The mind it yells ‘imposter’
Each time I find the time to write
Never telling who I am, only telling who I am not.

Squawking, sulking in my ear
Drives the pen, the words to veer,
Drives the mind to that of Lears,
Into the sullenness of my volition.
Imposter, Imposter - not a syndrome but a title;

The title of my biography, the world’s class joke
The worlds least known, the worlds last hope.

I have a Saviour but I am my own,
Rather, I insist to be my own.

Hypnotized by the shadow, or not a shadow but a void,
A black void, not empty but falling,
Falling deep and a miss, falling, falling to my abyss -

Imposter Void Imposter, write your sweet nothingness,
I pity myself but I go on, Imposter Void Imposter -
Sympathetic, the abyss lends it’s kiss.

Skin on soil - I sink
My lungs a network of roots,
I breathe with the leaves.

Take my heart
Cardium carpal
Impossible to hold in both hands
In every glorious piece
Valve, ventricle, artery
Pulsing, pulsing — but no blood
Not pink, not red but grey,
Grey matter, but no matter

Take care not to lack a hole by
Ebon ivory of your skeletal hands,
Pulsing, pulsing — but no blood
Only bone grasping endocrine glands
Blood eagled atrium across your palms
Venae cavae hollowed hands.

And if I grow, the harvest will be mine and only mine
Because I am my own and you are yours.

The soil does not reap the rewards of the roots which brought forth spring bloom nor autumn crop.
The cloud which carried rainfall does not demand praise for the leaves it fed.
The sun does seek praise for the flower its rays coaxed heavenward
And you will not take credit for my soul and it’s abundance.
That is between me and my creator.

My Mind - is not My own.

It is the sleepless nights,
the empty stares,
the half-hearted comments
the quickening breaths.

It is the clouded days,
the fizzling thoughts
the fear that is constant

My Mind - it is not.

Mannequins in the shop front window,
The new years batch take their seats,
Lined up on display, unknowingly.

Between words you lick your lips - quivering
Under your brow, behind your eyes,
******* each body in the back of your mind.

Little lambs to the slaughter,
So meek and so mild.
Just as your precious Herbert
Speaks of his young bride.

What can I say for you to believe that you are enough.
and I don’t need to decorate enough with “good”
because your version of enough is good in itself.

You are my All,
my Everything,
without even trying.

I never fully understood the meaning of the  word “mourn” until this year -
To truly feel the loss of another concentrated in its purest form.

I never believed when others would say
“I miss you more, in  each and every day” or
“There’s not an hour goes by, without a thought of you on my mind”
As if Loss is an unforgotten constant in the trails of the trivial,
We are only human after all.

But I was naive, through and through.
Loss never leaves your side once you meet
Loss is a friend for life.
The kind that shows their face in the most unpredictable moments,
Who never fades away or falls out,
Becoming more aquatinted as we go through life.

Loss is selfish, wanting our undivided attention,
Expecting us to indulge in its deep dark thoughts with strong pretension.

Loss is harsh, not hiding nor sugarcoating any enemy attack,
Facing us with the reality of control and just how much we lack.

Loss is bitter, Loss is unkind
Loss is a thief, stealing our piece of mind.

Loss is jealous, Loss is sly.
Is it absent of Love,
Or has Love left it’s side?

You were mine, Wildflower.
Sprouting roots in the most unlikely of places,
Yellow and green peaking through cracks
Of copper-chipped bricks,

Like ivy you spread and clung to my hand,
Your leaves draped around my fingers,
We grew together.
Intertwined, inseparable, iridescent
Reflecting each other.

Until, your grip loosened
Once effervescent,
Your colours faded
Now waned, wilted and worn.

I tried to love you back to life —
Though I don’t know you anymore.

A lament don Ghaeilge

A language
in my Blood
but not - on my tongue.

The prose and poetry of my ancestors
fallen - on deaf ears.

When did we accept this anglicized assonance,
to marr the seanchaithe tale of soil and air?

The Land of Saints and Scholars -
speaking words from others tongues.

You were mine,
                           A Wildflower.

Sprout up in the most unlikely of places,
Peaking yellow and green through the copper chipped bricks,
You spread out, wrapped around my hand,
we grew together.

Intertwined
Inseparable
Iridescent - reflecting each other.

Until - your grip loosened,
Once effervescent,
I watched your colour fade -
Now waned, wilted, worn.

