Do not weep for me,
For I no longer weep
In anticipation of you.

Long gone are the days that
I stooped to conquer, or
Be conquered by you.

I would come.
We would see.
You would conquer.

So do not weep for me,
As I won't weep for you.
You've never weeped for me,
So I will stop so for you.

Sure, if all
Yer sorrows
Aren't fixed
Wit' a pill
Then fer
Jaysus' sake,
yer jus'
Not ill.

I broke a mirror today
Clearing the smell of
Someone else's **** from
My downstairs bathroom;
It's wise to have
Future plans.

Your morning dew breath
trickles in early
As we walk with the foxes,
by the rockpools by the shore;
By the lilies by the glade.

I only write from
one heart,
one hand,
and two minds.

The man began
once again to question
whether he truly did not love people,
or whether the people
truly did not love him?

It's hard to seize the day
with such
slender hands.

Idle talk
and groping glances
are thrown and strewn
at the idle dances.

Your sickeningly sweet smile
given refuge in the eye of the storm;
abetted by the valour of your current tipple.

Hand on hand,
eye on eye
then quickly turn to pass on by.

The constant ebb and flow of your
in-out,
here-gone,
love-doubt,
ignore-fawn,
contradictory chaos is enough to drive the
dead to drink.

I drown the dead within me
with the dregs of the Host.
Living tonight to the
detriment of tomorrow.

Your disinterest is key,
for when my brain bleeds blue.
My mood is ****,
and so are you.

I am sorry
grips and grows
when I was fun.
And I bore into you.

I bore you.

The endless throes
Leaving you with nothing to say
of the insatiable soul
at the end of the
like the solitary smell
your obligation

But I am sorry that
because of me
like the rip and the hole
you can't enjoy the sun,
and the silence binds
poor man's sole.

Dropped on the situation,
When the penny has
Leaving me clutching at straws.
You never knew me.
I could be sorry that
to your skin
of your family home
Misery sticks.

I bore you,
And I bore into you.
Leaving you with nothing to say;
Leaving me clutching at straws.

The endless throes
of the insatiable soul
grips and grows
like the rip and the hole
at the end of the
poor man's sole.

I could be sorry that
because of me
you can't enjoy the sun,
but I am sorry that
you never knew me
when I was fun.

When the penny has
dropped on the situation,
and the silence binds
your obligation,
I am sorry.

Misery sticks
to your skin
like the solitary smell
of your family home.

It's a wonder that those
who are so well fed
and so well read
are so full of dread.

With each and every progression
killing a part of the soul,
and each new experience
blurring the form of a whole,
I wonder why advancement
is our one and only goal?

Go on, do it.
Do the deed.
Spread your seed.

The children tell stories of when you bleed.

Mon cherie, c'est l'appel du vide.

A certain momentary sadness; the self-inflicted kind.

Usually kept by the owner to give their negative attitude someone to play with.

Something which would easily pass if you just made an effort, and socialised a bit more.

Anything is possible, if you put your mind to it.

It's only you and your attitude.

Still listening to the same music.

Still writing the same poems with different words.

Still drinking the same drinks,
eating the same foods.

Still wanting to be healthier.

Still wanting to be smarter.

Still wanting to be better.

Still hating the things I hated before;
The things that won't change.

Still not moving,
If so, just barely.

Still here.

Inside the universal set:
Circle A and circle B;
Circle you and circle me.

To keep things easy,
we started with the numbers on the outside,
but soon grew to the small part in the middle.

That small slither
of similarity.
But the numbers are just there for
Clarity.

Not to mention circles
C,D,E & G.

But circles are circles,
and people are people.
You are you.
I am I.
And that was that.

Your face
is
distorted
in my
screen.
It's
the clearest
image
I've ever
Seen.

Die for your applause;
Collect your cause.
Just keep your flaws,
Away from my claws.

The past has past,
and from it I have decided to flee.
I no longer care about what
happened then.
So, don't wave your history at me.

Technology is supposed to
lessen the load,
and somehow make us feel free,
But all I see are chains and rooks.
So, don't wave your gadgets at me.

In the educational system I trusted,
through it the world I could see,
But now I know
it's all a show.
So, don't wave your grades at me.

Poetry is an acquired taste;
As dead as it can be,
But write we still,
As words can ****.
So, don't wave your lines at me.

In love I used to trust;
the one and only key.
But then I learnt,
and caring was burnt.
So, don't wave your happiness at me.

You came unexpected and briefly;
Like the sun on a cold winter's day.
You dived and soaked in the waters,
and caused ripples through and through.
Changing the surface for a brief moment of eternity.
Now you've bathed and done;
had your fun.
For this I decree:
I am the errors you left me
So please do not wave at me.

Je vois la vie
en parapluie.

When you decide to work the hand you're dealt,
and an eye for your lie makes everyone see,
let your sleeping dogs die.
Ah! Sure, it's all bleak to me.

Old and frayed are those sleeves.
From the many tricks
that have been worn upon,
and then
washed from them.

They have seen better days,
And have lost their vibrance
From careless machine washes.
But there could be a few more
Hearts left up those sleeves.

It's hard to think clearly through the
"That's Life!"s,
"No work, no play"s,
The "you can do anything you put your mind to"s,
and the "do what makes you happy"s.

It's hard to keep a personality through the
Ifs, buts and indefinite, fluctuating opinions of right and wrong,
him and her, you and me.

