All Our Lives All our lives we’re expected to fit in And become part of the classroom we sit in Some teachers only fear our fuss And not the passionate story behind every one of us People make unfair assumptions about everyone’s actions Calling them as much as overreactions When in reality every action is
The Power of Music Six strings, a mic and a drum, A million stories these things can run, With a beat and tempo they tell a tale, A tale a million words would fail. Throughout history where oppression was present, Music dance and sing helped to make it pleasant, So if you see mistreatment and
The One True Constant She runs to me with eyes Dancing with more joy than I Or you or he will ever know again. The wild winds pull curls loose from The constraints put there lovingly By someone else. When will they see? Will they chastise her? Will her precious freckled cheeks soon play host
Joker’s Tongue I came forged in the pushcart net I am the joker’s silver tongue The phoenix of madness I am monsters dawn, the hollow circle I am the pause in silence The company of strength Prayer of life The glory of anger Books of numbers Dementors of grief Fionnuala Murphy I Am I am
Everyone Acts Everyone acts like they are okay, Everyone acts okay, People don’t tend to say that they are okay. Some people think that they are crap, Some people know that they are ‘it’, Others, who have a brain don’t think they are the same Ryan Askin My Heart Explodes I see you standing there
If I’m walking through the school hall stares, Just wishing that no one cares, To be a teenage boy. Oh what a joy. If I was never to be called such names And young boys would stop with their games Then my enraged mind may be rid of its anxiety I may be accepted into
Freedom Summer nights, Turned off the lights, As we wander through the streets. These nights, our freedom, We don’t need them. We are young and we are free. Don’t need a beacon, We’re just heathens. Don’t care as the seasons change. Won’t be defeated, We have our reasons, As we run wildly through the rain.
Oil on Canvas A pencil sketch of heaven. Scribbles black and grey Everything that’s in-between A dream of come what may Void of colour, void of feeling. Hidden eyes and hidden ears Always watching, ever seeing Void of sentiment, void of tint. The sky is dead and cold as flint Dead as this unholy land
Paradox Your soul cannot be bound To the three dimensional beings On this Earth. For anything can become Your physical reality. Stepping out of a Predetermined life. Finding the edge of the unknown And entering the void. You are, after all, the sculptor of your own reality. You in your own world, A world of
A Dark Hall You’re facing down a dark hall Voices echoing like a quiet mall Thoughts racing in the deserts of my mind, The rapid beat of the drum hammering In your ears, “you’re the only kind” Fingers pointing, guns shooting, Medication is my only vacation, One word could break me, It’s not anxiety, dusk