Tribute to Him

Tribute to Him

I could never forget

            The little things

Like my cereal in the cupboard

            Purchases made for me

Censoring for a child

            Teddy bears collected to provide comfort

Cd-roms with stereos attached

            Globes and books for education

There was no moth ball-dust collected childhood

            This was new

A fresh perspective on how it could be

            How it should be

His presence was neither fear or loathsome

            But warm and kind

I did not feel judged

            Nor criticised, persecuted or tried

                        Just loved

There was no expectation on who I should grow to be

            No hurtful assumption

I am in debt for him

            He was neither father nor friend

But ally

            A friend

                        Someone I will love for the rest of my life

This is,

            My tribute to him.

I remember

I remember

I remember my mother’s soft hand in mine

My father’s adult-star authoritarian moustache

I remember the Zebra couch

Baptised in coffee stains

I remember musky moth-balls

And second hand warehouses with glass stacked high

I remember pain crippling

Sirens whirring

I remember water splashing in green-river lakes

Seaweed slapping my face

I remember my third-grade teacher

With Italian heritage; making pasta for ungrateful youths

I remember dusky dawns training

And dances til dark

I remember all this

And yet,

                        I don’t remember yesterday

Not Close Enough

Not Close Enough

I am a muddled mess of imperfection

            A hazy husk of a woman

With small dreams unachievable

            I lay awake at night

In pleasant slumber do I find my only solace

            Waiting for it to appear

Here it comes,

            Bared teeth

                        Ruthless to it’s impervious soul

It bites down hard

            Reality has once again hit me

It whispers of longing death

            A dark foul creature

You know nothing,

            It whispers

You are nothing

            It reminds

I am alone

            And yet, immersed in dread

                        Filled with fear

                                    From the demons in my head

Why So Serious?

Why So Serious?

 It comes in many forms

            A malignant shadow hiding away from light

It comes in the shudder at sound

            In the jump-scare of fireworks

It is the sweating fear of a café or shop

            It is the trembling hands that just can’t stop

It is the freezing

            The leg-locking sensation of nightly terrors

                        Of sweats drenching

It comes in the smell of cologne

            Musky and lingering

                        It has lived within memory for many years

It is unshakable


                        It is stubborn and persistent

It is the “why can’t you?” or the “still?”

            It is the “I can’t.” and the “please understand”

It is the potency of a smell, so strong

            No matter how hard you scrub,

                        It never comes off

It is the avoidance of crowds





                                                            Loud music venues

It is the pestilence agonising over forgotten numbers

            Or the constant worry of saying the wrong thing

It is the explaining to children why you have those scars

            Or to future employers who ask you “do you own a cat?”

                        Or the strangers that grab you without personal boundaries

It is the pain of sitting out on fun singing and dancing

            It is the musk of dank dark rooms

Filled with a potent stench of sadness

It is called many things

            Friend, it is not

Rather, a foe;

            A feisty being

                        A rabid dog

It snarls, gnashing its teeth

            It is seen by some

                        Empathised by even fewer

It is Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

            In all his glory

It is depression

            It is feeling so desperate to smile,

                        Its suicide.

I am. I have been. I will be.

I am. I have been. I will be.

I am an ocean with no sea-life

                No fish nor aqua living creature

I am a boat empty with no crew aboard

                No one manning the sails, nor tending the amidship

I am a home with no tenant

                No living on grounds

I am a wandering stranger

                Held by painful ambition

                                I join a league of nations,

                                                Silent and still

                Drowning in a sea of school debt

I join the faceless, numberless horde

                Swamped with desire


                I am a woman

                                With tremendous soul

Flawed and faulty,

                I have been naïve and too trusting

I have loved many and been loved by less

                I am my own sword, sharp and fierce

I am new;

                With dents and cracks aglow

I am prisoner to fantasies of greatness

                Lashed amongst painful despair

I am a soldier with wounded ambition

                I am a woman, strong and willing

I am a survivor

                With matching scars

I am a daughter to many

                A friend to some

I am an outcast, a pariah:

                A loner, a misfit

                                With no true tribe

I may be all these

                But there is no doubt that I am also

My Dad’s daughter with shared hazel eye,

                Or my mother’s friend with black fading hair

I am true to my clan,

                With Gaelic beginning,

                                Te Deum laudamus!

I am a scholarly student

                An academic hungry to learn

It is neither here nor there what I have been

                Or what I have done

                                And what I presently feel

But rather,

I am eager to begin a brand new something

                With opportunities plenty!

I think I’ll start tomorrow!



Do not tell me you love me,

                I cannot bear to hear it

It is a lie; a malicious lie,

                For it is not honest and is stagnant as murky water

Do not call me perfect,

                Ah, perfection,

What a cruel, cliche!

                                To be perfect – is not achievable

All clay is soft and malleable

                With great promise

And all porcelain is at some point finished

                But it is not perfect,

                                It breaks,

                                                It shatters.

I am no porcelain doll

                Nor was I made to sit pretty in a cabinet collecting dust

I was born with great promise,

                But never perfect

Perfect is a sunny day with cool breezes

                With joyful company and happy memory

                                It is a kite in blue skies sailing on the fresh wind


                Tell me your fears

                                Tell me you know my flaws

                                                Do not attempt to pick up shattered porcelain with the intent to fix

                                                                But rather: –


                And I will recover.

I can’t say I love you

I can’t say I love you

I can’t say I love you,

Because the words are simply not enough

“I love you” does not describe the comfort of your presence

Or the melodic drum of your steady beating heart

“I love you” does not define how safe and warm I feel around you

Nor does it adequately reflect the shape of your fingers

Entwined in mine

Or the way when I look down,

I can’t distinguish which ones are yours or which are mine

I love you cannot eloquently describe your beautiful blue eyes

Like shining shooting stars dipped in pure white marble

Illuminated in those kind framed eyes, a galaxy just for me

I cannot say I love you because it does not represent the sweet-smelling skin you always have,

Or the way your blonde curled hair frames your face

I can’t say I love you because of how its been misunderstood; used and abused

As a possession, restriction used to shame and confine

I cannot say I love you because it is not an adequate ‘thank you’

For always having my favourite drink in the fridge

Or the way you calm the clutter and confusion with your gentle-whispered words

It does not explain how, when I see you, I am instantly warmed as if you were the sun,

Or how your arms are like fluffy home-made quilts, providing comfort

Or the way you hug me, letting me that everything will be okay

I love you does not depict how happy you make me,

Or how hard you make me laugh

Or sketch the truth about finding my sanctuary in your heart

It does not truly illuminate the way I no longer fear the dark when I am with you

Or how I no longer fear closing my eyes to dream

“I love you” cannot illustrate the respect I have for you

Or how grateful I am for you and your existence

I cannot say I love you; because I love you too much