My father never spoke Irish to us as children,
We were told it had no practical use, and thus
our language was devalued, never appreciated
for the gift it was. We learned to oppose it, thus
we assumed a generational grudge, we felt it was
forced upon us, and understood we were powerless.
Thus the pain of his fore-bearers was re-inflicted on us.

My father never spoke Irish to us as children,
As an adult I felt The Inheritance of Loss.

There’s many different ways
I could describe the thought of you,
How once you walk out
the night comes alive
In a whirlwind of Stars
And shady characters.

How the scent of vanilla
That you carry like
A cross upon your shoulders
Leaves a trail that I follow,
My feet tired of all the walking,

I wish you would sit down
With me for a second
A minute,
For a moment,
Share flying beliefs,
Let the night sky
Serenade you with your
Favorite songs.

I would stand
And lend you my arm,
Under a black canvas,
We’ll paint
The night starry.

It still won’t be as beautiful as you,
You are art,
In a world where it seems to be
Under appreciated.

All I wish is to have you
In my arms,
As we lay waiting
For the night to turn into day.

So I can go back to work,
And start again.

This is a really good poem you will find
Having the perfect number of lines
That's not too deep where as you'll over think
Or one that's too vague that will put you to sleep

A really good poem I've written this time
Knows what it is doing when it comes to the rhyme
With just enough hidden to have you wanting more
Loaded with action so you'll never be bored

This really good poem is a lot like fine dining
A seven course meal laid out in its rhyming
Holding you captive from beginning to end
Making you wonder how without it you ever could live

With this really good poem you can see I'm not lying
As you read over it once getting ready for twice
Being impressed with its rhythm and flow
This is a really good poem just so you know

Before I begin, allow me to explain,
I too loved.. once,
so think of me not as some cynic-
nor as a master in the ways of love-
but rather as a keen observer-
now, that may mean I have nothing to offer you-
no insider knowledge-
no secrets of love-

But I do  know how to tell a true love story -

Interested?
Fantastic-
So let’s begin,

True love, if there is such a thing at all,
is like the thread that makes the cloth
you can’t tease it out-
you can’t extract meaning-
without ending up deeper in the web-
and it always remains-
hidden under layers -

In the end, that’s all you can really say about any
True love story-
They don’t generalize-
They don’t analyze-
They arent found-
They just… happen.

and that’s what makes them “true.”

But what is this coveted “love” -
the emotion?-
the act?-
the mentality?-

Love, is a constant state of illusionment-

A collective agreement amongst humans-
that it, whatever it may be,  can be treated as an excuse
for recklessness, irrationality, and misplaced strife-  

A quid pro quo  between two individuals-
to agree that they are doing something-
anything-
other than mindlessly drudging through life-

Now that is not to say that what love creates is pointless-
I said before, I have felt the embrace of love
Love festers between individuals for so long
it has no option-
but to mould the physical to itself-
and alter our personalities-

Characterized by spontaneity-
by indulgence-
by risk-
to love is the most dangerous experience in existence-
the act of being fully vulnerable with another-
while promising not to hurt them the same-

Love is characterized by vulnerability-
and the constant fear of being hurt-

So you want to know how to write a true love story?
be honest-
dwell not on the “romantic” blindfolds that keep us irrationally seeking our partners-
dwell not on the on the memories of a love that blossomed-
reveal the core of love -

A true love story comes from gut instinct-
A true love story, comes from experience.
A true love story, if truly told, makes the stomach believe

So I said I loved once,
allow me to elaborate-

I too have felt the “butterfly stomach”
- where the insides of the lovestruck turn on their host and manifests the emotional significance of meeting “the one”

I too have spent the day daydreaming...
-Lost in the thought of “the one”, seeking brief breaks from reality in my mind between moments of  utter normalcy

I too have melted into a puddle of emotion….
-lying next to “the one” as we slowly spill more and more of the secrets that bound us as individuals, joining a spirit much larger than ourselves-

I too have felt... invincible-
-to know that I’ve found something more significant than myself. Something that replaces the fear of the future.. and makes it something to look forward to.

Yes, I too have fallen in love.
and I did just that-
I fell.





..And that is my true love story-

I love getting high
To inhale the thick and lust filled smoke from each kiss
To snort you infections laugh
To swallow your late night sultry whispers
To inject myself with your smiles
God I love this drug
Every time I get High on it , it's thick and lust filled  smoke blinds me
Oh , how I love to get high on a little drug called you .

Her flash-light beamed,
making shadows crawl on the walls.

She gagged at the overwhelming smell,
trying to investigate what was going on.

Then her knees buckled.
Her stomach felt queasy .

Red.
Dark red.
A trail of blood stained the hall floor.

Dull.
Really dull.
A pale hand lay limp from underneath the floorboards.

Click.
She turned off her flashlight,
footsteps echoed from afar.

Click.
Bang!

Her flashlight remained on.