Love is but a nightmare,with struggling bones.
Ones that love and others with hearts of stones.
You think the reaper will come in his black hood.
But he may be the one that light es the.mood.
The one you watch with a sparkle in your eye.
The one you.never want to die.
But love is but a nightmare and you will be dragged in.
Pulled deep to the shin.
Before it is over it shall leave its mark.
Making you wonder where was the spark?.


But the spark.never existed.nor did the thumping of your heart.
Or the emotions that threatened to tear you apart.
You shall awake in cold sweat cluching your chest near.
For you had not realised,love was just a nightmare.

My name is the tears falling from heaven

Or the tears falling off your face

My name is a promise

A promise that flowers are to come

Because all this bad has a purpose

The rain will wash everything away

And that’s me

I am the rain 

I will wash away all the hurt if you let me

After all the pain has been planted

I am the flowers that grow 

I am the rainbow that paints the sky

A reminder that no matter how grey

Or how damp and unpleasant

Something good will come out of it

And something good will come out of it

If you believe that bad things happen

If you believe that rain falls from the sky

You must also believe in good things

You have to believe the flowers will grow

That the sun will come up

That the sky will be streaked with multicoloured happiness

And that’s where you’ll find me

In the rain 

And all the little things afterward

WHEN I play on my fiddle in Dooney.
Folk dance like a wave of the sea;
My cousin is priest in Kilvarnet,
My brother in Mocharabuiee.
I passed my brother and cousin:
They read in their books of prayer;
I read in my book of songs
I bought at the Sligo fair.
When we come at the end of time
To Peter sitting in state,
He will smile on the three old spirits,
But call me first through the gate;
For the good are always the merry,
Save by an evil chance,
And the merry love the fiddle,
And the merry love to dance:
And when the folk there spy me,
They will all come up to me,
With "Here is the fiddler of Dooney!"
And dance like a wave of the sea.

I am not yours, not lost in you,
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.

You love me, and I find you still
A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light.

Oh plunge me deep in love—put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
A taper in a rushing wind.

'Tis moonlight, summer moonlight,
All soft and still and fair;
The solemn hour of midnight
Breathes sweet thoughts everywhere,

But most where trees are sending
Their breezy boughs on high,
Or stooping low are lending
A shelter from the sky.

And there in those wild bowers
A lovely form is laid;
Green grass and dew-steeped flowers
Wave gently round her head.

I lay back and run my fingers over my skin,
tiny travelers roaming over hills and plains,
ridges and crevices.
There are cracks and tears, the scars upon this terrain shall not heal.
They are the reminders and the tale tellers,
reciting stories of battles lost and loves won.
Will these blemishes deter the common traveler,
proving to be too complex for their
short-lived trail making?
Or is there a hidden beauty to these detours,
a mystery that attracts the adventurous and the brave?
Is it any less than other pathways?
Perhaps it has a hint of wildness to it,
a bit more tree roots to stumble upon
and branches to push back...
I turn over and wrap my arms around myself.
This is my land, with many stories and many battles lost.
Tread carefully, dear traveler.

He set me free
He broke the chains
He helped me stand
He gave me new legs to run
He is my hope
My salvation
And without him nothing is possible.
I am free,because he set me free