghost returning,
Just to remind me of simpler times when my heart was bigger,
She lets me remember who I was again.

Yet I have seen her with another, not strictly together,
Not strictly apart, they are casual in their courting,
Allowing a chink of light to shine before me, breaking the omens,
Letting me have a little hope, bringing gratitude impossible to personify,
While also putting me in the way, a place I do not want to be,
While also stranding me in no-man’s land, which is where I have been this whole time.

And this brings a slight slit to this surfacing sentiment,
Torturing myself with the pain of the past, with those five months,
Always reliving the hurt, even when forgetting the person,
Building a brick wall around myself to stop it from ever happening again,
Allowing no emotion to seep out, and no one else to come in,
Permanently preventing a new lodger for a splintered house.

(the very last line and the feelings felt at the time inspired this poem - as well as a belief that being alone is better for everybody else).

Silence After the Gunshot

There’s a silence after the gunshot is fired,
We stood our ground while sitting down,
Now we’ve achieved what we most desired,
Now we fear being brought down.

Running from that bleakest of scenes,
Away from your shrilling screams,
A moment’s peace broken by bad aim,
And we become tangled in this game,
You lie there coughing up bloody phlegm,
Sirens wail, we run from them,
We didn’t want it to come to this,
Until we heard your snakelike hiss.

You sold us out to our biggest rivals,
So we sold you out to God,
And despite all your religious denials,
You begged for salvation from God.

Betrayal of the lads was a stupid move,
You really upset our movement’s groove,
A bullet to the heart was too good for you,
They want to reward us with a bullet too,
We keep running in random directions,
Far from police and gangs’ detections,
Carelessly throwing the gun away,
Thinking they wouldn’t hunt all this way.

Word comes that you've stopped breathing,
And we feel we can breath again,
A simple thought that is deceiving,
We should’ve thought again.

The time has come to flee once more,
Before they break down our hideout’s door,
Grabbing more pieces as we leave,
Our door breaks, with our time to breath,
Trail of blood follows us cross-country,
As do police and gangs, all and sundry,
Doing what they want to catch the traitorous criminals,
Using excessive force and complicated syllables.

And when I look in the hostel’s mirror,
I see a friend of death staring back,
As I look longer, things become clearer,
And I see a stranger ready to attack.

Barricaded in our €70 a night room,
Outside enemies' shadows converge and loom,
Ezekiel’s words run through my mind,
Our path is truly beset by the unkind,
Officers and gangsters bang repeatedly,
Each bang hitting me and my mentality,
I understand our wrongs and seek repentance,
Our door comes down and I feel acceptance.

There’s a silence after the gunshots are fired,
We embraced our fate while lying down,
Now we’ve achieved what we most desired,
Now we fear waking to live this down.

(I was listening to a lot of Kasabian and this happened - note to self: never write while listening to Kasabian because you are not the genius that is Serge Pizzorno).

Butterflies

As I read your confession a feeling lost returns again,
And it’s only when I get it back that I realise how much I missed it,
Butterflies fluttering in your stomach, full of excited nervousness,
In hindsight that was the saddest loss of my self imposed exile.

Hello little butterflies, welcome back.

A genuine smile raised with consistency has been a rarity,
Often forced in the company of people who like to ask too many questions,
Yet often dropped when the pain in my cheeks became unbearable,
But not anymore, for the butterflies have returned and I smile freely once more.

Hello little butterflies, welcome back.

And the only regret we each have, now we know the other’s thoughts,
Is the fact we failed to act on an impulse we fought so hard to suppress,
But even though you have travelled across the freezing Atlantic ocean,
The butterflies will flutter in anticipation of your return to the Smoke.

Hello little butterflies, welcome back.

We may wonder what will become of us in the future when the present arrives,
But until that moment in time we can be content with fancies and flings,
And I’ll let the butterflies flutter foolishly around my cobwebbed stomach,
As it has been too long since a reason existed for them to do so.

Hello little butterflies, welcome back.

Feels Safer

The floor,
Green, red, blue, two step,
Red, blue, green, three step,
Blue, green, red, two step,
The floor.

The ceiling,
Flashing in strobes,
Bar one bulb, it stands alone,
A void, a black light,
The ceiling.

And I close my eyes, because everything feels safer.

The bus,
No passage of time,
One minute - club, next minute - seat,
Everyone sits on the left,
The bus.

The journey,
Half of a man falls limp and dies,
Other half fights the spreading stroke,
Everyone sits helpless on the left,
The journey.

And I close my eyes, because everything feels safer.

The walk,
Bus stop to front door,
Hoping the batteries do not die,
Cats’ screams are drowned out,
The walk.

The bed,
Crawling in as the wind howls,
Dead leaves rise in turrets,
And fall like confetti outside,
The bed.

And I close my eyes, because everything feels safer.

(the aim of this poem is to be deliberately fragmented while still making it obvious that the things going on are just happening in my head in a fit of fatigue-induced paranoia - whether or not I've achieved that is up to you, but it was interesting to write a poem in this manner).

Solitude

I was out last night, I made a friend,
A mate at the time, gone in the end,
I’ll be out tonight, I’ll make a friend,
A mate at the time, gone in the end.

Woke with a smile, permanence being,
The smile went away, only dreaming,
Wake with a smile, permanence being,
The smile will leave, always dreaming.

