When I see the news stories
And read the vile comments
I’m reminded of my own
And how for him it’s past tense
But for me and for them
It’s every day
We live with that pain and that shame and that
Way of surviving
Like no one ever ripped out your heart
Like your dignity wasn’t stripped from you
Disbelieved in court
Ridiculed on Facebook
And ******* about in bars
‘This tortures him too’
‘He’s always been fine with me’
That’s what we hear when we try to seek
Validation from those who know our abusers
scepticism and the audacity to accuse us
Of being dramatic, of lying, exaggeration
Well tell me where is the dramatisation
In the fact that in my story when he was done
He wrote ‘No’ on my wall in permanent marker
To reminded him that next time ‘No’ is the answer
Like he should need reminding when he heard it from me
But I am a woman, was a girl
So you see
What I do doesn’t matter
Which sadly is proved
When today we read of Sarah Everard in the news

Hell sometimes can be a comforting thought
When you consider the promise
of some ire of comeuppance
some reasoned placement
of interminable exile
for the ******* who deserve to end up there.
When all is considered,mortal pain working as the ruse
for an endurance of condemnation
(Mothers still wailing in their sleep for closure two generations on)
Mortal oppressors deserve to be confronted by a special kind of fear
It makes sense
The punishment is apt
Guilt has to work both ways.

But that thought is still not a resolution for me
Particularly as the opposite does'nt attract
Given the fact that I've spent the majority of my life
Frightened of Christ.

It has its origins in my own childhood
when I remember back
To when I hurried weary past
the old imposing church
on my way into town
When I was a four-year old believing
If I was'nt quick
The whole-heaving Bulk of it
would tumble flatly
upon my fragile frame
The old road home
eventually winding its way
to my limbo of soothing distractions
that childhood’s orchestra of daydreams
so fleetingly informs.

Senior Infants Religion class did'nt help either
getting to grip with the crucifix and the like
my parents having sheltered me from the harsh realities of martyrdom
and the cold damp mass congregation on empty Sunday mornings
and the scowl of that year's teacher
who had complained that I wrote too much like a spider's web
Giving us throatfuls of original sin and the rhetoric of  Easter Monday
and my childhood innocence
exposed in the opinion spoken aloud
to a classroom of trained apatheticals
that not only did I not believe that Jesus Christ was the son of god
but that he never existed either
perhaps history disproves my claim on the latter
but the former is still full of endless possibility.
(And all this before I read anything about what really went on during the Twentieth Century-Dear accomplice,I can already hear your sweetened cackle.)

Yet still faced with that emblem of womanhood’s inheritance,I accepted my first compromise of all too humane sympathies.
Bleeding Mary Immaculate,she who suffers,she who in her suffering
silently invokes that long,unquestionable certainty of life,that jump-lead rattle of conscience
and contemplation,she whose warm moments in stony acceptance of fate’s misfortunes eventually led me down that scented path where all my troubles truly began.

Christ himself continued to present
(however loud the familial chorus
attempted to reprimand my nurtured,
after-school-scepticism)those same
tingles of spinal sensitivity,that same
epidemic-like aversion,years after I had
left that winter playground where children
splashed puddle water at each other
to make reputations,and shouted mispronounced obscenities
as a means to show they had no time whoever wanted to act adorable that day.
(The first chance they were given they realised the bluff-ladder of office mentality.)

I could never really face staring
into the eyes of the owner
of that sacred heart
for more than five seconds
He accused me of far too much
without having any notion
of who exactly I was
As I got older teachers
tried to convince me
that he really was
full of love and understanding
but those portrait-painted deepest-blue eyes
could lead to a war criminal's breakdown.

And I was’nt willing to take
the sack and ashes
for any man.

Who am I? Who am I?
A question I always find myself asking and yet I have no idea why.
Almost as if I expect the answer to fall right out of the sky.

But seriously, do you know who I am?
I pretend that I don't give a ****.
When really it's an act; a sham.

Feeling like you do not fit.
Honestly it feels like pure ****.

I don't fit into society's giant puzzle.
If my opinion is outside the majority, well let me put it this way, if I were a dog they would force upon me a muzzle.

Freedom of expression.
Really? I think they mean repression.

Do this! Do that!
She's too thin! He's too fat!
He must go here! Now put her there!

All we seem to receive are your endless commands.
Expected to follow at clicking of your fingers or the clapping of your hands.
Did you ever stop to think that maybe we have other plans?

Have you turned me into some kind of drone?
Is my mind no longer my own?
Are my individual and unique thoughts not allowed to be known?
Somehow this hierarchy needs to be overthrown. 
We need to let our shining personalities be shown.

Celebrate Individualism!
Let us express, share and have optimism!
And even scepticism!

Being ourselves is a basic human right!
Thank you and good night!

Enjoy every day and make each moment last.
Don’t bring into the future, the bad stuff from the past

They say what doesn’t **** you, will only make you strong.
Sometimes admit defeat, accept you may be wrong.

Don’t fill your life with scepticism and always casting doubt
Just go and enjoy yourself, that’s what it’s all about.

Yes there are the times when we are feeling really ****.
Inside there is so much anger, that person you want to hit.

That doesn’t mean you do it and let your anger out.
The way you always wanted to, just let it go and shout.

There are better ways of dealing with things.
Talking is always a good start.
It’s so much easier to be honest, when it’s coming from the heart.

Within each and every person is the bit we hold so dear.
The bit of us we never show, that’s hidden because of fear.

Well don’t you think it’s about time we open up and let them in
Enjoy the time we have together, let the journey now begin

If we end up getting hurt, it’s not about the pain.
It’s how we get back on our feet and start all over again.

What’s in the past is gone, don’t hold that feeling of hate
All it does is drag you down, on your shoulders it bears a weight.

Tell them how you feel, get it out and clear the air.
Your loved ones are the people who matter and for them you will always care.

The corner street awaits with pride
Raise the palm and wave me hello
As the eyes melt reveal your heart

The smile is the manipulating trap
A stance you gaze magnifies my life
Stay in the zone oozing not snoozing

Disengaged in bases of sinking shells
Float on the wavy stretchy topography  
Claim my proponent inside the rigid iris

The splash of the canvas sprays attraction
Alternate the kaleidoscope fluid flashes
A slash, smashing my scepticism cynism

Untitled spiking depths and radiant flames
Erode past the sizzling chargrilled grins
It's in my eyes, my very soul sits and shines

Anti Scepticism

  Jewish Holocaust

as per history books

is dubious but there

can be no doubting

their current one in

        G A Z A.

I recall those days, living in the state of being someone who still suffers in my own direction, assuming that falling in love just equates the emotions that flare up in our heart when you glance into their eyes or hear their voice.
I presume being in love is just about convincing them you are still in love with them just like yesterday and the day before yesterday.

Until I have gone far, and found you.

The debate about fear lodged in my head, I perceived that my feelings were not enough to carry us further.
Sometimes my mind wanders on its own, it takes me to the time I have never sailed,
Showing me a big picture where you have fallen deeply in love with her whom you now recognize as someone who disappointed you,
Watching you invest all your life and death in her hands just to keep her — and you fail and fall.

I don’t know how many pages of the scenario have ended until we traverse in the same chapter. Two figures who never genuinely know who has ever made our hearts crushed and trapped us into a sense of being at an inch with death.

But it tells me you put your hope in me, and so do I.

I put hope in myself if I could draw the figure out of your fragile heart until love traps us on the same roof.

I might have to stop assuming, maybe you are my next lesson.

I’m sorry, I have never recovered from putting my hopes in what is present.