They sway as they stand, messes unplanned,
spilling, barging, everyone else damned.
Creaking heels break, ground starts to shake,
they kiss and caress, the same old mistake.
Blinding lights awoken, sight’s line broken,
beating, screaming, words are spoken.
Lost within rhythms sacredly assured
are the cries of my disillusioned call.
The deepest words you ever heard
were the words you never heard at all.
Enforced conscription, war’s attrition,
shoulders, elbows, a clubber’s ammunition.
Scrapes the wretched claw, resentful awe,
groping and hoping, and then you saw.
Gripped by grip’s shock, away you walk,
door opens then closes, no chance to talk.
Lost within rhythms sacredly assured
are the cries of my disillusioned call.
The deepest words you ever heard
were the words you never heard at all.
Night’s end too true, thoughts of you,
fragments, pieces, form in the morning dew.
Misplaced memory, entrenched enemy,
dancing, deliberating, a flight to flee.
A phone’s ring, confirms the fling,
She recites, recalls, and starts to sing.
Lost within rhythms sacredly assured
are the cries of my disillusioned call.
The deepest words you ever heard
were the words you never heard at all.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Friday, May 28, 2010
Dead Ends of Our Time
Speeding train heads towards its destination,
Sticking me in an office for eight hours a day,
And I sit there, producing trivial information
As if it were the Ten Commandments of our time.
Speeding train heads towards its destination,
Bringing me home to where I can be myself again,
And I sit there, producing trivial information
As if it were the Ten Commandments of our time.
The difference being I enjoy writing when at home,
But only when it means something to somebody.
Speeding train heads towards its destination,
Resenting my presence on its weathered seat,
And I sit there, wishing to be anywhere else
But heading to another day and another dead end.
Speeding train heads towards its destination,
Resenting my presence on its weathered seat,
And I sit there, wishing to be anywhere else
But heading back home to another dead end.
The difference being I can go to sleep when I get home,
And drift away while hoping to never wake up.
Speeding train heads towards its destination,
Getting faster with the rhythm in my chest,
And I sit there, hoping the train goes so fast
That it derails and bursts into flames.
Speeding train heads towards its destination,
Getting faster with the rhythm in my chest,
And I sit there, hoping the train goes so fast
That it derails and crashes into the sea.
Every smart man knows when he is no longer needed,
Every smart man knows when to take his final bow.
Sticking me in an office for eight hours a day,
And I sit there, producing trivial information
As if it were the Ten Commandments of our time.
Speeding train heads towards its destination,
Bringing me home to where I can be myself again,
And I sit there, producing trivial information
As if it were the Ten Commandments of our time.
The difference being I enjoy writing when at home,
But only when it means something to somebody.
Speeding train heads towards its destination,
Resenting my presence on its weathered seat,
And I sit there, wishing to be anywhere else
But heading to another day and another dead end.
Speeding train heads towards its destination,
Resenting my presence on its weathered seat,
And I sit there, wishing to be anywhere else
But heading back home to another dead end.
The difference being I can go to sleep when I get home,
And drift away while hoping to never wake up.
Speeding train heads towards its destination,
Getting faster with the rhythm in my chest,
And I sit there, hoping the train goes so fast
That it derails and bursts into flames.
Speeding train heads towards its destination,
Getting faster with the rhythm in my chest,
And I sit there, hoping the train goes so fast
That it derails and crashes into the sea.
Every smart man knows when he is no longer needed,
Every smart man knows when to take his final bow.
Shards of a Puzzle
You stand alone, or so you think,
watching the shards rain down around you,
a storm that has been brewing a long time.
Bigger pieces fall, smashing into smaller parts
that fly everywhere, cutting to ribbons
those nearest and dearest to you.
It seems like the storm will never end,
the shards almost ceaseless in their descent;
but then it stops, leaving shards scattered
all around you, and only an empty void above.
