It sounds ridiculous but only I feel productive when I'm doing nothing.
Sitting back, just relaxing.
Popping blue beans, burning bowls of green.
And just thinking.
Daydreaming about how things could have been.
How things could still be.
But how things will probably be.
Just close your eyes and let music be your guide.

Entire lives constructed and played out
in grand fashion. A world so detailed
I would rather get lost,
And never come back to this travesty of a society,
so raw and primal.
so human.
My world is so beautiful and yet so depressing
because it's what ours could be, but never will become.
Anything to distract me from this.
The 24 year old burnout grinding through school because there aren't many options left.
So where will I'll be in 5 years?
I wont.

Christmas is the time for heartbreaking Trócaire ads,
The time when decorations are put up by Dads.
Children are told stories of old.
Broken souls sit in the cold.
Big families arrange for big Christmas meals.
Dust cover young, chapped heels.
Santa and his reindeer fly across the sky.
When yet another hot season slowly passes by.

Christmas is a time when we all exchange gifts.
As just another angel lifts.
Choral chants assemble at front doors with sheets.
While the homeless continue to wander the streets.
The incandescence of lights fill our black,
When the darkest world still remains behind our back.
We receive the joys and the magic.
They only feel the tears and damage.

We have two worlds:
The First and the Third.

We live in the one with a Christmas..
But they live in the world that is still unheard.

I can be an anyone,
with opportunities at my door.
I remember you said I was no one,
but that was all before.

Since, I became a someone
with a thoughtful little brain,
with loved ones all around me,
who think I am insane!

I could be a failure,
who quickly gets the sack.
Or travel all around the world,
and leave you at my back.
You could become the shadow
when the sun shines on my face.
Or you could accept I am someone,
and share my inner grace.

See, it's 'cause you are the no one,
with no body at your side,
that you enforced you anger,
and seen how much I cried.

You know, you could be the person,
no one could love more.
But now, you are the only one,
I'd rather just ignore.

What pains me is our memories,
and the childhood that we had.
Somewhere, along the path we went,
it seems you just turned bad.

I tried to forget the time we spent,
but I guess it's just too late.
Because I know I could never love you again..
That love, turned into hate.

They never knew the meaning
to the words so common said.
They use their words in unison
and take pride in how they lead
you straight into a hallway,
with multiple open doors,
and carved a hole around you,
to let you seep into the floor.

They never thought you thought about
the world without you there.
To take a look around themselves,
and see one empty chair.
And once all of those doors slammed
right into your face,
they swallowed up that pride they had,
and restored your inner grace.

They never believed there was
one more,
who felt the same, exact.
It never struck them how she was,
too mildly, could she act.
To notice the pain she hid so deep,
she thought you'd make no stir.
Talking meant so little then,
but it did so much for her.

Yeats said romance was gone and dead,
Back in the day when most tears were shed.
Times when the IRA were up and strong,
Days when they could be seen doing wrong.
Not right now, when its just biased times;
The next Love/Hate enlightening their "newest" crimes.
Our time does differ from the old.
And if Yeats could talk right now, a different story would be told.

We're due a time when they all come home
Cross the shores and along they come.
Times when they are safe to stay,
Unlike the war years when they were forced away.
The times when Yeats said our heroes did us good.
Now, no novelty, no heroes: villains. Although, there should.
President Higgins, the 9th to stand.
Who speaks of "our own Aisling" in this shared land.
Our time does differ from the old.
And if Yeats could talk right now, a different story would be told.

A hundred years, we're still the same.
When the "recession" is so easy to blame.
A choice that Sinn Fein never got to make,
Lead by Kenny, the government's mistake.
Choices made, nor law but religion.
Medical misadventures under moral obligation.
A jury given a choice of two verdicts: one story,
Savita's death, goes down in history.
Our time does differ from the old.
And if Yeats could talk right now, a different story would be told.

Our time when networks send youths to their grave,
An earlier landing caused by how others behaved.
Still mothers shed tears upon the pit of their sons,
Ashes to ashes, a new war has begun.
But, a type that is different in a virtual way,
For the past is the past and today is today.
That's how our times differ to those of 1913
And if Yeats were here right now, what real difference would be seen?

Poems I see
of suicide and death
But all it makes me think
Is that used to be me
I wish I could read minds
So I could see if their words
Are true
For if the heartbreaking promises
Of no tomorrow are in fact
Promises
I'd be the friend I didn't have at first
To tell them it gets better
To tell them it's okay
To tell them that the future
Brings brighter days
Life isn't perfect
But it is a gift
We take it as it is

Absent are the people
I truly believed were there.
Absent is my sympathy,
To truly love and care.
Absent is the one,
Whom directly I talk to.
Absent is the name,
I rather just call 'you.'
Absent is your presence
In a friendship that you played a part.
Absent is the love
You claim is within your heart.
Absent are the words,
I long to let pour off of my tongue.
Absent is our future,
Though, we are still young.
Absent are the reasons
For all of the swift ends.
Absent are the people,
I once had called my friends.
Absent are my thoughts,
That figures this all out.
Absent is my voice,
To whisper, talk or shout.
Absent is my courage,
To tell you about my pain.
Absent are the benefits
I would ever wish to gain.
Absent is the trust,
In whom I grew to know.
Absent is your reluctancy,
That wanted me to go.
Absent are the smiles,
That once sat upon my face.
Absent are my memories,
Of the times you showed no grace.
Absent is the understanding,
I hope we'll come to, yet.
Absent are the days
I never want to forget.
Absent is the truth,
That solves all of this mess.
Absent are my mistakes,
You could forgive no less.
Absent is the happiness,
I once felt deep inside.
Absent is you,
Right here by my side.
Absent is the person,
I could never quite love more.
Absent is his existence,
For he's not who he was before.
Absent is my knowledge,
To explain all in one poem..
Absent is my ability
To climb right up to Heaven,
And bring you safely home..