there once was a tailor
who lived in a place unknown
his place was small
but i guess, it was home

he sewed clothes
for people far and wide
with nothing but a thin needle
and fabric by his side.

his job wasn't easy
he worked and worked all day
and the money it made?
well, it barely paid.

but he loved what he did,
with his stitches and thread,
so every night he would lay down
and dream happily in his bed

one day
he got a strange request
he had to make a special robe-
a golden dress.

he tried to explain
this was more than he could do
that this is impossible
but she didn't believe him- so now, he's blue

he tried and tried
but it couldn't be done.
she wanted hundreds of stitches
but he could only do one.

he felt so awful
judging many times over three
so he hung himself
on a branch of the olive tree

the woman was mad
at the tailor
she called him lazy
called him as useless as a sailor

so in the end
nobody won
she didn't get her dress
and the tailor killed himself
because that task simply couldn't be done.

and now,
the olives that come from the tree
remind everyone of him-
and what couldn't be.

when the mountains
come crashing down upon
the crops
and smother us
like a mother
maybe that’ll feel like
love
or wanting.
cause you fed the fire
in me
but now i’m burnt out
you planted the truth in me
but now only lies slip out
of my mouth.
come to think of it
the mountain
peaks are lower
than your
self esteem
can’t believe
i trusted you with
my blood
my tears
my values
you trampled them
like an avalanche.
liquid pours out of
my ears
my eyes fizzing
in them,
carbonation
is making an appearance.
sometimes i don’t know
what to do
i have no clue
what i am writing
right now
let alone
why my mind won’t
stop flooding with
images of your ivory skin.
this prison sentence
is on the brink
of ending.
thank Heaven.
and
i write to fill space
and that’s what
i did
with this.

I should let go of this emptiness
It is Parasitic. I can't explain the feeling
I've longed for forever but it seems too far
Why?
Our glass house, filled with cracks spiral-ling out of control
Tossed, tattered lay my despair
Claustrophobia - the perfect spot for my longing
The sun has stopped shinning
No one to share my frozen thoughts.
We've danced in circles - clueless
We emptied our chests but our hearts wouldn't budge
We've driven ourselves to places, we didn't pay attention
Maybe you think the taxi-man doesn't know isolation
You are so proud of your fortress
Your perfect thoughts so euphoric
the sea; our spot, perfect reflections
But my luck has gone bald, it cannot be saved
Looks picturesque, not in the grave
Trapped - thoughts feed the monsters
In shallow graves we sing the song of lonely birds
Breathless, barely awake, carefree I stutter;
I will miss you but I know what I must do.

I can only surmise,
why people give up on this "wonderful" life,
& say such hard and violent goodbyes,
I've been down on my knees,
& they've heard all my loneliest cries ,

It doesn't really mean that I'm really so, wise,
& doesn't mean I got the magic seeing eye,

Seeing how someone could want,
to be a ghost who will forever haunt,
to miss this most golden "opportunity",
a do-over,
when hands are up in futility,

From my most painful of memories,

I try to extract the reason,
from so deep within,
way deep below the surface of my skin,

And I think it is just enough,
too much of everything,
shattered spirits,
turning into brilliant shining stars,
eventually,
& no longer can they feel those hateful
old scars,

Cuz,
it maybe is that time,
for them,
who are we to really say,
what's so right or wrong anyway?

It seems a selfish way indeed,
a warning for me perhaps to heed,
though by death they say we are freed,

It seems so fundamentally " wrong"
and yet,

I just seem to completely understand.

Cherie Nolan © 2016

A universe and me.
The meaningless broken ideas of the world and me
No forever and me.
The end and me.

You who are the meaningless.
You without the breadcrumb trail to completion.
You of whom without, would not make any difference.
You, are but a thought.

Without hope, bound and held in rope.
Surviving within that straining rope.
Breaking, slicing and cutting the rope.
Hanged at noon in a noose made of rope.

My mind is blank of things to type on this screen
I have no inspiration
No rhythm
I haven't lost it all
Not quite yet
Its just drifting
And its time to go searching