Feelings ominous grow, fed by indecision
and fear, that it is all drawing to a close,
so you neglect to piece the shards back
together, seeing it as an act of futility.
It is in that moment of darkest despair,
with progression suspended and respite
restricted, that we start the process for you,
happily cutting our fingers on these shards
as we piece them together, because we know
that your life is something worth rebuilding.
watching the shards rain down around you,
a storm that has been brewing a long time.
Bigger pieces fall, smashing into smaller parts
that fly everywhere, cutting to ribbons
those nearest and dearest to you.
It seems like the storm will never end,
the shards almost ceaseless in their descent;
but then it stops, leaving shards scattered
all around you, and only an empty void above.
Feelings ominous grow, fed by indecision
and fear, that it is all drawing to a close,
so you neglect to piece the shards back
together, seeing it as an act of futility.
It is in that moment of darkest despair,
with progression suspended and respite
restricted, that we start the process for you,
happily cutting our fingers on these shards
as we piece them together, because we know
that your life is something worth rebuilding.
Crystal
Waves lap in a precious moment of calm,
gently rocking this lonesome boat side-to-side.
Two oars sit in silent slumber, content with the
isolation in which we now find ourselves,
lost in the middle of the sea’s vast expanse.
I pull an empty glass from a bag of trinkets,
clean it with a brand new cloth so the sun
glistens off the transparent cylinder shape.
Then, I dip it into the ocean, filling the glass
with the sea’s salty water for no real reason;
and what I see in the glass both startles and saddens,
for the water is not blue like the surrounding sea
but completely clear, like the cleanest crystal.
Then, I come to resent the sea’s ability to
achieve clarity so easily, as the sun begins to die
and the cold crawls through my skin, plunging
me back into the dark depths of murky thought.
gently rocking this lonesome boat side-to-side.
Two oars sit in silent slumber, content with the
isolation in which we now find ourselves,
lost in the middle of the sea’s vast expanse.
I pull an empty glass from a bag of trinkets,
clean it with a brand new cloth so the sun
glistens off the transparent cylinder shape.
Then, I dip it into the ocean, filling the glass
with the sea’s salty water for no real reason;
and what I see in the glass both startles and saddens,
for the water is not blue like the surrounding sea
but completely clear, like the cleanest crystal.
Then, I come to resent the sea’s ability to
achieve clarity so easily, as the sun begins to die
and the cold crawls through my skin, plunging
me back into the dark depths of murky thought.
Monday, May 24, 2010
My Stage
I stand on my stage, as I have for twenty-one years,
Acting out every scene and story of my life as if
It were real, believing the joy, the pain, the losses,
The gains, and the love like they would never leave.
And after every showing I trot backstage to the few
Who know how the world really is, with its falsehoods
So prevalent in our everyday lives that to think otherwise
Would be considered complete and utter madness.
The only solace we take in acting out one fallacy
While breathing in the other is that they are
Separated by a maroon velvet curtain, shielding
One set of lies from the other so they do not all
Come together and douse an incurable poison over us.
Until one day I take centre-stage, and my eyes begin
To cheat me of my perspective, as the truths untangle
Themselves from the lies for the very first time.
I falter and fall, I get back up, then I trip again
Because of the revelations and contemplations
Suddenly surrounding the place that has reluctantly
Been home to this architecture of denied deceit.
And the people in the crowd and the people backstage
All look the exact same, players playing me for a fool,
None with my best intentions at heart and all tricking me
Into thinking that the stage and its behind were really
Different worlds in different times with different hopes,
Dreams, failures, lovers, chancers, liars and realities.
Flames engulf the so treasured maroon velvet curtain
From nowhere as it becomes quickly apparent that
They want me to move on to a new stage where the
Act can start again as if this realisation of mine
Never happened at all - but I do not want to go back
To being a puppet on a string of some sly supervisor,
So I embrace the newfound truths of my personality
As if they were newfound family because it is only in
Those truths that salvation and escape can be sanely sought;
But with every re-reading of these truths about me,
And every glance back at the lies I once lived,
I soon see that I cannot tell which life would be worse:
One filled with truths or one filled with lies.