Dug a hole, got lost in it,
Tried to dig up, buried in the pit,
Dig again, get lost in it,
Try to dig up, get buried in the pit.

Youth chased trouble, seeking the corner,
A minute glass alone; solitude - I adored her,
Life fled trouble, fear of the corner,
An hour glass alone; solitude - I despise her.

Sought a hand, gift of a ring,
One of perfection, harpist of the heart-string,
Found a hand, snatching the ring,
Far from perfection, breaking my heart-string.

Writing alone, about being alone,
Skimming old numbers, looking for my own,
Writing alone, about being alone,
All dead and gone, leaving me on my own.

Everybody’s mate, nobody’s friend.
There at the time, gone in the end.

(this poem was based around the first stanza and the last two lines - everything else is just elaboration).

Break

I see you while you walk.
I see him as you talk.
You see me while I stalk.

And in one glance I see us break.

I hear you while you cry.
I hear him as you lie.
You hear me while I sigh.

And in one whisper I hear us break.

I feel your pain while you lied.
I feel his indifference as you cried.
You feel my presence while I hide.

And in one moment I feel us break.

Away from everything we once had.
Away from safety through good and bad.
Away from times alone in that special place.
Away from wiping tears from the other’s face.

And memory by memory we drift.
Each with a sly parting gift.
A silence long widens the rift.

And in nothing at all I know we break away from promises to never let go.

(I think I was listening to 9 Crimes by Damien Rice when writing this - that's just the feel I get from it).

Like a Piano

She plays a game,
Confusing him,
It’s all the same,
He never wins.

He accepts this,
No other choice,
He loves her kiss,
Sound of her voice.

He’s her doormat,
A back-up man,
‘What are you at?’
They say to Fran.

And he’s played like a piano.
Every key knotting him tighter.
And he has nowhere else to go.
He’s too weak to stand and fight her.

She enjoys it,
Dice dominance,
Breaks every bit,
Price prominence.

Syllables’ ease,
Control his thoughts,
Deathly disease,
Drives him to noughts.

No way out now,
Lonely in love,
Get out somehow,
It’s not enough.

And he’s played like a piano.
Every key knotting him tighter.
And he has nowhere else to go.
He’s too weak to stand and fight her.

(this was a reminiscence of an old romance, a realisation of how it was, letting go of what I thought it was).

You Don't, But You Will

You don’t want to meet your heroes for fear they are only human,
You don’t want to push the extra yard for fear you stumble over the edge,
You don’t want to work today for fear of earning the sack,
You don’t want to appear at her house today for fear of breaking your pledge.

You will stay away from your inspirations because they will remain God-like instead,
You will put in half the effort on the sly because nobody cares about what lies ahead,
You will work through the day a nervous wreck because you will be sacked either way,
You will appear at her house today because you just want to get into her bed.

You don’t want to read a Bible for fear of identifying with Jesus Christ,
You don’t want to heed your parents for fear you prove them right,
You don’t want to go to college for fear of being socially ostracised,
You don’t want to live anymore for fear of finding no light.

You will become an Atheist because scepticism is easier than finding faith,
You will ignore your parents because they are out of touch with the modern day,
You will work in shops and fast food places because you ignore the foreign legion always,
You will keep on breathing because even you know you can’t run away.

Uncertain

Outside the people walk to wherever they’re going,
Questions burning with answers unknowing,
They turn left and right to knock on doors,
Crossing streets and crossing chores.

All uncertain of what they’ll find.

She finds a heart beating at twice her speed,
And decides this is the last thing she needs,
He argues with her one more time,JunejJ
And decides this is where he draws the line.

Each uncertain of the others mind.

They greet the news in a fit of fury,
Threatening to bring the judge and jury,
They see what their unison has become,
And wonder what it is they have done.

Both uncertain of when things became so blind.

I look on at the people living every lie,
Laughing at each person as they cry,
I stop and take a look in the mirror,
And become sad at realising it's no clearer.

Uncertain as to when it became so unkind.

Two Candles

They dance under the stars and the moonlight,
Beside a table clad in shimmering gold and glistening glass,
With two candles standing tall, despite melting wax,
Glowing brightly in the cool dusk becoming cloudy as the night approaches;
Her eyes act like a mirror, reflecting his face,
And there he sees his own eyes, pupils dilated,
As he opens up to this person he hardly knows;
That first kiss lasts seconds, but feels like an eternity,
And it carries them up seventeen steps to a red bedspread,
Where their newly discovered dormant passion takes hold,
Amidst an undying love he had felt once before,
But which comes entirely new to her,
Whose plague has prevented past feelings from flourishing;
Gently, lovingly, they come together, two people barely acquainted,
Not in a fit of lust,
Not in searching for a soulless encounter reminiscent of the Red Light,
But each stricken by private grieves not shared by the other,
Sad histories amalgamating to create what should be a promising future;
And then he sees her scar, above the breadth of her left breast,
And he kisses her scar tenderly, wishing he could heal it and the heart that lies beneath,
So they could live in unlimited time, to see the world together,
To get married, to have children and live by the sea,
Gazing forevermore at the unreachable horizon and the revolving sun;
But this is futile, wishes confined to dreams and hopeless harbours,
Her life is doomed to being dominated by pagers and hospital beds,
Too-ing and fro-ing from the home of her own to the home of the ill,
With her weak heart making it impossible to even walk her dog
Without tiring to near collapse;
So, she sleeps in his arms, content in the present to put aside the inevitable,
But he cannot sleep, not while knowing that this wonderful new thing,
This young love on experienced shoulders, wisdom unattainable even through surgery,
Is in the hands of a higher authority than his own;
His eyes strain and fight fatigue as he realises there IS something he can do to save her,
Even though it would mean him losing her forever,
Even though it would mean him meeting the creator of these cruel circumstances
Years before his time;
A beeping sound in the middle of the night awakes her - her pager comes alive,
There is a heart out there for her,
Yet he is gone,
And outside, one candle is extinguished by the falling drops,
But the remaining candle flickers unwaveringly in the rain.

