A DSM LOVE

I always knew You were not right in the head

.That is not how normal people act

None-the-less, I longed for your caress

I could understand

Your intricacies.

Accusations,
Limited views,
And miscalculations.
But you know me,
A maso-sadist
Who plays with fire to get burned.
I cherish the lunacy that resides in All of us.
Let’s “namaste” wild gods, thus:
My inner psycho master greets

The schizo deity inside of ye

We all have a part that is out of wack and unbalanced and rather than repressing and ignore it, I am trying to treasure it and acknowledging.

People with mental illnesses deserve to have relationships. For that they need understanding compassion from others.
I am not trying to make light of those conditions, specifically mentioned or any mental health issue. But this is me, acknowledging that we have a propensity to get there, to the same place some are at. By recognising it in myself, I recognise it in others and that puts me in a position of compassion, rather than judgement.

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How to Flirt with a Poet

Poets are lovers of words
If you are going to approach
Make sure that you boast
About your vocabulary.
Use everything that you carry
Use everything that you know.

Poets like verbal displays
Being able to express how you are feeling
Otherwise, we won’t hear what you are speaking. “Hey beautiful” is just a mere sentence that echoes.

That might just mean, they don’t really know how a poet operates.

Poets adore serenades
We like to play with the words
We substitute them with grace
We like to hear definitions
We paint life with letters that won’t erase.
But when you get simplified sentences,
Copied and pasted.
Everywhere, in your space.
It frustrates you to some disgrace.

Poets see the world with creative variance.
We seek novelty, diversity and new experience.
Not the simplification and limitations that the superficiality of a “hey gorgeous” brings.

Next time you come near
Make sure to sing me some epic hymn.

Spoken Word Night

This is me, speaking on an open mic night brilliantly organised by Flying South Dublin. This event was great! The feature acts left me gobsmacked and inspired!
I was so nervous, after all, there were more than 50ppl there and it was my second time speaking. I also tried not to read, I find it more tedious.
I slurred my words, but my poetry got heard. This is what kept me from listening to the fearful thoughts. They are witty. They come with convincing explanations: oh you are tired, oh you can go another time. Oh, it’s raining, stay inside. But if I think: it is not about me but about the pieces of experiences lived through me and they want to be heard. So let it speak!

A dream-not of you

The process of writing poetry is fascinating. I have a considerable amount of stream of consciousness lines to work on and weave into a poem. Nonetheless, sometimes the flow does not come so I leave them aside. This poem came from a tag on instagram for the hashtag #youneverleft.

I love how free flow poetry works. One line pushes another and there you have it. You don’t really know where it will lead you to. In truth, the last lines came first and I built my poem from these pillars.
Just a reminder: no one but yourself can make your dreams come true. But this line just alludes to the fact, there was a wish that was never fulfilled. 👇

A dream-not of you

The rising shine of morning rays
Tickles the eyes, hatching for the day.
The first thought and memory that delineates my mental landscape
Are not yours, they are mine to gratify and celebrate.

Finally, I achieve peace.
No more worrying, “does he love me?!” The focus is, again, internal
The breaths and heartbeats make this poetry’s symphony.
Our story will remain stamped on my cells, the body’s journal,
For the learning does not die, it keeps on coming.
Forever ingrained in the patterns of the unconscious.

Then, I realise,
You have never left, never really withdrew,
That is because you never came
To make my dreams come true.

City Encounters

Who said loneliness is not tangible?
It is the phone that doesn’t ring
Or the finger taps that don’t please.
All those people in your feed,
Shutting their blinds down
On your window screen.

So, I download that app and walk around
Hoping our paths cross around town.
The red light beeps
Like my heart beats that bleeds
It is not a notification,
But my battery that ceases.

Town is buzzing, eyes are crossing
Heads are turning, men are watching.
Ripped jeans and some fake tan whiff.
Going out for a drink?
Ain’t nothing better than this?
How about a bicycle trip?

Pareidolia Love

The rhythm is faster than I would have wished. I just wanted to fit it all into 1min.

Sorry if it is a bit muffled but I am using my phone as a mic.

___________

Pareidolia Love

I am the face on this tree,
The face that all sees.
I carved our bleeding names onto it
And I circled it into a heart.
But I can’t find this tree no more.
I’ve been banned from that park
I am left to wander and look for parts
of memories left, in the forests of my past.

A date into the city burrows,
I saw the tombs where monks got buried.
I went where you saw Irish ship,
We kissed just right beside those trees.

Your dog was frolicking in the soil
The rain was pouring, but it was no toil
My feet got soaked, yet, you dried me
With lots of hugs and fleshy heat.

I look back and reminisce,
This was a real lived romance!
I then, wake up without your kiss
Was this a dream? Or just a trance.

I’ll let my eyes be on this tree
So it shall always look at thee.
Protecting you, when passing b,
Inattentive to my guise.

Virtual Harakiri

 

 

 

You’ve left this digital space
It seems, not only I, devastate.
This realm of virtual overwhelm
Where you used to co-create.
I mourn a death, like they do in old time sakes.
Only, the information is not delayed.
This notification, is heralded in a fast pace.
You can see it, straight away.
Like a slap in the face,
A goodbye note that is left
And cannot be retraced.
You are now, more gone than before.
There’s no more peeping through window blinds, no reason for.
When the person exits your virtual world
You cannot knock on their door anymore.
They leave a blank space in your analogue globe.
Like an empty house, where memories are forlorn.
You type and retype and seek for a shortcut
But you only waste time,
Trepidation waves in the gut.
Suddenly, you have a hole, between your chest and bones.
Then, you learn
Against death, there’s no winning.
Let the questions burn
Ignorance keeps your head from spinning!