Your silence is a kind of
Grief,
From words that were left
Unsaid.
But when swept in a drunken
Heat,
The words of then are bled.
××××××××××××××××××××××××××
I know you more;
Yet, still I don't.
There's more for me to see
But keep your mouth and desires
Shut;
Do not be familiar to me.

The people say we
Are a force to be reckoned with.

Malleable minds
Keeping up with the
Times.

A comfortable content,
Encouragingly hell-bent.

Let's change lives
Or even just one.
Right
before this feels done.

A force to be reckoned with,
You and I.

Let's set something afloat,
Before it's time
For me to
Rip out
Your
Throat.

O come and sing,
Sing with me.
Sing with me,
Our age old plea:

"Tomorrow I will be free,
Tomorrow I will be
Me".

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

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?

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

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.

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

You've always meant more to
I,
Than I to
you.
And that's what's led us
Askew.

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

Tick-tock
Went the clock
The day I wanted to stop.

The pitter-patter,
Chitter-chatter.
The walks,
The squaks
And the all 'important talks'
The day I wanted to stop.

Intrusion, confusion, pollution
And social 'evolution'
The day I wanted to stop.

The swearing, the caring.
The 'how are you faring?'
The day I wanted to stop.

The girl, the boy.
That unexpected smile.
Kindness flowing
Kept me going;
If only for awhile,
On the day I wanted to stop.

Ag an mbuaicphointe
na coimhlinte
Ní raibh siad cinnte.

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

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.

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.

O come in time;
Bring the wine.
A friend you'll be,
A friend to me.

Or take your time;
Forget the wine.
Just stay with me,
Just bleed.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

I gather friends like I do books-
Some for their beautiful composition
And Artistry,
Some for common philosophy,
Some for intellectual or
Artistic stimulation,
And others for the warmth of nostalgia they bring.

The rest,
I plan to donate to the charity shop.

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

Our love is like
An exaggerated metaphor-
Good, but I can't take it anymore.

I love you,
You don't love me too.
You love me,
I am free.
(Rhyming scheme AA, BB)

Time to rehash that metaphor,
now that you are sleeping on my floor;
Each day I love you more and more.

Please stop writing things like this?
You terrible bore.

These Gnarled Roots
Withered from time
Will forever control
Those shoots from reaching
The Shine.

Thick and stubborn
Taking everything of
Worth.
Pillaging the earth of
its fruit
All "in the name of the
Shoot".

We are told
The shoot can't be
A shoot
Without the
Root.
But what about
The "root" of
A problem?

So, little shoot
Chew on the bitter root.
Chew and
Survive.

As we age
Our minds grow and
Our bodies decay;
But, at the end of the day,
They wish it were
The other way.

Effortless,
boundless,
listless
in this.

For in the end
it will be the belief
in my
potential
and the hatred
of the
conventional
that kills me.

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

I am no source
of poetry or art;
Music or prose.
I am not your one true love or
Your spring of inspiration.

Sensible,
"Down to earth",
Trustworthy-
Normal.

My passions and
Ambitions are unanimous
to the average class.

Anything I am that's
Good
Is reflected in the surrounding
Mud.

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.

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-

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.

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.

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

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.

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

Let us listen to love songs
And pretend they are about us.
Let us have nothing to do
And not make a fuss.

Let us confuse each other
With an advance and retreat,
And at the end of the night
Let us not be complete.

Let us talk lovingly,
One on one.
Let us not in large groups,
As I am no fun.

Let us never know
How the other one feels;
But perhaps one day,
Over wine and take-away meals.

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.

It is only
when one
is sick and
devoid of it
does one
realise that
all the world's
a love song
And the people
star-crossed lovers.

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

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

For he liked her,
And she he;
But it had to end.
They both were in love
With melancholy.

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.

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.

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.

Promising words not
Followed by action is like
*** without the attraction-
******* useless.