Untitled Document

And I am surrounded by mindless, random people,
When all I want is a conversation with one random, mindless person,
And I really do not want to be here, yet I have to be,
In the hope a friend not mindless will let me listen to them,
And there is sweat dripping from my forehead,
But I fail to see the point.

And I am forced to stand and watch as it unfolds before me,
On the dance floor, trapped by the people,
And I cannot move my shoulders as I see their lips lock,
Dashing dreams with every motion,
And I fight my way from the horrific heartbreaking scene,
Leaving in a frenzy of stomach churning emotion.

And I cannot afford to breath too loudly,
Or they will notice my taking leave is based on half a lie,
And the people in the restaurant outside marvel at the saddest sight they ever saw,
A man in a long black overcoat and tuxedo t-shirt,
And he walks the long road home alone, a lost look on his face,
Head bowed in the rain as he realises his hope was the biggest joke of them all.

And the break dancer with the backwards cap and the old man with withered old wisdom,
Stand sheltered beside the shuttered doors of the pub to share a cigarette,
And a drunk stumbles past, a young man with his life supposedly ahead of him,
Trying to convince me that his money has been stolen,
And he howls a crying plea so transparent, I know I will be the robbed one,
Should I take his five simple steps toward his hidden right hand.

And the old man walking thirty yards ahead holds back a tear,
As I lag behind singing beautiful words out of tune,
And they tell a tragic story with inflections of reality buried in the tone,
So much so the old man cannot distinguish between fact and fiction,
And everything in the air is jumbled with all the varying noises,
Disorientating the old man whose sleep that night would be disturbed by visions of me.

And the person lying asleep on the steps of an abandoned house,
Just wishes I would shut my well-off mouth,
And she resents the fact I can afford to walk this distance home,
Safe in the knowledge that a taxi can get me to a guaranteed bed at any time,
And she thinks me a pretentious so and so, who writes random lines into his mobile phone,
In the hope that simple elaboration will make masterpieces of them.

And I gaze into the dark never ending expanse of Fairview Park,
Seeing a gloriously bitter end to a gloriously bitter night,
And creeping cars frighten me with their shadow casting lights,
Because I fear knowing the people inside the cars and inside the shadows,
And I laugh sadly as a swarm of taxis fly by,
Racing each other to the city’s few fares (fairs).

And I see a silhouetted figure run into the middle of the road,
Before vanishing into nothing before my heavy eyes,
And I am unsure if this was a fatigue induced hallucination,
Or a warning to heed the cramp in my right calf,
And I stare nervously at the place it disappeared as I walk past it,
Convinced it will reappear and take me to the place where shadows sleep.

And a car wash light flickers on and off, when there’s no need for it to be alive at all,
When all washable cars are clean at this inhumane time between morning and wakening,
And the cover of trees shelters me from the prying eyes of hunters of the night,
Who may judge my behaviour and spread lies to those who could harm me,
And a song comes on my MP3 player that incites a rage years old,
That I did not know even existed until this moment of disillusioned clarity.

And I am angry at my father now, but not for the manner of his departure,
Or for the consequences on myself or on my father’s side of the tree,
And my anger breaks, leading to screams of undecipherable, mutilated lyrics,
As I realise with sudden helplessness the effect his death will have on my brothers,
And I resent the timing of him knotting the noose,
As his sons were too young to lose a father figure, and I was too young to become one.

And I notice now a slash on my conscience,
A seven year old bleeding wound.

(I was walking home from town one night, which is a two hour walk or so for me, and I was just typing things that happened, or that I saw or thought, into my phone and saving them as drafts as I went - this is the end result of that process).

Tell

I tell them it will be ok,
When they fall and hurt themselves,
I tell them to keep going and going,
When they just feel like giving up,
I tell them to rise above,
When words are used to play games,
I tell them to repair and re-start,
When they are rebuffed again and again,
I tell them it is never easy,
When they wonder why it is all going wrong,
I tell them goodbye is the hardest part,
When they say ‘dead people can’t hear goodbyes’,
I tell them to keep looking,
When they tempt love and feel rejection,
I tell them all these things,
Because they have no father to do so.

But I have yet to tell myself one of these things.

Room of Tufts

The paint glows in the night,
Illuminating my fault,
She takes my hand and holds on tight,
Searching for a key to my vault;
She has been looking a long time,
Wondering about the boy inside the man,
And there is a belief etched in her face,
That a lifting truth will come from her plan;
All these years my reputation has grown,
How nice, kind and sensitive he is,
Word of mouth building a myth,
A false prophet in our friends’ mist;
Her eyes are aglow now beside Earth’s colours,
A sharp blue contrasting with them all,
Piercing my own blue in complete futility,
Making her leave, deaf to my call;
The key she wants was lost by an ex,
Whose passage I allowed so I could hear her sing,
I lost the one who held the key last,
When she tossed it aside for alcohol and a fling;
And as I see my new fancy walk away forever,
I know there is no hope, even at the end,
And when they all learn what I really am,
I will not have a single friend.