I tried to love you back to life -
Though I don't know you anymore.

You leave a mark where you stand,
the kind that doesn't fade easily.
like a flower, sprouted
from the shadow of your footprint
and made a bed for tired little me.

each time my lips touch yours
it's like the first
                                      but More.

i lost my mind, along with you.
such silent words brought violent hues,
they linger in my living room,
they echo through, they echo you.

while the dusk sinks down to dawn
and whispers winds until its gone,
your ghost is all that carries on,
it echoes through, it echoes you.

I open my door - to the brisk December air,
Each breath as Fresh as the mornings First -
Through my Frosted airways -
A Winter Cloud exhaled.

Tonight, we danced -

Slow,
          Blissful,
                         Close.

And in that moment - I realised -
that I can never dance without you again.

I'm not sure where to begin -
I haven't been the same since you left.

But in amongst all that was lost,
I cannot find my grief -
I have hid behind the others for so long
That mine has fallen underneath.

Though right now - I feel some ease,
My heartbeat - flickers - My thoughts run quicker.
If I could somehow find my feet
I'd find some purpose,

                           I'd find some peace.

Stop thinking.
The thought of you is poison to my Love.
my real Love.
You are but a thought - a what if lingering on the tip of my tongue,
there is no use wasting thoughts on what if’s.
Nothing good will come of it
Nothing good will come of us - there is no us.

Stop thinking
You are a virus, a fading voice, a fading joke, a fading laugh
that’s all we had.
Nothing more - but not nothing,
unspoken, unheard.
Yet, I saw It in your eyes
and I saw It reflecting in mine.
Stop thinking.

For all things there is a season, a time for everything under the sun.
a time to scatter stones and a time to gather.
But -
Forgive me, if i spend my whole life questioning this -
Time.

Why is it my lot in life to work and be happy with it.
Am i nothing but a brick in the wall.
A mist that appears for a drop of time and then vanishes.
Merely a stem - some may bud, the lucky will flower
but all will wither and fade away.

Forgive me, when i say this -
For why should evil stick his face in mine and mock my happiness.
I am selfish, I am ungrateful
How can I enjoy this fellowship with injustice?
Where Love stands, hate reigns.
Where Peace sings, war screams.
Where Happiness dances, sadness breaks its bones.
Where Breath lives, darkness suffocates it.
This is human - self-destruction,
Created in love but born to sin.
We know of nothing else, until we find
You -
Ardent patience, Yearning salvation -

This is human - saved for nothing.

i love when You speak - soft.

as if the whole world is listening to Your voice
but i'm the only one You want,
to hear
the sweetest words You say.

Once flesh, soft features,
Screaming voice, blue.
Now bones, decaying in the soil.
The snakes ****** your skin,
The worms became your friends
The birds ate your eyes, your spirit in the clouds flies by
And I will watch you through the screen.
And hear your voice within my dreams,
When I awake in 68’
To play a dangerous game with lady fate
To meet you, a sacrifice I will make.

I hate that I’m used to you being gone.
I hate that I don’t see you in every corner of life.
I hate that I only see you in the small things,
When somebody mentions they hate broccoli or loves chips.

(you passed that on to me you know, I think I could rival your love for chips)

When I hear someone recount a childhood story of scouts or -
When I hear bing crosby being played -
When I see an old steam train in a museum or -
When I see an old man playfully stick out his dentures at a child.

I hate that I’m used to you being gone.
I hate that I have to trigger the memories of you.
That I have the remind myself of who you were and what you loved,
That I think of you everyday but I’ve grown used to it.

(I’ll always remember your hands but the placement of the pale skin patches are fading)

I hate that I’m used to you being gone.
I hate that I felt closer to you when you had just left.
I noticed every small detail,
though it brought so - much - pain
little pieces of you still echoed.
a pillow you were the last one to touch,
a mug you had used the day before, a horizontally striped polo that still smelt like silvikrin and extra strong mints.

- but now your echo has gone silent and I have to go searching to find it
and it gets quieter every time.

Tall,
         Towering,
                         Terrorizing.

Sometimes blue - oppressing, coercing dreams.
Or red - threatening, cautioning tales.
Often amber - dubious, ambiguous notions.
Or grey - obscured, absent, oblivion.

Never green - calling, coaxing, purpose,
Peace of heart, peace of mind,
A piece of Something that feels like Mine,

instead -