How could I be so selfish
When I thought I wasn’t that strong
I was trying to hold on
When there’s nothing to hold

I didn’t look around and see how messy
Life is already
Not just to me but to everybody

How could I be this blind
When everything’s so wrong
I was sinking in my own
With this stories untold

But as the burden you carry, unfold
How selfish am I
grieving on my own

Let me carry that burden
For you were never alone
I’ll be here when you need me
Trust me, I’ll never go

I will always be your friend

I promise that

Until the end :]

I was opened the wrong way
forced against the natural motion
once carefully constructed and precision made
now laid down and broken asunder
hanging precariously from the frame
waiting to be fixed and aligned
I have become unhinged
everything bent out of shape
delicately balanced and waiting for the fall
won't someone fix these hinges
***** them back into the wall
won't someone hang me straight and true
all the tools are here, it's not hard to do.

in cold crisp air,
with steaming breath
and hearts open and laid bare.

we stand and remember.

the bugle sounds,
carry across the river
to meet the rising sun.
then it is quiet again.

we stand and remember

in tearful, grateful silence,
we stand and give honour
to, too many young men
who went a soldiering,
never to come home again.

we stand and remember

and in the rows before us,
old men they soldier on,
standing to attention
remembering wars long gone
and mates and foes and battlfields
and letters come from home.


faces resolute, set to the sun
as the bugle calls.. the last post,
remembering remembering
the wars that are long gone...

we stand and remember.

poppies, lie in drifts of red
in the air the scent
of pine trees and rosemary....
wreaths of hard fought grace,
lay placed with grateful thanks
below the names enscribed
upon the cenotaph's granite plane.

we stand and remember

the sun comes up,
with gentle, golden face
upon this special, sacred place.
we stand shrouded by memory
of those who fought and fell
and lie in a far distant place.

we stand and remember.
we will remember them....
lest we forget....

I bid you all a fond farewell
As these bones turn to dust in capitalist shackles.
No more will my voice be silenced
By gender roles and repression.
My foremothers gave me my rights nearly a century ago
And you still act like it’s pocket change.
No more.

I will rise above this consumerist nation
And be heard.
Feminism means equality, not women over men.
Don’t take offense when I lock my car doors.
You’ve proven yourselves untrustworthy.
“Not all men.”
But enough men.

I am not backing down; I am not giving in.
I am breaking free of conformity,
Barely comfortable in the skin you told me was imperfect.
Flip-flopping your beliefs; I am never good enough for you.
But I will always be good enough for myself.

I have some universal advice to give
To help with all you do
It's a simple little thing you see
It's as easy as one two

A girl asked me out dancing
This is something that I dread
Then I remembered my old grandad
He was talking in my head

He said...

Always lead with the left my boy
The left's the proper one
They're expecting you to use the right
But, it's the left that gets things done

I got drafted in the army
And at marching I was sad
I always got my feet mixed up
Then I thought of my grandad

Marching was a treat from then
With my grandad in my head
I'll break it down in squads for you
Here's exactly what he said...

He said...

Always lead with the left my boy
The left's the proper one
They're expecting you to use the right
But, it's the left that gets things done

I joined the army boxing team
I was skinny, quite absurd
There was no way I could ever win
Then I heard my grandads words

I took two rounds to win my bout
My master corporal was surprised
I had listened to my grandads words
And only got me one black eye

He said...

Always lead with the left my boy
The left's the proper one
They're expecting you to use the right
But, it's the left that gets things done

I met a girl while home on leave
I took her home to bed
And in the back I thought I heard
something grandad once had said

He said...

Always start with the left  my boy
The left's the proper one
They're expecting you to use the right
But, it's the left that gets it done.



..

Jim McDonnagh pulled his 2011 Ford Escape into his driveway, glancing over at his six year old son, who was sitting at the end of the drive. Angus McDonnagh, all of six years old, and ginger haired was waving at his dad, from a kitchen chair, set behind a card table. On the table was a sign and a box. Of course, from the angle Jim was at in the car, he couldn't see what was on the white board hanging in front of the table. Angus waved again, and turned back to the road.

Jim, entered the large four bedroom bungalow from the side door, looking back at Angus one more time. Angus, was sitting, watching the cars drift by on the road in front. Carol McDonnagh, Jim's wife of nine years was at the front window watching out over Angus and his table. Jim came up behind her, and asked "What's himself doing out there at the table then?"