Acting out every scene and story of my life as if
It were real, believing the joy, the pain, the losses,
The gains, and the love like they would never leave.
And after every showing I trot backstage to the few
Who know how the world really is, with its falsehoods
So prevalent in our everyday lives that to think otherwise
Would be considered complete and utter madness.
The only solace we take in acting out one fallacy
While breathing in the other is that they are
Separated by a maroon velvet curtain, shielding
One set of lies from the other so they do not all
Come together and douse an incurable poison over us.
Until one day I take centre-stage, and my eyes begin
To cheat me of my perspective, as the truths untangle
Themselves from the lies for the very first time.
I falter and fall, I get back up, then I trip again
Because of the revelations and contemplations
Suddenly surrounding the place that has reluctantly
Been home to this architecture of denied deceit.
And the people in the crowd and the people backstage
All look the exact same, players playing me for a fool,
None with my best intentions at heart and all tricking me
Into thinking that the stage and its behind were really
Different worlds in different times with different hopes,
Dreams, failures, lovers, chancers, liars and realities.
Flames engulf the so treasured maroon velvet curtain
From nowhere as it becomes quickly apparent that
They want me to move on to a new stage where the
Act can start again as if this realisation of mine
Never happened at all - but I do not want to go back
To being a puppet on a string of some sly supervisor,
So I embrace the newfound truths of my personality
As if they were newfound family because it is only in
Those truths that salvation and escape can be sanely sought;
But with every re-reading of these truths about me,
And every glance back at the lies I once lived,
I soon see that I cannot tell which life would be worse:
One filled with truths or one filled with lies.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
News: published in Outburst Magazine
Outburst Magazine is a recently established online literary zine containing short stories, poetry, photographs and art work by various contributors.
I was fortunate enough to have two poems published in the second issue of the magazine: Red and Window.
The short stories are particularly interesting in this issue of the magazine, and it is a venture well worth keeping an eye on in the future.
I was fortunate enough to have two poems published in the second issue of the magazine: Red and Window.
The short stories are particularly interesting in this issue of the magazine, and it is a venture well worth keeping an eye on in the future.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Colourless Eyes
Stomping feet, swinging hips, and long gone friends
Form the memory of my last dance with
The first love of my adolescence, whose
Radiance never ceased to amaze me.
I fell at first sight, but hindsight reveals
Teenage infatuation without hope.
And yet I still remember when, as I
Was leaving the party, she stepped forward
And pulled me into a wistful embrace.
When we both pulled back, our eyes met and I
Became so entranced by her gaze that I
Bypassed their colour completely, losing
Myself in something else entirely.
Form the memory of my last dance with
The first love of my adolescence, whose
Radiance never ceased to amaze me.
I fell at first sight, but hindsight reveals
Teenage infatuation without hope.
And yet I still remember when, as I
Was leaving the party, she stepped forward
And pulled me into a wistful embrace.
When we both pulled back, our eyes met and I
Became so entranced by her gaze that I
Bypassed their colour completely, losing
Myself in something else entirely.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Yellow Door
Crumbling buildings shrink beside Scotch Hall,
A yellow door stands out amongst them all,
Windows boarded-up, bricks a rusty brown,
But that door is the brightest door in town.
Lead-filled legs walk back to the train station,
Over-priced tickets greet me with inflation,
Eye lids so heavy fight to stay awake,
Sleeping on trains is a silly mistake.
I drift into sleep and see home pass by,
And all I manage is a resigned sigh.
Fate and faith are but mere fabrications,
Mind over matter, like these train stations,
I fled their false embrace so long ago,
Yet that yellow door now haunts me so.
