The Lough Raven

You are my little bird, Unfeathered.
Picking at worms,
Eating from the dirt,
Hopping from hole to hole.
Trying to find food as console
For the feeling of loss in his soul.
For no other activity will make him whole.

This crow is unlike any other gawk
He has been excluded from his flock.
Whenever the current allows him to glide,
There is not partner to dance by his side.
No synchronised flights, no reason to pride.
This fowl only flies when the skies are blackened.
A solitude exodus does this dragon.

From bellow,
Cerberus wages his tail to his master.
He is the only companion
That can entertain
All the species that reside in his owner’s veins.
This little lost bird will fly away.
He may want to be nested
Though he cannot stay.
For fear is the cloud that he projected.
His shield and bed for all the heavens.

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A Cocoon For You

The first separation and abandonment we go through is when they pull us out of the womb. This poem touches on the topic of attachment/separation. How much can you give yourself until you lose yourself fully?There is a process we all go through called “identification”. When we like something, we identify with it. We take a piece of it – be it person or object and we absorb it into our concept of self. This is why letting go of others can be so strenuous. But we are more than human glue! We are THE glue that sticks not what is glued upon. Find this goo that makes you, you! . . A Cocoon For You . . Life is separation. It arises out of. There we once were, such a comfortable parlour Until the forces of gravity and more Pushes you out into the world. You once were two and now resting riven. My father once spoke: you are born alone and alone you shall exit. I see it differently. I was both butterfly, larvae and cocoon, Until I turned human. We all do. We enter this life as an enmeshed being To be torn apart so both can continue living Our constant desire to pair and fit bodies, through a puzzling activity Holds the same ginger bite than our primal survival instinct That tells you’re number one, in priority And the juggling is all your doing Living life seeking a cocoon That will let you enter it as it enters you Until another larvae sprouts, helping the process move.

Spoken Journal

I am opening my journal now. This was written on the 20th of January 2018. I have huge bags under my eyes. I have not been sleeping well. And as you can hear, it is nerve wrecking to do it, but it is part of the healing process. I slur, I pause and I make mistakes. The mummies were hosts – to ghosts. .

. Irish Memoirs .

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I do not write to put you on show.
I write so I do not let go
Of these memories lived in this Irish plateau.

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Writing allows me to remind
It takes me back in time
When you were by my side.
This is my time-travel device.
The only way “we” stay alive.

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The first time we met,
Was inside the tram cafe
In Wolfe Tone Square.
I could not see your face,
Some old music played,
I first saw your hand,
on the table layed.

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Our smiles confirmed our stance
As our eyes would constantly glance.
We started this wavy dance
Who would take the first chance?

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We went to St Michan’s Church
We kissed under the tree with urge
The graveyard saw us merge.
Who knew this to be our scourge?!

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The mummies were our hosts
To this gathering of lost ghosts.
On that park where the ducks boast
We untied all the knots and bolts.

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The day was ending, to our distaste
I solely wish you could have stayed!
We gave ourselves a last embrace.
You left. My heart, since, lacerates.

Thought

Not a poem.
This thought came to me. I feel whenever two set of eyes meet, that there is that deep connection. But it takes time to get to know someone. So when a set of eyes looks at mine and connects, a wall rises up. There is so much to unpeel and for sure they don’t know what is coming! I do, so, hence, this thought is just me rebelling. I wish that connection was enough. But, hold on until I start telling you why this is not a good idea…trust me, it’s for your own good.
OK, I make no sense.

To Be Feminine

I suffer from a condition called Dermathopagia, a compulsion disorder where one bites, rips, eats their own skin, mainly cuticles. I don’t eat it but if you see them, it looks like they have been mauled by a wolf. But no, it was only my heart that was mauled. I am so ashamed of them that I cannot post it here. They are pretty ugly. But those few lines seek to question: what makes a “woman”? Let’s not debate it, since it’s subjective. For many women, wearing heels and having their nails done helps them identify with their female side, whereas I identify with most male aspects, hence, why having my nails done?! But what we cannot is to feel less of a woman just because most women identify with it and you don’t. And please, do not allow others to choose how you portray any aspect of your physique.

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To Be Feminine

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Callous hands, Lady-like,
Sensual fingers, Not quite.
If painted nails are a sign of womanhood
Then I am convicted not to brood.
Chopped up cuticles,
I thought butter fingers was true!

Poetherapy

This poem was written by me and it was published on the esteemed New Ulster Magazine, Issue 65 / 27th of February 2018. 😍
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Poetherapy
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A grieving time is nothing but an opportunity
To be a catalyst for growth, alchemy and immunity.
Don’t ask why you or why now
Accept pain as a ladder or a portal
That propels you to a higher ground.

When it feels like all has been stripped away
A chair cannot walk without its legs, you would say.
Close your eyes, breathe and look within
What you search for, lies under your skin.

When those thoughts go around like pinballs
Put on electronic music
let your body shake, until it falls.
Use your left and right brain to communicate
I promise you won’t feel alone one more day
Take a pen and parchment, make a statement
Rewrite your pains away,
Word by word, paper by paper.

Poetry aids with shadow integration
It helps you listen
To repressed fears’ explanation
You can paint a picture with their tale.
Let madness reside only in your imagination.

Poetry gives irrationality legs
So they can walk right out of our heads.
Storytelling gives them voice,
Reducing the inner-noise.
Poems transform a mourning cry
Into heart-warming rhymes.

Poetry I’ll weave you some nice dress.
I sing a tune from my distress
I make the sorrows into a song
That I shall belt the whole night long
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