The Irish word for poet
is "File".
This always fascinates me
Because it reminds me of a youthful horse
(The filly)
Pushing the boundaries
And stumbling on awkward legs
Being
not the most majestic
But the one who discovers
Joy and passion
and vibrancy
in every action of life.

When just putting
one foot in front of the other(s)
is a deed as majestic
As galloping
Like a knight with surmounting pride
Or a night with no end,
It's indeed a gift
of youth and innocence.

Like the old mare,
We may bear wrinkles.
Like the war horse,
We have our battle scars.

But we are the “File”.
And we have something to say.

and we will forever be
infinite
in our hoof beats
and our heart beats.

There's a world that sits
in the tip
of
your cigarette.


There's a city in
that spark.

I break glass;
glass against.
Perfect blade of perfect glass perfects a pane of perfect grass
So perfectly green and glass breaks blue and green glass
On glass.

it really is a shame
that you're choosing a life of
secrets and drugs and alcohol and *** and partying
and black nail polish and black eyeliner and black leather jackets
and ego and emptiness and anxiety and insomnia
over
a life
of
three children who are learning how to need you
less and less as the days pass
one by one by one by one
it really is a shame that you're choosing that life over
one
of
potential and talent and adventure and music and laughter
and a daughter who is wondering
why she still has so much love left in her heart for you and
where to put it when you're
vanishing into nothingness,
blackness,
right before her eyes,
it scares her.

where do i put all this love when the person who it's meant for
is going
going
gone?

but i'm still here, and i guess
you are not but
i am still here
i am what i started with
and i am what i end with

it really is a shame, though
that you are letting all this precious love go to
waste.