Its number five gleaning bold as brass,
A mocking sheen so cold and crass,
It coaxes me to board a train once more,
To see what is beyond that yellow door.
I drift into sleep and see home pass by,
And all I manage is a resigned sigh.
(I wrote this while on work placement in Drogheda and saw a bright yellow door that was in complete contrast to the old houses of the surrounding area on my home from work one day; in other news, they let me off early for the second day on the bounce, which can only mean I wasn't doing my job very well at the time - BOOM!).
A yellow door stands out amongst them all,
Windows boarded-up, bricks a rusty brown,
But that door is the brightest door in town.
Lead-filled legs walk back to the train station,
Over-priced tickets greet me with inflation,
Eye lids so heavy fight to stay awake,
Sleeping on trains is a silly mistake.
I drift into sleep and see home pass by,
And all I manage is a resigned sigh.
Fate and faith are but mere fabrications,
Mind over matter, like these train stations,
I fled their false embrace so long ago,
Yet that yellow door now haunts me so.
Its number five gleaning bold as brass,
A mocking sheen so cold and crass,
It coaxes me to board a train once more,
To see what is beyond that yellow door.
I drift into sleep and see home pass by,
And all I manage is a resigned sigh.
(I wrote this while on work placement in Drogheda and saw a bright yellow door that was in complete contrast to the old houses of the surrounding area on my home from work one day; in other news, they let me off early for the second day on the bounce, which can only mean I wasn't doing my job very well at the time - BOOM!).
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
To Spite the Solace
I sit and I wait,
I sit and I wait,
I sit and I wait,
I sit and I wait…
And whenever I
Stand I slowly see
It has all happened
In spite without me.
I sit and I wait,
I sit and I wait,
I sit and I wait…
And whenever I
Stand I slowly see
It has all happened
In spite without me.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Rat Race
We sit on steps, surveying the chaos
all around us - fresh vomit on one side,
a streak of dried-up piss on the other.
Harcourt Street has descended into a
disaster zone of drunkards, some fighting,
some crying, some swaying from the inability
to hold themselves upright, and some on the
ground, thinking the concrete is their mattress,
having succumb to the dizzy spells that
can seem so freeing, yet are misleading.
Every action is made to move ahead
in the Rat Race, forever victorless.
And we look at each other while thinking
the same thing: what is the point of it all?
A veil of silence comes between us as
the noise of this newfound, well-worn battle
ground attracts our attention; screeches of
women in utter dismay over the
advances of groping men, whose laughter
is tinged with the subtly of what they
really want, masking their anger and their
resentment as they await their failure.
Bottles smash and fists are raised as blood spills
in the name of something no one knows of.
Confused astonishment strikes us as we
wonder how society still stands when
it falls apart so spectacularly
on nights like this, dropping to its scarred knees.
And we briefly become embroiled in this
showcase of Ireland’s Got Talent, when a
woman and a man encroach upon our
front row seats, her seeking a reprieve from
his forward courting, while his confidence
never shakes despite her hostility
to his loud and proud profession that he
“wants to be on you.” When he finally
admits defeat her appreciation
is shocking, but changes nothing about
the grain of truth that we have just witnessed.
The Rat Race is not the work we do but
the means to an end so we can sate the
self-destructive tendencies we love to embrace.
all around us - fresh vomit on one side,
a streak of dried-up piss on the other.
Harcourt Street has descended into a
disaster zone of drunkards, some fighting,
some crying, some swaying from the inability
to hold themselves upright, and some on the
ground, thinking the concrete is their mattress,
having succumb to the dizzy spells that
can seem so freeing, yet are misleading.
Every action is made to move ahead
in the Rat Race, forever victorless.
And we look at each other while thinking
the same thing: what is the point of it all?
A veil of silence comes between us as
the noise of this newfound, well-worn battle
ground attracts our attention; screeches of
women in utter dismay over the
advances of groping men, whose laughter
is tinged with the subtly of what they
really want, masking their anger and their
resentment as they await their failure.