And up in the sky, in my windless room of tufts,
I will see rebukes, rejections, and repeated rebuffs.

Nothing

All around
- feelings fly toward the empty sky.
No sound
- except for voices whispering undying love for one another.
Unfound
- all this remains for I alone atop my mountain.
Breaking mound
- avalanching down as they take cover.

Secret shames
- they bind me to my initially enforced isolation.
Horrid games
- they haunt my dreams both night and day.
Friendly names
- they believe my front and think me better.
Futile aims
- they fail like always, leaving only one more way.

Weather turns
- lashing down as my home crumbles beneath my feet.
It all burns
- as they all look back and yell at me to flee.
Stomach churns
- seeing the end of something so unspectacular.
No concerns
- knowing this is the one chance we have of being free.

Only I
- lying broken amidst the glass and debris.
Unable to cry
- no change to what has gone before.
Here to die
- as they all look to me to fight my solitary wish.
Goodbye lies
- shutting behind me life’s exit door.

Something
- the gift I received from a man I never met.
Nothing
- what I did with the gift I had no choice but to accept.

For One Year

For one year, we played with and against each other,
For one year, we shouted and berated each other,
For one year, we won and lost together,
For one year, we fought and died together;
Now, it’s over,
Now, we remember,
Now, we split,
Now, new pastures need finding;
And nobody cares because most never cared at the beginning.

Living in Denial

I didn’t want to do that,
Leave us unfinished and divided,
You thought it best for us,
Suiting your secrets, it coincided.
You left me with nothing,
Robbing me of what I was famed for,
Walking away, pride intact,
To you, I was just another chore.
So I wallowed alone for months on end,
Ruining potential by living in the past,
Any heartbreak suspected by friends,
I thought better to hide behind my mask.
And now you dictate your re-entry,
Deciding the terms on which you return,
Crawling inside my distracted mind,
With words, any dissent is burned.
You were all I wanted,
Time to see what we could be,
You couldn’t provide that,
Breaking our lock but keeping the key.
Now you come and go as you please,
Talking then not talking, like it’s a joke,
Not realising how it affects me,
Making what’s left of my decency choke.
I gave you it all,
Every ounce of love in my bloodstream,
It wasn’t good enough,
And each ounce decamped to my dreams.
This didn’t mean anything,
Not to you, it never could,
You will never know any of this,
Not of your residency in my blood.
I just wish you told the truth,
And just said you never fell for me,
Rather than the usual ‘it’s me’ excuse,
Saving me the trouble of digging so deep.
You’ve broken me forever,
Incapable of raising a genuine smile,
I’m no longer what I was,
Just a man living in denial.

Here

Things are standing stone cold still,
They have been for a long time,
Motionless against my will,
Hopelessly seeking a sign.

Others’ cycles circle on,
Growing and breaking before my fixed stare,
They wonder where it all went wrong,
A question I can no longer bear.

Now I sit in useless indecision,
Not knowing whether to step forward or back,
Wading toward either clouds my vision,
Remaining here cuts no slack.

The world is spinning and changing,
Passing me by in a breathless breeze,
Chances come, messages exchanging,
Every one I fail to seize.

Preferring life frozen in the present.
Cherishing moments from my own crescent.

Every Time I Close My Eyes

Every time I close my eyes,
Your face appears to me,
In real time we cannot have one another,
But in here, we can be.

When my eyes shut so tight,
We dance in fields and kiss in the rain,
When my eyes open again,
They avoid acknowledging the denied pain.

Daydreaming is a refuge now,
Living in a place where our hands clasp,
You have no clue of this desire of mine,
And no wish to have it in your grasp.

In my dreams I live in the West,
Where the sun sets last and where you live,
We would watch its setting every dusk without fail,
Nothing to you would I not give.

In my mind, you save me from the now,
Take me away from battles I cannot win,
When I return to reality I weaken again,
Committing sin after sin after soulless sin.

If I could, I would build a concrete path,
From my door to yours, as the bird flies,
Then we could be together whenever,
Even if the walk brings broken wills and anguished cries.

Now these are my feelings,
This is what I would like to do,
Take you away from the grime and the smoke,
To a place of peace, just me and you.

Alas, I live behind my shut eyelids,
A place where I have exactly what I need,
Your warmth and love all to myself,
Without any present complications to heed.

And every time I close my eyes,
I see moments when we were on our own,
And every time I open them again,
I realise sadly that I am all alone.

Air

I want to say the most beautiful things,
Images of irate tranquility to fill your eyes,
Words so telling, another need never be said,
And all the while I remain hidden in my guise…

So come away with me,
We can float on air,
Play the days away in childish glee,
And live without a single care…

One look and I see in you what I feel in me,
Reflections reflecting retractions, reverses,
I know the truth, yet do nothing to change it,
Verifying the vices in void filled verses…

So come away with me,
We can float on air,
Play the days away in childish glee,
And live without a single care…

A stroke, a touch, gentle is all I seek,
No bases, just a chance of something soft,
A hug, a kiss, embracing all I want,
Yet situation decides, so does it oft…

So come away with me,
We can float on air,
Play the days away in childish glee,
And live without a single care…

And now I see the sun rise in the West.
And I begrudge myself this fortune blessed.