It's  hard to keep personal through the
Impersonal means of communication,
Retold stories,
and the disatisfying interactions between you
and the people you have chosen. The people
who you believed had chosen you.

It's hard finding me through all of this
you.

Effortless,
boundless,
listless
in this.

Je vais à la fête
pour boire.
Mais, vous savez
que c'est ma
bête noire.

I and the space between us ebbs.
Your presence, I cannot maintain.
As there's nothing I can give you,
And nothing you can gain.

If sweet silver
poured from my
languid lips,
laying out the lies you so long to hear,
would you keep me near?
No, probably not.

If I had Chopin's twiddly fingers,
Or Freddie's range
Would you look at me the same?
Probably.

still smile.
Your silence is a kind of
Yet, still I don't.
A name can be home to many faces.
There's more for me to see
The other way.
I know you more;
You could be the first point of contact,
They both were in love
Make of me, but
And she he;
With melancholy.
Shut;
Unsaid.
An impartial judge to this acquaintance.
Heat,
The words of then are bled.
As to Yeats Inisfree.
Do not be familiar to me.
For he liked her,
But you are self-interested and
If only for awhile.
I am no more than what you
But when swept in a drunken
From words that were left
As we age
But, at the end of the day,
They wish it were
to me
Our bodies decay;
****** upon my hand-crafted pedestal,
But it had to end.
It conjures memories, feelings
Grief,
'Cause I was glad to have known you,
Define me.
No less than how you
Our minds grow and
The sea is.
It's sad hearing yours, although I
and long forgotten places.
But keep your mouth and desires.

Ag an mbuaicphointe
na coimhlinte
Ní raibh siad cinnte.

A rhyme or two
makes happy the man
who lives in a shoe.

Come misty-mouthed girl,
To a not so wonderful world.
Make me forget.
The investment of the other within me
has come to fill me with regret.

O take me back to before I could see all their flaws,
Before the familiarity of friendship clouded our view.
Back to when I could have believed in this so called 'love',
And could have believed in you.

Now a thick, dense obsession rises day to day
from within locked cupboards.
But not the naive, self-named kind of days once past;
The kind that clings to your personality
Like your sugar stained teeth the morning after cider;
A repulsive grit.

But I am looking for you.
Not an emissary of my misery,
But an idiosyncratic icon of
My ignorant days before I knew of
Poems, plays or 'Liberation'.
Just come and be my salvation.

My misty-mouthed girl.

Je suis comme
le bruit de la
pluie
sur ta vie.

Wrap your ring of
words round;
Cushion the fall.
It shouldn't make much difference,
as your words mean
Nothing at all.

Day breaks;
Presence aches.

Someone cries.

Someone dies.

Happiness is your self-made bliss.
Go seal it with the billionth kiss.

Night falls;
Repeat it all.

We are all eternally tired,
but it's not sleep we lack.
Your resilience should be admired,
but it's time to
hit the sack.

Cleverly-crafted crumbs created
Are fabulously fantastic when framed for framing's function,
But accurately articulated actions
Are better for freeing feeling's function.

Now I can see your
Creative crumbs are cause for chaos.
The creator capturing caring compassionates
With each wilful, worthless word.

It is the most creative of those,
who can find enrapturing prose,
from deep, deep within his clothes.

I am no more than what you
Make of me, but
No less than how you
Define me.

You could be the first point of contact,
****** upon my hand-crafted pedestal,
But you are self-interested and
An impartial judge to this acquaintance.

O if I could only write
Poetry worthy of your
Reading!
Find clarity in
Complexities.
Make Art and rhyme
of the unspoken.
Offer up my words
As tokens of my
Vulnerability.
Then, then you would see.

If only I could write a book
worth reading past the first few pages.
Not the type for school that
you read in stages in order to maintain
your vitality.
A book you can drown yourself in
without glancing at a screen.
Words you can devour
rather than glean.
An idyllic scene.
Far from the person you know best.

If only I could write myself
in a play.
My life mapped out from day to day
with instructions on my whereabouts
and actions.
Our conversations would be succint, artful
and with purpose.
I would have long, coherently structured
speeches and
always have the right things to say,
expressed in the wittiest way.
My life would be dictated by
Your entrances and exits.
All my plot lines resolved in
Act 3;
That would suit me.

O if only I could write those words;
The ones worth saying.
Those words different from our
Daily utterances.
Those words you have been
meaning to say but have not
yet had time to shape them round
your lips.
If I could write those words, I would.
Unfortunately it's just me.
But I will try, I promise.
Just you see-

A name can be home to many faces.
It conjures memories, feelings
and long forgotten places.
It's sad hearing yours, although I
still smile.
'Cause I was glad to have known you,
If only for awhile.

Jigsaw-
Noun
1. A lively handtool dance for cutting wood or other hard materials with leaping movements, typically with a long, thin serrated blade.

Rhythm denoted with the phrase 'Rashers and Sawsages'

The sea is
to me
As to Yeats Inisfree.

Fiddly bits and
Mismatched shapes;
Come into my house,
Shut off the drapes.

I'll piece them together
This one and that.
But you don't believe in board games
So it's bound to fall flat.

So let us start from the beginning,
The corners and the bottoms;
Work inwards.
But do not be surprised
If you are not that missing piece,
But just a part of another's
Puzzle.

I have been thinking a lot,
And one starts to wonder
if it's all in my head
Or it's all torn asunder.