Bottles smash and fists are raised as blood spills
in the name of something no one knows of.
Confused astonishment strikes us as we
wonder how society still stands when
it falls apart so spectacularly
on nights like this, dropping to its scarred knees.
And we briefly become embroiled in this
showcase of Ireland’s Got Talent, when a
woman and a man encroach upon our
front row seats, her seeking a reprieve from
his forward courting, while his confidence
never shakes despite her hostility
to his loud and proud profession that he
“wants to be on you.” When he finally
admits defeat her appreciation
is shocking, but changes nothing about
the grain of truth that we have just witnessed.
The Rat Race is not the work we do but
the means to an end so we can sate the
self-destructive tendencies we love to embrace.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
The Cast-Offs
Cast-off souls call out in vain
To former flames with forgotten names,
Fragile as glass they wait for life
To deliver a chance to end the strife.
Beaten, not broken they still stand,
Beauty resonating throughout the sand,
Arm-in-arm they gaze out to sea,
Healing hope to set them free.
The wind blows and clears the air
Of the problems that are so unfair,
Predications of the past so trite
Are tossed aside in the pending night.
Cataclysmic thoughts sink
When one witnesses the final wink,
Because time spars with each of us,
Just to reinforce that wavering trust.
These are the souls time remembers
As they are the ones fools dismember,
The souls that breath all alone,
Without the monotony of life’s drone.
To former flames with forgotten names,
Fragile as glass they wait for life
To deliver a chance to end the strife.
Beaten, not broken they still stand,
Beauty resonating throughout the sand,
Arm-in-arm they gaze out to sea,
Healing hope to set them free.
The wind blows and clears the air
Of the problems that are so unfair,
Predications of the past so trite
Are tossed aside in the pending night.
Cataclysmic thoughts sink
When one witnesses the final wink,
Because time spars with each of us,
Just to reinforce that wavering trust.
These are the souls time remembers
As they are the ones fools dismember,
The souls that breath all alone,
Without the monotony of life’s drone.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Burst Banks
One mean promise that bursts its banks, causing
Two tides to roll steadily down either
Hill before they come together in the
Crevice underneath a mouth that speaks too
Much and fails to do enough. Walking the
Streets of Dublin, crying about living
And dying alone when a louder cry
Pierces the air and my eardrums - I turn
In hope only to find that a machine’s
Brakes cry louder than I do, earning the
Attention of passers-by more than a
Fellow human being can only wish
For, and once again I gaze across the sea,
Believing all is greener on distant
Shores, despite the news telling me different
Everyday. Ignorance is easier
Because giving up would mean allowing
This sea to swallow me whole,
Combining the streams on my cheeks with the
Relentless assault of wave after wave,
Until I end up isolated on
An island, truly alone, and with no
Way out except to lie down and close my
Eyes, lost in happier times with better
People who did quite well to disappear.
Two tides to roll steadily down either
Hill before they come together in the
Crevice underneath a mouth that speaks too
Much and fails to do enough. Walking the
Streets of Dublin, crying about living
And dying alone when a louder cry
Pierces the air and my eardrums - I turn
In hope only to find that a machine’s
Brakes cry louder than I do, earning the
Attention of passers-by more than a
Fellow human being can only wish
For, and once again I gaze across the sea,
Believing all is greener on distant
Shores, despite the news telling me different
Everyday. Ignorance is easier
Because giving up would mean allowing
This sea to swallow me whole,
Combining the streams on my cheeks with the
Relentless assault of wave after wave,
Until I end up isolated on
An island, truly alone, and with no
Way out except to lie down and close my
Eyes, lost in happier times with better
People who did quite well to disappear.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Fuelled Fire
I fuel a fire that never needed
A match to strike its first flame, screaming in
Agony everyday while nobody
Ever hears because it is locked within
My ribcage, now bruised from the vibrations.
