I love my house. It's more than just a house; it's my home.
It's warm, it's comforting and it keeps me safe. Although, sometimes, I think that I might like to travel.
Don't get me wrong, this is the house for me! It's just that the idea of staying here permanently simply terrifies me.
Maybe if I could travel, if I could see the world...
I've been all over Ireland, but have only left the country once or twice. Now that I've found my home, I never want to lose it, but... He's monogamous.
He's monogamous, he smells like home and I don't know what to do.
If I were to move house, I would fall apart, whereas if I settle down here, I don't know what might happen.
Alas, at the end of the day, I'm self-destructive and don't like surprises.
I want to book a night away, but my house would feel betrayed and I don't want to live anywhere else...
Remember, this is more than just a house; this is my home. I cannot lose him.
Although, I am afraid that I never will.
Can I keep you in my pocket,
And bring you around everywhere I go?
I have a wonderful little idea for you and me,
Do you want to know?
We meet eyes across a dark world,
And we cause an explosion of light.
Our bodies shiver, that warming, joyful kind,
And the feeling rushes from our hearts, just like a plight.
Our hands fit together perfectly,
And we kiss like Eskimos in their igloos.
We can build up a small house on a hilltop,
With a glass ceiling, if you choose?
I know how much you love the night sky,
And you know I love it too.
I would lay there with you always,
As the skies turn from blue to black, and black to blue.
On our hilltop, we'd be surrounded by green grass,
And flowers would grow between each blade.
There would be a tall tree overhanging our small house,
And, on hot days, we would sit under it for some shade.
I'd make you laugh just to see that amazing smile,
And your eyes would twinkle brighter than the moon.
You'd pull me closer and let me stand on your toes,
As we both danced to our favourite tune.
You'd whisper words no one has ever told me,
Three words that mean so much more.
And you'd wonder as we get lost in each other's eyes,
If our hearts had once known each other before..
If I keep you in my pocket,
My dreams may one day come true.
You'll meet my eyes across the dark world
And then I can live happily, in the light, with you.
Copyright © All Rights Reserved Joanne Heraghty
We ain't no showcase
not pictures to gawp at
or books you can pick up
shut the fuck up.
I could tell you all's fine
I've drunk all the wine and
streets are inviting
that's just shite in a tea cup
what the fuck have we got to
be Christian for?
While they're having their balls
while democracy falls
while the drones keep on flying
I'll keep on trying
to put across the message
that this ain't no picnic.
Are you out there my Friend.? ? Somewhere The Wind is blowing..? Where your footprints are gone as soon as left. No one to know. No one Knowing.?
Are you in the Wind? ? A voice, distant, lost in the swirl of snow and Autumn leaves.?
Your way Home..unknown. The next step taken, but down what path.? Will it lead through this wood, or wander? Forever this Dismal forest of Bramble and Thorn. Crows with eyes bright. No shelter in sight. No sheltering insight.
Plucking at your at your sleeves and dress. Catching your skin, bleeding you like a priest with a fleem. Leaving You wounded and hurt., weary and wary.
If you stand still but a moment., cease your struggling, stumbling and listen. you'll hear my voice.
On the Wind
Calling you Home.
Safe within the walls and warmth of my arms.
Dropping bombs on your homes, make them catacombs
But maybe to some, that would make them feel right at home
But baby you ache, for a dose of that catamol
So I know you're awake, but I know you haven't got a soul
Craving that shake to your system
You say you don't miss him, but the world saw you kiss him
Got a ghastly way of thinking, a broken ism
The look in your eyes is eternally dim
I came home exhausted and road weary
and tried my key in the door but
it wouldn’t turn.
The locks had changed,
and I noticed then, that
the trim around the windows
was green instead of yellow.
Through the glass I saw the rooms scattered with unfamiliar furniture.
I wondered if I was dreaming but I wasn’t.
I had, in fact, just awoken
from a sleep of many years.
I knew then
I would never come home again.
So it was with her.
Your life is a border-line snuff film. Caught between bad angles, blurred shots, and this masked imagine of someone dying you just can’t get out of your head… but you keep watching anyways.
I tried to run away to a far away land,
where the grass was greener,
and the responsibilities leaner.
I ran from the ghosts,
I ran to foggy coasts.
I ran from the memories.
I ran from our mistakes.
I wanted a new me, whatever it takes.
But life, as she often does, had a different plan in mind.
Now I have to say I'm a little less blind.
I have discovered my god,
no not the one you're thinking of.
I found "it" in the history here.
I connected to souls I now hold dear.
I found solace in the here-after in the stones of cathedrals.
I found hope in stone glass windows.
I found peace in battlefields.
I also found pain.
It poured down like rain.
It took my breath away,
trying my best to keep the night at bay.
I no longer fear the ghosts back there.
I fear being stuck in the metaphorical here.
I've now been unwanted,
seen a love be haunted.
I've finally stood up for myself.
Even if they think I have totally fallen off the shelf.
I have embraced my flaws,
finding the power in their claws.
I have gained respect for those waiting for me.
I have learned a new definition of free.
I learned it isn't in the lack of responsibility
but in my magnificent ability.
I find freedom in the doing,
in the dream I'm pursuing.
Here I am.
Tired of fighting.
Tired of running.
i want to be smaller.
tiny, tinier, tiniest.
i want to be so small, that
i fit into a jar, and
can hide in the walls of
houses i never called
maybe if i cut out some
stuffing, i will be satisfied.
will slump forward and you
will see my spine, but i
will be smaller,
and i will cease to exist,,,
an empty shell of skin and
zipper, collapsed on the
floor, maybe my lungs will still
die, died, will die.
i want to be dead.
His words are fluid yet languid until
he changes tongues and becomes another
person entirely. His sounds become strong
and incomprehensible as he weaves
his way from language to language, dialect
to dialect. He is the manager
of worlds, the linguist. In his mind, his original
language is not his, for he is only
relaxed when amongst the foreign nature
of other languages. The rasping, uncommon
tongue of home is not comforting to him
anymore, so he will rapidly intake
other places until he finds another
sound that resonates within him.