With nothing to see and nowhere to be,
With no one to be and nowhere to go:
Empty, like the meaning of the spring dew
Dissipating, hundreds of pieces, scattered
Individual voids waiting upon a cue
To become what they embody, fettered.
A field of unquiet quietness, occasionally
interrupted by a single, awful tone.
What existence is this exigence?
Unknowable, unspeakable, unending:
Pain is what it is.

The dew knows not why it's stepped on,
Ending its momentary nature
Only to crop up tomorrow and be none
The foot becoming again its berater.
And so it goes until the summer,
with the cruel months behind it.
The skull becomes and beckons
Back into nihil.
But there's too many things to see, places to be
Too much to be and too many places to go
For to be one is to be many and the dew tires.

Sometimes, I fear that the passing of time

will be the ruin of all that makes up of me.

I hope not to be the consequence of

destruction by distraction-

fading away within the fleeting of life.

Sometimes, I fear my

responsibilities becoming like a weapon

for involuntary manslaughter.

I do not want each day to erode my soul to dust.

All of what I am

becoming the ground beneath

conformity.

I do not want hazy eyes in a dazed filled life,

each step I take almost simultaneously.

I do not wish the world to warp

my individuality.

I want to devote to my own

ideal of integrality.

And remember all of the

persistent passions

that have coursed relentlessly

through my veins,

morphing all that's evolved to me.

May it only be a dream... composed in one.
Nightmares shaking inside me.
I drown myself so deep, where the water begins to reap.
I love to hold you, to feel you, but who are you?
Where are you?
Why aren’t you here with me?
Why so distant?
Why haven’t I met you?

You don’t exist.

My imagination.
Stringing myself in my realms of pure intensity.
An ocean on fire ...
A war with no winning ...
A person with no belonging ...
A rage with no fist ...

Suppressed, inner rage, inner love, inner hate, inner sadnesses, inner longing, inner numbness, inner cold, inner emptiness.
Inner distractions....

I face them all at once.
Inner wisdom...
An old soul living in a fake world.
Take me out of here.

So noisy, it’s crushing
Its songs; sad ones
happy ones, silly ones.
It's jokes; fallen pens,
****** texts, Durcan’s poetry.
None of these thoughts are helpful.
Not even by a little bit.
Pastel highlighters, a new pencil case
My jacket is green.
I did the bare minimum of Spanish
I organised a previous debate’s cards
My Irish notes glare at me.
My math's teacher won't give up.
I keep all of history in my head,
But not in a place I can access.
I can give you Sinn Fein manifesto
but not the sections of Mozart’s  
23rd concerto in A major.
The room is loud, but silent in  
Comparison to my argumentative mind.
Busy, so busy.
Nothing will be done.

her words
are savory
i might
devour,

but i
should escape
from her
maneuvers