It is the time spent idle that kills me
Because it is then thoughts wander along
Past paths that should be blocked off forever.
I stand alone, pacing the path,
Outside the old folks’ graveyard, waiting for
A friend’s shift to end, when all I can hear
In the rustling of a nearby tree’s leaves
Is death - simple and free, paralysing
The pain of living the same fiery
Lies everyday because they need the light.
A match to strike its first flame, screaming in
Agony everyday while nobody
Ever hears because it is locked within
My ribcage, now bruised from the vibrations.
It is the time spent idle that kills me
Because it is then thoughts wander along
Past paths that should be blocked off forever.
I stand alone, pacing the path,
Outside the old folks’ graveyard, waiting for
A friend’s shift to end, when all I can hear
In the rustling of a nearby tree’s leaves
Is death - simple and free, paralysing
The pain of living the same fiery
Lies everyday because they need the light.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Rankle
Agitation of my wringing hands haunts
Those around me as my voice shrills higher.
Thickened glass drowns yells they wish to ignore
As the situation becomes dire.
Simplicities of intimacies lost
Still rankle as the world holds out on me.
Gaping mouths and tear-stained cheeks plead in vain
To deaf ears as I refuse to wait and see.
Taken flights and clouds of ash restrict my
Breath as my friends’ pleas begin to cower.
Cigarette stubs and empty cans litter
Life like indifference without power.
The long walk back to the start goes awry
As the path vanishes before my eyes.
Keep them open, keep on walking because
It is all so short, are their anguished cries.
Pleasantries and patience, all I extolled
As I dreamed of reaping returned rewards.
Yet here I sit empty-handed as I
Realise that we all fall on our own swords.
Those around me as my voice shrills higher.
Thickened glass drowns yells they wish to ignore
As the situation becomes dire.
Simplicities of intimacies lost
Still rankle as the world holds out on me.
Gaping mouths and tear-stained cheeks plead in vain
To deaf ears as I refuse to wait and see.
Taken flights and clouds of ash restrict my
Breath as my friends’ pleas begin to cower.
Cigarette stubs and empty cans litter
Life like indifference without power.
The long walk back to the start goes awry
As the path vanishes before my eyes.
Keep them open, keep on walking because
It is all so short, are their anguished cries.
Pleasantries and patience, all I extolled
As I dreamed of reaping returned rewards.
Yet here I sit empty-handed as I
Realise that we all fall on our own swords.
Red Moon
Conversation carries us along the
Dark backroads of Portmarnock, and with no
Lights to guide us home we jog the whole way,
Not in fear but lost in freedom only
Solitude can bring. A glance to our left
Shows a big red orb hanging in the sky,
The moon watching tenderly over us
In its unusual shade; a glance to
Our right shows a field with once endless
Expanse now slowly dwindling as
Empty apartments creep closer to these
Narrow, pathless roads. Yet the changing scene
Does not bother us as we run, for in
These moments the tedious, painful words
We exchanged about a past resting in
Futility and a future that could
Be just the same fall away. We run in
A different time, seeing the pitch where we
Grew up together, defender and goal-
Keeper, protecting the honour of a
Team that never had one to begin with.
We recall the old man with his Sunday
Finest and his cigarette addiction,
Memory lapses, temper tantrums and
Unbelievable passion for a game
That eventually attacked his heart,
Ending their love affair. The liberty
Of youth on this nostalgia run takes us
All the way to Donaghmede, where, once the
Running ceases, all the complications
Of the present catch up to us again,
And you vomit, mostly from drunkenness,
But partly in disgust, as the truth that
Those days are over hits again under
The glare of the ever watchful red moon,
Bloody with pity for our blissful plight.
