We are critical.

We find flaws in
everything we see
because nobody
wants to write
about perfection,
even though sometimes
we wish we could just stay
staring into that
unblemished surface.

2. We are never satisfied.

We live our lives upon
mountains of
scrunched up
bits of refill and
ideas we gave up
trying to
express.

3. We never forget.

We write words about
eye contact made
three months ago
that we replay over
and over in our minds
even though it
stopped
being relevant.

4. We are fickle.**

Our emotions flash
from one
to the other
like strobe lighting that
disorientates us
until we feel as if
the world
will never be still.

5. We are exposed.

We don't know how
to keep our feelings
to ourselves so
we'll write them
down for
you to find
'accidentally'.

6. We are vulnerable.

We wear our
hearts on our sleeves
and won't lift a
muscle to fight back
if somebody tries
to break it
because we thrive
from the pain.

7. We will never stop.

We will never stop
feeling and
we will never stop
hurting,
we will never stop
breaking and
bleeding and
loving
even though the cycle
is endless
and we know what's
coming next.


We are addicted
to agony,
but we agonise
for the art.

Welsh born and here I stand
Always proud of this beautiful land
Loyal to this country where I was born
Ever missing it when I am gone
Special, glorious Wales, within my heart

pouring my heart out to your email at night –
it just doesn’t feel right
the love, the lust, the tears, the fright
is it really worth my time?
tell me it’s worth being apart
tell me it’s worth being torn apart
by the time and the silence
and all the secrets you keep in your heart.


but even if it’s not worth my time,
nothing you can say will keep me from being by your side.

My father loves his whiskey,
He tells me it reminds him of his home,
Nights in Dublin and Irish winters,
He danced with my mother under the moon,
Across the rivers and between the cracks,
Father do you drink to remember?
She still loves you all the same,
Oceans divided and still she remembers the barley,
All of the bar fights, and the serenades that sprouted,
Father do not be afraid,
For she still holds your heart

I wrote a poem for my English class and my teacher said he didn't like it.

I wasn't mad because I got a bad grade, I was mad because what if I wasn't strong enough to look past his opinion and keep writing? What if that one negative comment made me quit altogether and never share a single word again?

What if he ruined my future because he couldn't look past his idea of what a poem should be?

A poem does not have to rhyme or end with closure or even make sense to everyone who reads it.

A poem simply has to reach part of someone's soul who had no idea that these were the words they had been waiting to hear and these were the words that were meant to save them.

This is what a poem is, not a grade from a teacher or a rhyme in a book. A poem is a method of coping and a way to understand the world with ease.

I wrote a poem for my English class and my teacher said he didn't like it. But I am stronger than he thinks, and I will continue to write poems that he does not like and I will continue to love them in spite of his opinion.

"I was never in love with you"*
is what I've said
while rolling my eyes.

You breathed a sigh of *relief
looked at me straight in the eyes
and brightly smiled.

'Sorry, I lied'
are the words
I'll never say out loud.