anxieties
irrational fears
inadequacy
loneliness
depression
voices
sadness
apathy
wort­hlessness
worthlessness
worthlessness
Wrapped behind 32 teeth
and a smile from ear to ear

1373

The worthlessness of Earthly things
The Ditty is that Nature Sings—
And then—enforces their delight
Till Synods are inordinate—

Utter defeat,
Bleeds like poison,
from these futile tears,
Carelessness,
Is all he has to offer,
Closer to the door,
With every second,
My words,
Can no longer hold him back,
I know I mean nothing,
From the moment he leaves,
I carry the weight,
Of worthlessness

Self Worthlessness is a completely,
temporary phase of human maturation.
It persists within the passing ignorance of youth,
And fades with the realization of eventual
adult wisdom gained over time.

The suffering within the journey,
Builds character and worth.
It's earned, not a birthright.

It arrives,
Unnoticed, unannounced.

Quiet,
At first.

Slow,
Seeping, dripping.

I put it down to a few stressful weeks.
I carry on.

It unpacks,
Worries, anxieties.

Gently,
For now,

Tiptoes,
Whispers, creaks.

‘It will leave soon’ I think ‘It always does.’
I keep going.

It settles in,
Getting comfortable.

Getting louder,
And louder.

Banging thoughts,
Insomnia.

‘Please don’t be happening again’.
I shuffle along my daily routine.

Claws in,
Insidious.

Screaming,
24/7.

Shame, worthlessness,
Hurt.

‘Please go away’.
I’m barely coping.

Growing roots,
Into my brain and heart.

Blossoming pain,
With every beat.

Emptiness, loneliness,
Abandonment.

Silence, Stillness,
‘I can’t move, I can’t cope.’

I have missed
out on the thrills
of being a soft place
between a rock
and a hard place
which is a bad boy

I was afraid
of becoming a toy
a welcome mat,
stepped on repeatedly
covered in dirt
and worthlessness

because of fear
I found myself
held hostage to boring love
with good guys
who in the end
only proved
to be ugly lies

which led
to my beautiful cries
in the end,
I should have taken my chances
with the handsome devils
who were at least good at dancing!

Day* faded to *night
while I wasn't watching.

You were always too good for me
and **** it, I'm not good enough.

I wanted to see the sunset, but
when I remembered, the sun was a memory.

You called me a a sunset kind of girl
and I didn't have a clue what that meant
but I liked the way it sounded on your lips.

Stop that,  this has to be unrequited,
it's better for you, for me, too.
I'm not good enough for you.

*Just leave it to be worthless.

I will never understand this feeling
It's a feeling of worthlessness, is it not?
I will never understand its emptiness,
Though I know it too well
Dare I say, I want to fall in love
Again?...

Would It help me to understand,
In ways I can no longer?
I'm aimlessly placing blame
(I don't feel real)
The tip of my finger repelled by,
The denial in my heart

How can something so heavy
Be worn on a sleeve?
Whilst the skin on my body,
Would tear at its seams
I am the worst of all things

I am man-made
Sadly I feel as though, not made to last
And sadly so, I'm afraid to know
I may never make it past,
This feeling

Two months now it's eaten away
It's not a chemical reaction
There will be no half life here
And more than half my fear,
Lies in a reality where,
I can not be free from this

It's a feeling of worthlessness, isn't it?
I am an apple eaten to the core
No
I am the pips spat out
...and forgotten

I just want to be carried away
I want to be more than man-made
I just want to be Finley, Finley again

“Oh you’re Irish?” he said.
“Did you learn the language much?” he said.
Honestly, what can I tell him? I was raised in the North - a ****** wasteland for such a naïve question.
Vague memories of fumbled classes where our secret history was ditched just to get straight into the basics (Cad é mar atá tú?)
No – seriously - I was not tied to it – it was anonymous to me at that age.
Forgotten like some distant echo of once visiting Coole House as a child.
Sure, we knew it was “important”, “our national language”, “heritage” etc. and we were warned it was quickly slipping into the drain of Western hegemony.
But it was baffling, unsexy and only the blunt-faced humorless IRA thugs amongst us were in any way keen.
Then it was gone, just like the faded memories of “The Children of Lir” from my primary school.

Looking back I wonder, what was the point?
A half-full measure paying lip service to our identity.
Teachers and headmasters terrified of the grand colonial reveal that the lessons might have hinted at (were they trying to stop us being Provos-in-waiting?).
And all of this against the awful shame of a common tongue that had no foe yet was slowly vanquishing from our shores.
It could have all been so different.
Rather than rushing to get something in our empty skulls, they could have given us a sense of joy, pride & belief in our own culture.
Calling on Yeats, Behan, Heaney and others to drown us in the language of our ancestors.
Telling the stories of old that only the academics & hippies were keeping from us then.
You know, it might kept us all on the same beautifully illuminated page.
We might have been comfortable in our skins and open to others,
not looking deep into our worthlessness and lashing out at them.
Language is being and language is connecting, I’ve learnt.
But that’s not something I got from my secondary school.

June-July 2018