(I quite like the images of this poem, though it is a little short and repetitive - around this time, which is only half way into 2009, or so, a fascination with the West enters into a lot of my writing).

I See...

Four a.m.

I see stars glowing bright white, alongside the moon outshining them all,
I see the Sun turn each one into liquid, running from something coming behind,
I see colours flash randomly in complete liberation from reality,
I see hearts drop from the sky, smashing on the ground, blood everywhere,
I see my hand rise to catch them, and see the hearts pass right on through,
I see every single dream of mine since the age of thirteen, and watch them all slip away,
I see the sky open up to a world where there is no law, no time, no nothing,
I see people breakdown into babbling as everything they know disappears into this void,
I see life disintegrate, swallowing itself whole in a wave of colours and white light,
I see children more interested in chocolate and toys than in going home before the end,
I see the stereotypical tears as people proclaim their lists of things not yet done,
I see total strangers declare undying love for those they have never met,
I see my enemies scramble in futility for safety that exists only in the chaos above,
I see my friends come to me and ask me why this is happening,
I see my family ask for one last hug, in some false hope that coming together will spare us,
I see religion break as the apocalypse hammers the final nail into blind faith,
I see science deliriously rejoice in its triumph, despite the impending doom of humanity,
I see running, and running, and running, and falling, and falling, and falling,
I see every disease in the history of mankind pass through me in milliseconds,
I see Death, and shake his hand.

Four fifteen a.m.

I see through tired eyes, playing tricks to amuse my mind.
I see nothing then but my hand shaking thin air.

Ensnarer

Even when push comes to shove,
They fail to see beyond trivial stuff,
Believing what they think they see,
Ignoring the shadows always lurking.

And I just need to know.
Where did I go?

The ensnarer repeats what is now clichéd,
Adding her cents to a price well paid,
Encouraging confidence where it’s undue,
A lack of knowledge of victories few.

And I just need to know.
Where did I go?

An old wall where my friends would play,
Is the place they meet to discuss my ways,
And having read an old notebook of mine,
And read between each worthless line,
They learned all of my secret shames,
The words, the lies, the evil games,
And they decide to tell everyone I know,
I have left already, with nowhere to go.

And I wake up and just need to know.
Where is it now that I go?

Their epitaph scrawled across my grave,
Will be titled and lament the mistake they made,
Hating their judgments’ irreversible failure,
They really believed in their lord and saviour.

And I just need to know.
Where did I go?

The tears will fall at my ensnarer’s feet,
Larger always at the thoughts of deceit,
One red rose she will leave in my memory,
A mercy not shown by mourning enemies.

And I just need to know.
Where did I go?

They all gather around my broken ensnarer,
The only one who could be my heart’s bearer,
A world away from hope and love,
Staring at a an overhead dove,
Wishing that she too could fly,
Into the heart of that cloud’s eye,
To find me, confront me, call me pathetic,
And to tell me she loves me, and everything with it.

And I wake up and just need to know.
Where is now that I go?

Do They Demean?

She looks into my eyes and tells me,
Repeating the unintended propaganda of who I am,
A nice guy, with few faults, every compliment
Rolling off her tongue unknowing of what goes on alone, inside;
We dance, us two, amidst forty others,
Locking eyes, laughing and laughing,
Waiting and waiting, but I dare not do what a man does,
Because I lose my own battles in the dark far too often
To even think of losing a battle with her in its middle;
She leaves, I stay, moving without conviction,
Smiling while crying, as those around me stumble blindly,
Alcohol and ossification damaging their sight,
Water and sobriety clearing mine;
One girl bumps into me again, and again, and again,
Wrapping herself around me, leaning in with drunken intent,
With closed eyes, in ignorance of any potential consequence
That wearing her skirt as high as her waist may bring,
And I pull away, shuddering at the thought of what someone else,
Equally as drunk and with a snakelike mind,
Would have done to this girl,
Leaving her dangling above the decision of a flight or a baby;
Then I see my ensnarer again, holding hands with an on-off lover,
As they walk away, my chance walks with them,
And his laughter seems directed at me as he wins again,
While I stand wondering if I am as different as she believes me to be,
Or do my temptations in solitude demean what I do the rest of the time?

Death of the Church

People with flags, people with flags flock to St. Peter’s Square,
Building hope, building hope in the pending white smoke,
Sceptics raise, sceptics raise eyebrows at the past and the present,
Blatant dismissal, blatant dismissal of a supposedly faithful future.

Rumours circulate, rumours circulate of a breakthrough in Switzerland,
Recreation, recreation of life’s defining moment has succeeded,
Big Bang two, Big Bang two blows up in a black block tunnel,
Religion is made, religion is made utterly redundant by protons.

Burning Bibles, burning Bibles stacked in the middle of the Pantheon,
Four hundred churches, four hundred churches shrouded in smoke in the middle of Rome,
Falling down, falling down like the divinity they have held for so long,
Lying in death, lying in death on the ground where they should stand so strong.