"I think you'd best go ask him yourself" said Carol. She had a slight smile on her face.
"No, what's up with him then....why the lemonade stand at the end of the driveway?".
"It's not a lemonade stand...did you see any lemonade out there?"
"Come to think of it, no I didn't...just wee Angus, and a box"..."What's in the box?"
"Go and talk to your son"..."He'll let you know...and oh, we've a long distance call to Belgium going to be on the next bill".
"OK....I'll....who do we know in Belgium?"
"Questions, questions...go and talk to your son"

Jim, went out the front door of the house, past Angus's bike in the walkway, where he always left it, and where Jim always told him not to leave it. Angus turned to see who was coming and then turned back to the road.

"Hey son, what's up?" said Jim. "Your mum said I should ask you what you're doing out here".
"Nothing Dad, just practicing...that's all", and he turned back to the road.
"Just practicing..cool, ok I asked"....and Jim started away, turned on his heel and asked "Do you mind if I ask ...for what are ye practicing my lad?.
"To be famous Dad, to be famous" said the ginger headed mite.
"Oh, ok then....hold it....To be famous?"..."By sitting at the end of our driveway in the middle of Glasgow, you're going to be famous?".
"Not now Dad, I'm practicing....but one day".
"Oh alright, dinner's in half hour, see you then"...."Hold it....how is sitting at the end of our driveway, at a card table with a box....practicing to be famous?".
"Easy Da...I'm selling autographs".
"Autographs?" asked Jim.
"Yep" said Angus.
"And whose fine autographs are you selling my son, my son....you can't write your name yet....you can barely scrape by on the printing side of things too".
"Their mine Da...mum did them on some kitchen cards for me. Their only one pound each. All famous people have autographs". Jim walked around to the front of the table, and looked at the box and the sign. Sure enough, one box full of about twenty white three by five recipe cards with Angus McDonnagh written on them, nice and sweet as could be. On the sign, "OTTO GRAFS" ONE QUID EECH!!!!

Jim pondered his son's new and sudden career choice and asked "Angus...why do ye want to be famous?".
"Because it's cool Dad. Everyone likes famous people". "I see..." said Jim. "Just a thought though son, don't you have to do something to become famous, to have people like you?".
"That's why this is just practice" said Angus.
Now, how do you argue with that logic?

Up at the house Carol was looking out at her two men, one ready to be famous and the other confused as to why.

"Dad, you like them footballers on telly, right?". "Yes son, I do....they're good at what they do".
"And when you see them girls in the paper, without their shirts.....Cor' I'll have a bit of that...isn't that good. That means you like them too, right?".
"Yes son, but...that's a different sort of thing".
"How?...they're famous and people know them...are they good at what they do?" asked Angus.

Flustered, Jim answered "yes they are son, yes they are". "What exactly do they do Dad?".
"I'll tell you when you're ten son...wait until you're ten".
"I'm gonna be famous like that footballer who's always in the news dad"....
Jim thought about it...not sure who his wee boy was talking about.....and then it hit him.
"You know dad, the one they always show on the news and the sports with that lady".
"Son, that's John Terry, Englands Captain", said Jim.
"He's the one, played for Chelsea too".
"That's not what he's on telly for lately son, that's not the type of famous you want". "Why not?"
"He's famous for doing something bad, that's not what you want...is it?".
"So, I don't want to be like him, and I'm not ready to know about taking my shirt off...what can I be famous for Dad....I'm ready..I've got autographs done in the box".
"I know son, you'll find out"....and hopefully soon thought Jim.
"You can be like that Justin Barber lad from Canada....go on the internet and do stuff there, you can get famous from that son".
"It's Bieber and nope, nope and nope" said Angus.
"He has tattoos, likes girls and worst of all...he looks geeky".
Jim laughed at the last bit. "But, he's famous...isn't that what you want?"

"Supper!!!" Yelled Carol from the window.

"It is, but not if I have to do that...I never thought being famous would be so tough".
Jim thought, exactly why I avoided it son. He grabbed the box, and folded up the table, Angus was dragging the chair behind him...he dropped it by the bike and went in.
Jim looked at it, dropped the table...took out a pound coin, dropped it in the box and went in for dinner.

