Category: About Love

it’s a beating in my lungs and a shrieking on my tongue–
there’s no denying its infuriating siren song,
birthed in the thought of a hypothetical circumstance.
i can’t get enough of this blissfully ignorant abuse;
even though you’re killing everything i stood for,
i just can’t get enough of you.


Croibhín, sweet ionúin,
my heart is yours.
I seek you in moonlight,
burning bright as a star.
Your innocence is blinding
and your wild soul secure;
come from your nest,
my little croibhín,
and knock on my door.
I’ll save you from hunger;
in my keep you’ll be warm.
I’ll clothe you, I’ll feed you
with wisdom and mirth.
Civilization won’t mar you,
safe in my hold;
nor will violence take you
as you struggle through dark –
a darkness in your eyes,
instinct of the plagued
that empowers, drains,
leeches and breaks.
I beseech you young ionúin:
set free these beasts
that so savagely tempt you;
they’re blooded, but weak.
Trust me, dear lioness,
and let rest your head.
In dreams, forget your burden.
I’ll fight in your stead.

The Ashes

I thought that the breaking point would hurt more than this;
and yet it doesn't. It's a mere prickling on my skin,
coupled with enraptured Confusion at my left
and timid Exhilaration to the right.

I'm still holding on to the thought ... of you
but, at the least, I'm not running.
You always felt like you were talking to the wall,
asking cold stone to move aside;
to give a little.
The bricks didn't listen, and the artist
only carved another message upon their faces.

All you'll find here are the broken-up thoughts
of the groggy and the sleepless (but I dream. I dream!)
who tear themselves apart for the sake of their hope
when they've been strangling that dove for months.

Even then, I'll speak from the solace of my heart,
twisting the knife in my back one more time
so that I might complete the show and step off the stage.
I never really tried, and we all know that.
I never really put effort into anything
except for the panic that fueled my movement.
I've been seeking to understand,
but I've realized that it's so much easier
to admit I know nothing and step aside.

The easy way out is just before my eyes
four stories up with my head peeking through hell.
Plenty have told me that there are hundreds -
perhaps even thousands -
who would be devastated at the loss.
I don't argue, but it brings a smile to my shattered face.
I can count the variety who would be touched
at their distance, blanketed by merciful removal,
on two hands and half a bucket of lies.

Instead of following through with my ideas for the Fall,
I remained, and here you'll find me,
dancing about your head with these ugly words
that you, in your ignorance, call poetic.
I'm still sending stolen songs into the audience
on faded post-it notes signed in innocent blood,
hoping they'll listen and learn,
just the same.
I wish.

"I meant to sympathize. I meant to be a friend.
I know apologizing won't erase the end,
but I know that moving on is where I must begin
because when our colors mixed,
we couldn't fix the way they didn't blend.
So tell me, how long?
How long have I been down?"

The Requiem

she holds fast to a hope
that a hero will come by
and save her from her nightmares, herself.
she lives in a fairytale,
eyes closed against the world
and fingers scrabbling
for somebody to rescue who can save her.
she stands at her self-made impasse,
a fork in the road,
and offers a choice to those who find her.
no matter which they choose,
it ends the same:
both paths lead to the noose
and in her panic,
she finds herself as executioner.

this is not the life she wanted for herself,
but she’ll never tell you that.
her smile no longer remains.
the mask is gone,
revealing that confused rage she finds herself trapped within.
the wrath, that terrible drake
that she cannot yet bring herself to slay.

the reason it falls apart
is not due to anything but herself.
she has always craved love
and always dreamed of attention.
but when she finds herself
surrounded by it,
she runs.

maybe, someday,
she’ll learn to return that love, instead.

(even then,
she can’t do this by herself.

Lord Father, she’ll never ask
but she needs your help.) 

The Conversation

It’s nothing but a fast-paced
dance for the dead.
Voices tangle together
as they stretch out for the sky,
despairing and enraged.

“It’ll always be better next month,”
you tell me.
I can’t help but remember
my friend,
bloated form
and six feet under.
“It’ll be better next month,”
she told me.
She told me,
and she died.

And you,
you helpless child
who chose not to grow
if only
out of the fear of being hurt.
I can’t blame you
for your tantrums;
you’re alone,
or so you feel,
but don’t you think
it’s about time
for you to step back
and take a hold of life
before it gets away?
I might shrug it off
but the words wound me,
and I don’t take kindly
to being broken
when it’s not of my own accord.

And you!
You, you idiot woman,
racing off with the desire
to take your life.
You missed, didn’t you?
You missed your destination
because you sent another
to take your place.
You idiot woman,
selfish and afraid.
You add to my faults
as much as any other.

And You.
You, who started this
downhill race.
You can’t imagine
just how much
I want to reach back in time
to when we were “together,”
and tear out
that lying tongue of yours.
You can’t imagine.
I hate the feeling you’ve left in me.
There’s no hatred;
only cold vengeance.

And you,
and you,
and you and you and you.
All of you
who hold me up,
and all of you
who throw me down.
It’s over,
don’t you see?
It’s Over.

So pull the trigger,
pull the trigger,
shoot me down
and burrow deeper
into my bones;
leave me bleeding
to the sound
of your love screaming.

The Hint

there’s a hole
inside my boat.
i need to
stay afloat
for the Summer

never was
one for water.
oceans and lakes,
and streams –
they’re all…
i suppose,
from a distance.
but here,
here i am
in a battered ship
and i’m sinking.
it’s swiftly
a countdown
for the fall.
we’ll harvest
our tears
and see
just how destructive
can be.

The Nutcase

it isn’t
that the feeling itself
is new.
i’ve felt it;
at least,
for you.

i pride myself
in my independence.
i have told myself
that i
have no need
for others;
i have been
into believing
that it is selfish
of me
to want
it isn’t
my place.
am as
the lowly slave
to my own Self,
and you-
you are a prince
of some
extinct tribe
of eloquent savages,
removed from
royal standards
and social niceties
and poetry.
who am i
to wish
for that?

how can i want
in the eyes of others,
you have
“nothing new”
to give me?
when you have
something i can
“get elsewhere,”
something i can
“find in another”?

i’ve always been asked that
and i’ve always
asked myself.
always asked,
never found answers,
never went away.

so i don’t ask now,
but merely breathe
and study this.
i believe that
the lack of hooks
to catch my lip upon
makes you
so much more

you see,
it’s been so
and detached
and painful
up to now
for a reason
that i believe
i have recently
come to know.

i’ve loved many,
dear sir…
but i’ve never

The Humiliation

it’s frustrating me
that i can’t go
half a day
without speaking to you.

take the time
to mull over this.
is it what you really want?

i’ll ask
again and again and again
because that
is my nature:
to doubt.
it’s what i know.

nevermind it.
never mind…