Priests’ naivety, priests’ naivety as they scream blasphemy at experimentation and calculation,
Bishops’ remorse, bishops’ remorse as humanity loses faith to analysis,
Cardinals’ tears, cardinals’ tears at the inevitable murder of belief,
The Pope’s acceptance, the Pope’s acceptance that science created the world.

Denied salvation, denied salvation, people blame heresy for stealing their faith,
Believers believe, believers believe repentance can save the white jacketed men,
Agnostics’ pity, Agnostics’ pity plugs no eyes nor quells no fires,
Atheists’ mocking, Atheists’ mocking fuels already rising flames.

Marching crowds, marching crowds make one last pilgrimage,
All united, all united in fury over an obsolete obsession and empty confessions,
The Pope stares, the Pope stares answerless at the masses,
All united, all united because of the now exposed two thousand year old fraud.

That was the day, that was the day the Catholic Church fell in uniting the world.

No Sound

Your world is delved in silence,
Bangs, screams barely audible,
Noiseless for most parts,
Ugly sounds, pointlessly loud,
Breaking through sometimes.

I come home every other week,
A new CD for the collection,
Every time, your face contorts in confusion,
‘Why do you buy music?’ you ask,
‘It’s a waste of time.’

I am always sad when you ask this,
As my answer is simple and based on reality,
If you could hear what I hear now,
The beauty that can be found in explosions,
You wouldn’t ask that question.

But you can’t hear it.
And you never will.

Blow

Intimacy dies here, like smashing glass,
A bible of neon glows here, a place void of traffic,
Pleasures fade here, tearing us apart,
We shouldn’t have smoked that blow.

Kreuzberg calls us, weakening our walls,
Something at the windowsill, something sacred,
A candidate for disaster, blood on our fingers,
We shouldn’t have smoked that blow.

The lyrics of their songs, come alive before us,
Breaking boundaries, breaking bricks,
Lines and stars, fuzzy and swaying,
There’s the pink elephant we shouldn’t speak of.

And there’s a party in your bloc,
Because the arcade went on fire,
And there’s a division in our joy,
Because of the music we each desire.

It all becomes one disjointed blur now.
We shouldn’t have smoked that blow.

Asterisk in the Appendix

She begins the game again, words thrown at random,
Misuse of the ellipsis and misplaced x’s pervade what I read,
More confusion, more uncertainty, more attempts at nothing,
The ugly flower blossoming from a sadly sown seed.

I jump around with the originals, the first time in a blue moon,
Thoughts dominated by the safety of security not even assured,
Fog falls and clouds my sight, but the haze was already in my eyes,
Now streams and visions have united and concurred.

She hides behind typed writing, hiding emotional expressions,
No way of telling through glance or tone her true intentions,
An elaborate guessing game played out to our detriment,
Fear of finding her heart’s abyss through her own interventions.

I relapse and return to a topic now cold on my shoulder,
Sickening those who have to hear the tale retold at every new stage,
The conclusion was written on the twenty-ninth day of a January past,
Yet asterisks are marked in an appendix as we age.

She attempts to play my notes, and succeeds in striking a chord.
I have played the extra wheel long enough; now it’s time to step forward.

Peace in a Crack Den

Wandering around a childhood home,
Lost in the transition with time of its features,
Visiting an old place in search of solitude,
It still contains the essence of past affiliations,
I see myself throwing stones now eroded at the river’s bottom,
The island of pebbles moves beneath my feet as the water flows freely around,
Once it moved beneath our feet.

The not-so-secret escape is now littered with society’s excess,
Cans and crates hanging from bushes and bobbing on the surface,
The filth forms in pools at the island’s edges,
Four Ducks swim through, in search of clean food in dirty water,
While a lone Herron stands frozen on a rock,
Watchful of the currents while taking in all that the dusk entails,
The peace is dying with the sun, but the memories remain.

But it is not time to retire to the indoors yet,
Not time to succumb to the television and a three-in-one,
The blue door of a home from home is ignored in favour of a new venture,
To the park, with its enclosures and open spaces, backways and hideaways,
That harbour none bar the birds, rats and mosquitoes during the day,
Save those of curious heart and incautious mind,
Light is fading, the chance to find something with it.

Up a steep slope, fighting gravity with tired thighs,
This is the nearest thing to a forest I have ever seen,
An almighty alcove amidst angled trees,
Broken branches and stumps of fallen family,
Hiding the ruins of a hoodlum house,
With the slogan ‘Crack Den’ branded in blue and black across it,
Strewn with the burned out buds and smashed bottles of schoolboys.

Yet odd trinkets lie here too, those fitting of a household,
There’s an ashtray, stained with the ashes of half smoked cigarettes,
And a plastic cup from Prague, brown from the muck of the ground and now stomached cider,
And smashed plates, floral patterns broken, no dinner on them anymore,
And bumpers from cars, as well as tires, doors and wing mirrors,
And even a full outer shell, burned and rusted,
No need to be driven anymore, so let’s spark a fire and brighten the sky.

And there are bones here, fossilised, like in a museum, real bones, calcium deficient,
As well as muscle, skin, soul and entirely life deficient,
They belonged to a person before,
And there are clothes bundled up and hidden in the bushes,
Or buried beneath the grass, but not buried enough,
A pair of skinny white jeans catches my eye,
Torn, cast aside, a broken pink phone smashed next to them.