"Maybe I'll be a fireman instead " said Angus as they went inside. "People like them too...and it doesn't seem as hard as being famous"...."Yep, a fireman".

Jim smiled, tousled his son's raggedy head and went to the table.

"Now would someone tell me about this phone call to Belgium?....

Love as defined in the dictionary: An intense feeling of deep affection.
Love as defined by 98% of others**: Painful.

I wanted answers but all you did was kiss me.

I know that doesn't seem complex,
yet when the twin towers were hit the
conspiracies rose as the people fell.

Who was really in charge of all of this?

I believe that question belonged to both my
situation and the nation.

I thought to myself that you'll talk
and tell me about what was going on in
your mind and if you felt the same way.

But that was like hoping for a blind man to explain
the fear in the people's eyes as they
ran away from the city's blocks of smoke.

For a blind man wouldn't comment on what he couldn't see,
just how you couldn't see how much I cared about you
therefore you didn't comment
let alone compliment.

While they searched for bodies,
I searched for body language.

The aftermath of the towers falling resulted
with no air traffic for a week above the U.S.,
people reported that
the skies had never looked so blue.
I was told the same after the word
"us" had fallen.

I wanted answers but all you did was leave me
with conspiracies questioning if this end was planned.

Darling I'm not the same as I was back then,
I thought comets and stars were things in the sky
Until I looked around one day to find
That they're in as many people
As they are in my mind

No one is really ever the same, you see
Everything changes you and me
Every thought and action we do will lead
Into another alternate reality.

What if we turned left instead of right that one day?
Would we have met with early demise?
Or would we have gotten that job we had hoped to find?

See these are the things that are constantly on my mind
For I can't help but contemplate how the stars align
To bring us closer together or further apart
Or weather or not you see someone's true heart.

I guess it's a difficult concept for some to grasp
I mean even I am having a momentary lapse of reason

I guess that's just part of being human
Thinking about what's bigger about us
Or what could bring our downfall

So many of us just sit and contemplate what it means to be in this body
And the longer we think about it the more uncomfortable we become with ourselves

Because with how our world works if you're not a size zero through nine you're not worth the time of the males searching for mates.

Or if the muscles in your stomach don't look like a six-pack then you're not a very good looking male in the first place.

But if you sit and think about how to make this world crumble
You'll see how everyone thinks they're nothing.
But if you tell a girl or guy they're made of stardust and clear skies
They'll laugh and call you a dreamer.

Maybe I am,
Or maybe that's what poets are
Dreamers who think the world is pretty terrible
So they string lines together to create a scenario to help others see the bigger picture

That everyone is made from stardust.
That everyone is beautiful.

Teach a child to beg--
And he will grow with self-pity.
Surviving...
For his self only.

Teach a child to live with dreams--
And he will spring up like a tree.
Nurtured by the world's challenges...
Growing,
For himself.
Living,
For others.

In slit-throat symphony
it pumps
encapsulated by its own desire
as it quivers and jumps.

A sucker for love,
and the vector for infectious fury,
four bloodied arbitral chambers;
Victim, Executioner, Judge and Jury.

For I can feel
the soured anger it injects into
the cerebral cortex of my brain
infesting my life
with sickness and clotted disdain,

this foolish heart
I'd rip right out of my chest!
Forget all the pain
because I don't think I'd feel the rest,

It's just not fair -
not fair, that with every passing day,
I feel less and less
like my true, honest, self -

O' sweet Doctor

lock the door

I think I'm very ill of health...

I fear the insanity of reality
the dying of the light,
I fear the poisoned blood inside my veins
and the nightmares that plague my nights,

I fear the cancer within a killer's eyes
the two-faced tyrant that shifts disguise -
I fear the loss of touch's sense upon my skin
the stark fact of being unable to give in,

I fear the men behind the make-up
red noses, big shoes, dickie bows and ties -
I fear loneliness's tortured silence,
of being left alone with my mind's screaming cries,

I fear the dead girls in white dresses
the struggles of modern life and it's many stresses -
I fear of finally flipping over the edge
cursed with the bastardised genes with which I'm drenched,

I fear the mysteries that life beholds
the thieves that'll creep in, steal my shallow breath,

I fear the eventual eventuality,

that is to be woken by the chilling whisper of Death.