(running home along isolated and empty backroads in the dark with a friend brings a freedom unattainable elsewhere - but it was only a brief reprieve as you cannot outrun life)
Dark backroads of Portmarnock, and with no
Lights to guide us home we jog the whole way,
Not in fear but lost in freedom only
Solitude can bring. A glance to our left
Shows a big red orb hanging in the sky,
The moon watching tenderly over us
In its unusual shade; a glance to
Our right shows a field with once endless
Expanse now slowly dwindling as
Empty apartments creep closer to these
Narrow, pathless roads. Yet the changing scene
Does not bother us as we run, for in
These moments the tedious, painful words
We exchanged about a past resting in
Futility and a future that could
Be just the same fall away. We run in
A different time, seeing the pitch where we
Grew up together, defender and goal-
Keeper, protecting the honour of a
Team that never had one to begin with.
We recall the old man with his Sunday
Finest and his cigarette addiction,
Memory lapses, temper tantrums and
Unbelievable passion for a game
That eventually attacked his heart,
Ending their love affair. The liberty
Of youth on this nostalgia run takes us
All the way to Donaghmede, where, once the
Running ceases, all the complications
Of the present catch up to us again,
And you vomit, mostly from drunkenness,
But partly in disgust, as the truth that
Those days are over hits again under
The glare of the ever watchful red moon,
Bloody with pity for our blissful plight.
(running home along isolated and empty backroads in the dark with a friend brings a freedom unattainable elsewhere - but it was only a brief reprieve as you cannot outrun life)
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Chamber
I have a chance to die here, all alone,
Overcrowded beach of faceless strangers,
But I run away, leaving my friends to
Die there instead, solving nothing at all.
In reality, the isolation
Chamber I constructed for you, that we
Joked about, was made really for me
To hide behind, so I could watch the joy
Of your life without disrupting its free
Chaos filled essence, conflicting and cold.
Your eyes in which I deign to lose myself
Are set soulfully on another man,
Invisible and imaginary,
Whom I do not know, yet envy still.
Our shared kiss is dead in the annals of
History, forgotten by you because
It was a footnote in your weekly game
Of who next? It yellows within my mind,
Tearing at the edges as I fight to
Grasp that feeling of meaning something to
Somebody once more, when the truth is
I never did, because they all run away,
Empty words floundering in fear behind.
My time is spent chasing indifferent
Shadows daily and nightly, waiting to
Catch one and never let it go, because
The order attained in books and films will
Finally be mine when I do, even
Though the stories written for amusement
And entertainment are written only
To cash in on manipulation.
They are not real and they never will be,
So this hope to achieve the scene-set end,
Of taking you on the beach as the waves
Whisper, telling us that the world has stopped
Spinning, is futile, because this chamber
Is designed to prevent, not to create.
(the last poem ever to go on Bebo).
Overcrowded beach of faceless strangers,
But I run away, leaving my friends to
Die there instead, solving nothing at all.
In reality, the isolation
Chamber I constructed for you, that we
Joked about, was made really for me
To hide behind, so I could watch the joy
Of your life without disrupting its free
Chaos filled essence, conflicting and cold.
Your eyes in which I deign to lose myself
Are set soulfully on another man,
Invisible and imaginary,
Whom I do not know, yet envy still.
Our shared kiss is dead in the annals of
History, forgotten by you because
It was a footnote in your weekly game
Of who next? It yellows within my mind,
Tearing at the edges as I fight to
Grasp that feeling of meaning something to
Somebody once more, when the truth is
I never did, because they all run away,
Empty words floundering in fear behind.
My time is spent chasing indifferent
Shadows daily and nightly, waiting to
Catch one and never let it go, because
The order attained in books and films will
Finally be mine when I do, even
Though the stories written for amusement
And entertainment are written only
To cash in on manipulation.
They are not real and they never will be,
So this hope to achieve the scene-set end,
Of taking you on the beach as the waves
Whisper, telling us that the world has stopped
Spinning, is futile, because this chamber
Is designed to prevent, not to create.
(the last poem ever to go on Bebo).
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