New Poetry.

A Murdered Child

One day I came across a murdered child.
Motionless on the concrete,
A patterned slab of grey and black
Chipped and cracked and dirty.
Huddled, curled up into himself,
So fragile in the morning dew
That settled over him during the night.

He looked bright in the spring sunshine,
Tawny hues and copper browns shone like explosions.
And I wondered for a moment
That perhaps he was only sleeping,
Basking in the light of dawn.
But I knew this wasn’t true,
That he was long gone from this world.

I saw the parted lips,
As if he was still letting out his final shriek.
And the shining eyes unmoving, quiet.
I moved his broken body gently,
He went limp in my hands,
Bones snapped and fell away.
A tiny bird, killed by the cat.

The Balloon.

You held me,
A balloon on a string.
As a child I was close,
Bobbing cheerily at your side.
Reaching up to the skies,
But never straying too far.
You held me, so tenderly.

And I grew,
The winds of age came.
I struggled against you,
A balloon too big to be held so close.
Fighting to be swept away,
To be lost in the darkness of youth.
And you held me, so protectively.

I am grown,
You unwind the cord a little.
I float further away,
Searching for my own way.
Reaching for the free air,
For my dreams, but still too close.
And you held me, so stubbornly.

Let me go,
You fear the engines of planes.
But you made me so well,
Gave me life and the courage to float.
And I will touch the stars,
But one day, I will happily return.
And you will hold me, once more.

One Day.

they were standing
in the
dry dirt and the
sun was bright.
and it hurt my eyes
and i didn’t like the shouting.
it would have
been a nice day if
they weren’t shouting.

pressed against the
car window or
huddling against my baby brother.
i forget but i
was crying.
i didn’t like the hitting.
it would have been
a nice day if
they weren’t hitting.

and i saw mammy cry
and daddy
with his fists high up.
and the car
was too hot.
it would have
been a nice day if
the car wasn’t hot.

and we went
inside the kitchen
and outside
they were still shouting.
and i could hear the tv
dunno what was on.
it was a nice day
cos grandma
she gave us biscuits.

Conception.

I was of forced conception. Two children: one too ill and one of malicious and selfish intent. My beloved parents. Or so I thought as a four year old. I thought everything was perfect. I was perfect. I had the perfect life and nothing would ever change that. And things got violent.

To be told of my conception as a child greatly broke something deep down. Sometimes I'd forget about why I'm here and just be here. But no one can escape their past, who they really are inside.

And it burns inside. It feels like rats are crawling and turning in my stomach, every inch of skin crawls. My muscles are repulsed, crafted around bones and trapped by skin that's so dirty and nasty.

It really is the true definition of self-loathing. I just want to be sick.

Was I really meant to be here at all?

I'm just so tired and heavy and miserable.

I just hate who I am.

hello september,

this summer has been so strange.

i lost a friend.
she'd been sick for a long time.
sometimes it still doesn't feel like she's gone.
but i hadn't seen her in a long time.
i feel bad for not being there.
i'm so sorry.

i hope you're okay now.




lead me to temptation
and shove me in the hole in the ground.
and soundless, i will lie.
with hope.
but with no love.

for there was never such a thing as love.

and suddenly, she screams.

O Death.

No wealth, no ruin, no silver, no gold.

Nothing satisfies me but your soul...

I dreamt that I once found myself. It was just a lie. And slowly, the past crept up behind me. When it catches up, it will drag me, kicking and screaming, to a dark place I once forgot.

Hello, hello. I am Cheryl. I don't have a life anymore because I work two jobs and I'm too tired to do anything else anymore. Goodbye internet life, you were so beautiful. I have also noticed that my temper is very short and I know it's very nasty so it's best that I don't lose it. My new job is fine, but hot. Very hot. And right now my wrist is all red and sore and hurty because my Reading 09 wristband has caused some sort of horribleness on my skin but I don't want to take it off.

I'm also planning on getting my tattoo this summer, if I can decide on where it's going to be. I'm not sure if I should have it on my wrist or not. Hmm. I need to decide soon.

I am tired again. Sleep is needed.

Goodnight life-I-do-not-have.

au revoir.

She packed her bags and said goodbye to the grey room. There's been so many memories this year. Embarrassment, fun and even the darker days.

The nights she sat and cried until she had no more tears left. The evenings she spent with friends, drinking and laughing and feeling so glad to be alive. The afternoons spent bored, hunched over sketch pads and keyboards. The mornings spent huddled under the sheets, forgetting who and where she was.

The lonely times where she couldn't remember what time it was.

She's packed her bags and is ready to go. Ready to leave this place for another and start again for a new year. This room was her everything, her life, her home.

And there'll soon be no trace of her ever being here, except the wine stains on the carpet.

5.55am

What do you think about when there's too many things locked up inside your head?

I think about sad things.

Because sometimes, the sad things are what I only seem to remember.

taste

When do you start feeling old? I feel young, childish and stupid. I'm out. And in a drunken haze I scour the floor - try to feel confident, quite the big man. And I sit and stare and as the seconds tick by, the painful loneliness begins to claw its way in. Odd one out again, perfect. Everyone else is in pairs and here I sit feeling quite along, cradling my drink as if it's the only friend I have in the world. I sit and search, someone to connect with - someone to feel, to sink my nails into. Someone who might care. And the vodka doesn't seem to do the desired effect, it doesn't make me edgy or straight - it blurs me and I slump and wonder what the fuck I'm even doing here. And I'm pulled along, outside where the air is clouded and cold and it feels amazing. I light up and sigh, trying to get my head on straight. Think, just think. Just...

And then I see her, smaller than me - lip piercing shining and I just stare. The vodka abandons me and I look at my friends, pleading for help. I can't do this. I'm too drunk and too shy and I can't do anything right. I stare at her again, she has dark hair. It's hidden by a hat. She's cute. I like her. I look to my friends again and they help me out. She seems cautious. I shake my head, trying to convince her. There's no catches, please please - just one taste. No catch at all. I'm just shy and hoping for a fix - a simple thing. How do you taste?

And she tastes... delicious.

Amanda, you tasted delicious.