Burning so loud in the back ground
They all blend to one
Losing all sense of individuality
And with it goes your feeling
Nothing left to feel
Yet this is the worst pain of all
Filled with halves
Loves half loved
Your day half lived
Your life in half
A soul torn in two
With nothing that can repair it
Every suture thrown to pull the edges together rips through
Ripped out with blunt hands
And a little piece of you comes back
The limbs once numb glow with life
The heart beat returns
But the scars remain and remind
Of what can happen
When the static roars
As We Walk
As we walk these halls of fears and names
We wonder why we play these games
We hope to die
Asking God while we cry
The crawling feeling that they’re always watching
Making assumptions before they even ask your name
This isn’t a game and everything’s going out of frame
The eyes following you around the room,
The anxiety starts to bloom
The first thought on my mind is I want to die,
This makes me cry
Where did my old self go
I sink back into that hard, uncomfortable, school chair,
My mind is demanding my attention,
And eventually, my thoughts drown out the boring, constant voice of the teacher.
The whispers around me drift away for miles and miles.
I’m glad, I tend to get sick of listening to the bullshit people talk about with their friends,
I gaze out the window, my mind pulls me away, typical Monday.
I battled to stay focused for around… Half the class?
Once again, I did not triumph.
I have a lot more in my head
Than I have ever said.
I could write about horse riding
But the words go hiding.
Where would I be without my cat?
More like, where are my words at?
And I really love art
But I can’t put take the words from my heart.
So I guess I’ll just have to rhyme
About what I can’t write.
Bryan is inconsiderate.
He thinks that just because he writes a poem about gravestones
That I can’t write about an inanimate object too,
That it’s “copying”.
I think that Bryan is like a gravestone.
Causing people grief.
8pm to 11pm
8. Make up done
Nearly can’t go
Parents too strict
Just a dress
No more stress
9 on our way
In the car
Our parents say
Don’t take it too far
Arrive at the party
Waiting for a friend
How tonight’s gonna end
Mouths gone numb
Doomed was my fate
Drink’s made me dumb
It’s getting late
Only one shoe on
Can’t find my mate
11. I wanted my mam
But rang my dad
I can’t think straight
He’ll be so mad
Fell in a hedge
The rest is a blur
I’ve broken my pledge
What happened next?
I can’t remember
Started playing soccer at 13
They said I wouldn’t make it
To the big league but now we
On top of the league making
The money and spending the gs
Champion’s league is a breeze
Scoring penalties and frees
This life is the one for me
A Young Man
There was a young man from Dungarvan
Who spent a long time in my garden
We had lots of fun
Till he pulled out a gun
And shot my poor mum without pardon
What to Write
We have no creativity
So we really don’t like this activity
We’re forced to write a poem
And my parents aren’t divorced
So what are we expected to write
Maybe something bright
Or something to start a fight
We really don’t know what to write
Moya and Lauryn
Dungarvan is where it’s at
Even tho it’s full of rats,
Our town is full of crackers
Our GAA team is full of hackers
But then again we are the best
With Chopper Flynn and the rest,
Quite often, we start a brawl
But in the end we win it all.
Lorcán McGovern and Johnny Burke
You can’t play county, you’re too small
One year later, I stole the show.
Managers gobsmacked and impressed,
I was showing the middle finger to the rest.
11 vs 11 it was all out war
I was wearing shirt number #4.
Man of the Match, player of the year
After all that we had some beer.
Having a laugh
On the Lash.
Graves are weird
Just kind of strange
You’re alive for like 80 years at a push, man
You’ll take up some space as long as you can
There’s limited space but just more dead people
Where are they gonna start putting them
They’ll have to stop burying dudes, men
What happens to graveyards then
I don’t know what to write about
So I’ll just say
I think a tree-house
Would be neat
A nice old pineapple tree
If one existed
But like most things
Playing soccer on the green
Were the ball often ends on car windscreens
Old people giving out about us too
They always like to give out and argue
It doesn’t bother us as we play ball
Even if were not good at all
Ill end of my piece with something to say
To tell old people let us play