A peace is here, but it is restless,
Birds fly from tree-to-tree, not singing but muttering,
Eyes piercing my presence, despite clear signs of human habitation,
Their lack of comfort stems not from my sheer being there,
But from their unfamiliarity of my life story and previous haunts,
And the vermin join in the condescending chatter,
It is always nice to be welcomed with open wings and borne fangs.

The blunted blades lie shrivelled, yellow, lifeless,
Charred in places where raucous flames roared, tips touching the sky,
Bricks lie broken beside the remains of the walls they once formed,
Glass and branches crunch and break simultaneously with every step,
While the uneven ground coaxes you to fall, hiding many pot holes,
They open up and swallow your leg whole,
Wishing you to trip just to see your blood spill on its balding soil.

And a shudder runs through my body, reverberating in the earth,
There are nothing but dead ends here.

(ah, the poem from which the blog title came - I wrote this poem after traipsing around Clonskeagh one evening in the summer of 2009 and all the things in the poem I actually saw and all the deductions I made about what must have happened were made from the things I saw whilst exploring the heart of territory only frequented on the weekends, and it got to a stage where I thought I would find something I didn’t want to find, so I stopped and turned back).

New Generation

Reading articles of a year past,
Watching and marking their rise and fall,
Increase in quantity brought decrease in quality,
A drop in numbers saw no change in standards,
But when taken out of the equation entirely,
That was when I was at my best;
As time progressed, the unfamiliar was replaced by the familiar,
Names vague, almost legendary in status,
Littered the publication in the beginning,
Making a breakthrough seem almost impossible,
But gradually, over two years, they vanished, one-by-one,
Superseded by our generation, stepping up to take the mantels;
Then my name materialised, alongside my coup instigating comrades,
We were the legendary ones now, the ones to beat,
The ones whose hands rose fastest and highest,
The ones standing and dictating, in control of what to say and what to tell,
And with a year more of this power still to come;
But something felt wrong the longer this went on,
As, while I noticed increased quantity and quality in others’ words,
My own seemed to stutter, quantity not matching quality,
Until eventually, quantity began to shrink, cutting my name away,
And finally, I ceased to exist at all within our generation’s ranks,
A faded force amidst growing revolutionaries;
And now a year lies ahead with our generation in charge,
But I am stuck here, still as a statue,
A frozen look of bitter sadness on my face,
While you all make your legends without me.

Zimmer

Shadows loom, rising of the credits,
Black on white, a mirror, a reflection,
Zimmer’s instrumentals play, note by note,
Fast to slow, hard to soft,
Each one telling its own story,
Yet all piecing together to tell mine,
Or least the story my mind wants to unfold…

Standing in the dark, counting the seconds,
Waiting for the moment when a point is revealed,
Examining the faded stamps on my right hand,
Hoping there is more to life than fancy clicks
And tuxedo t-shirts that intrigue without substance,
Yet convey the split mentality of someone who acts without thought,
Having once been the most remorseful reckoner in my world…

Competing aspirations cloud and confuse any lingering hope of clarity,
Everyday envisaging a new entity to become entwined with, a new fantasy,
Every night harbouring a fresh dream to fritter the day away contemplating,
With each new dream being as unlikely as its predecessor,
Causing pen to touch paper, fingers to touch keys,
Expressing the delirium and disillusionment equally through words,
Which in themselves hold ideals of a purposeful tomorrow…

Yet, as Zimmer’s orchestra escalates in volume,
And decelerates in tone,
Yet, as the credits conclude, bringing the death of surrounding silhouettes,
And the light reluctantly returns,
Yet, as the window is tentatively opened to its widest, inviting the night time inside,
Allowing the moon and stars the chance to voice condescending opinions,
It becomes coldly clearer and clearer that words are too a dead end in these times…

And while gazing over the locality and its dominating centre…
The epiphany strikes that seclusion from soul searching is the only end…
There is no escape from here or I.

Who are my Friends?

I get up,
I get dressed,
I go out:
To DCU,
To the City Centre,
To Barcode,
To Portmarnock,
To Galway,
To Scotland.
I talk to strangers,
I make them laugh,
They enjoy the show.
The next day
I add them on Bebo,
We comment,
And that’s it –
I may see them again,
Once or twice,
But not that often,
While with others,
With people who are,
‘Friends’,
They grow indifferent,
No interest in conversation –
Not even those,
Who I have known all my life.
They all brush me aside,
Years this is going on,
Wondering when it will stop,
‘Cause now I wake up,
Look at myself in the mirror,
And despite my four hundred Bebo friends,
I ask myself every morning,
Who the fuck are my friends?

Veins/Dog's Eyes

And I awake on a couch in a place not home,
A night ending in the morning means dreams till the afternoon,
They all sleep while tempting thoughts race through my head,
Hidden from all except the house’s dog who, with her smoky eyes,
Can see right into my mind and past the façade of my facial features;
She growls, smelling the shame.

And I lose yet again in someone else’s house,
A civil war that never ceases but continues to wage twenty four hours a day;
She occupies my mind’s mantel, her beauty enough to make me crack,
Succumbing to the temptation of apparent solitude,
Even though this place is far from empty, its occupants just asleep,
Its dog gazing menacingly with hazy eyes.

And I run away after my atrocity, leaving without explanation,
Sprinting to beat the speed of my weakness, but failing to outrun its reach,
Stumbling onto the train, where a sit down might bring peace,
But it does not; instead I see her veins on the window panes,
Etched in the condensation, alongside the eyes of the house’s dog,
That chase me now, in the full knowledge of what I did and why I ran.

And I continue to run, back out the doors from which I came,
As my eyes taunt me even more in the rainy sun, seeing veins and dog’s eyes in the drops,
Carved on every wall, drawn on every face, with howls and yells of ecstasy piercing my drums;
I try to take stairs four steps at a time but end up tripping,
Busting my nose off the mocking concrete, now smeared with blood,
Which also drips all over my clothes.

And there is blood on my jersey now.
And I see veins and the dog’s eyes there too.

Unsuspecting Lips

Twisting and turning,
Insides churning,
Blood is burning;
She is now coming,
Silently humming,
Blatantly not running;
Smiling at each other,
Hugging one another,
Not daring to smother;
A day in the park,
Searching for a spark,
Finding contrast stark;
Nowhere to hide,
She just sighed,
A part just died;
No luck denting,
Goodbye is pending,
Never a happy ending;
Then a planted kiss,
On unsuspecting lips,
Landing in a world of bliss…

The old one will not be missed.

Then and Then, Now and Now

Off I wander, down memory lane,
Sun playing off window panes,
Thinking and reminiscing of us two kissing,
While the lake’s surface glimmers invitingly,
Tranquillity in the surrounding countryside,
Contrasts completely with the storm inside,
A lone swan sails elegantly by,
Gazing far and wide, catching my eye…

Leafless trees, robbed during Winter’s freeze,
Show signs of re-birth, swaying in the breeze,
Mind’s skies are dark, with pangs of lightning,
Present skies are clear, clouds dividing,
Roof’s pebbles provoke memories of a time without a plan,
Of days spent by the now dead river with a now dead man,
And the quiet of loneliness allows common sense to prevail,
And the friends around guide me toward a path without fail…

Then and then, I walked innocent minded,
Now and now, I walk innocence subsided,
And I see the sky up so high,
And break down at the end’s nigh,
As soon as reality sets in and sums it all up,
A realisation hits that the world is corrupt,
No longer mine to toy with and tame,
No longer simply an oversized game…

They have taken the board away.

The Machine

It’s like you said, you got the broken version,
Missing a cog in the machine,
Something that once flowed fluidly,
Now stutters and coughs, spluttering in a fight to feel,
A fight to care, a fight to be decisive for better or worse,
You say you’ll try and fix me,
But you don’t have what I need.

My friends do.

It’s the opposite of what you said, there’s no more to me,
There was once, but not anymore,
Everything is seen through indifferent eyes,
Faces are blurs, bringing no joy or sadness upon sight,
Yours is the haziest, as I really don’t care,
Nothing inside stirs for you, or worse, for anything,
It’s like freedom with rules.

It isn’t right.

It’s out of character for me, but in character with what you know,
I have changed, along with everything,
Yet I can’t help but wonder what would be if we had met one year earlier,
When the machine ran smoothly, when the missing piece clicked perfectly,
When a check up every now and then did the trick and kept me ticking,
Now I need a break from it all to get myself right,
Every person thinks they can fix me.

They really can’t.

The Game

Of course shame swells inside, like the largest, ugliest of spots,
Of course guilt grows inside, blossoming horribly, like a flower that’s already dead,
The Game is a game that teases at all seconds of every minute within each hour of everyday,
Coaxing you to dark places where your fantasies come true for milliseconds,
Before being snatched away as you sit and wallow in a pool of your own sweat and stupidity,
Cracking after moments or months mends no fences or builds any bridges,
Once or one million times cuts no cloth nor shields the truth from the eyes peering out from you,
As you know the eyes peering back at you are the ones no longer on this Earth,
And are generally the ones you love most in the world;
Yet, embrace and enjoy are the preachers’ words of withered old wisdom,
Youth of innocence and experimentation should not be wasted on the whims of righteousness,
Only I do not have a choice in the matter of feeling right or wrong,
As, whether morally or immorally, whatever way I choose to walk,
The temptresses of The Game come out to play, refusing to grant peace to I,
A person who thinks one thing and acts the other, who says one thing and does the other,
Blind, deaf, gullible, believes what he is told and is not clever enough to figure out the truth,
The Game’s solitary pawn on a board of kings and queens, and bishops who do not give a damn,
As well as those rooks, who are wily and wise to The Game’s tricks and know exactly how to play it without enduring the suffering;
Bedrooms, front rooms, kitchens, gardens, shopping centres, schools, colleges, national institutions, pubs, hospitals, toliets, dance floors, the air, the sea, the ground, the grass,
There are no boundaries where asylum can be sought, there are no windows through which you can jump,
There is no end to the tempting of the temptresses as the temptresses are substituted for carbon copies,
Like remakes are made exactly the same to double the money all over again, only sometimes they fail,
But the temptresses never fail, whether they wait years or centuries, they get to you in the end,
Scratching at the mask you wear in public with the wide smile that says:
‘Hello! I’m happy now! I have always been happy! And I always will be happy!’
Knowing that underneath, you are not so happy, as you are succumbing to The Game’s way,
The way of deceit and cheap pleasures that are truly ironic as they prove an old saying true…

‘The devil makes work for idle hands.’
Work or a game.