fairy tales aren’t lies
but sugar-coated truths
we cannot bear to hear
to allow reality to sink in
is to float on a paper raft
in a raging sea
too many loose ends
not enough ribbon to tie them
only bedraggled raffia
in multi-coloured knots
that catch on rocks –
keep them floating
these dreams we seize
to bolster our days
turn to drizzle at dusk
© Niamh Corcoran 4/12/2013
Two today, both with the same title, the first written on the 27 April 2012, the second written earlier this year. I had forgotten about the first one and only found it as I couldn’t remember where I’d saved the recent one and a search on my computer threw both of them up. I thought I’d share both as it is a good indication of how far I have journeyed in the last few years and I figure it might give those of who read my site and may be suffering from depression or anxiety hope that time does heal. Everything changes with time, hang in there. ❤
The Voice
Today, I cannot silence the voice,
nor the constant drumbeat
accompanying it,
that reverberates through
my every bone
The voice that tells me
I am no good,
The constant beat,
You are useless, useless, useless
an endless track.
The voice will not be quelled,
Silence is its power;
I cannot outrun it
for the beat
matches each and every step.
The voice will not be drowned
out by music,
I turn the volume up
’til my ears bleed
it cannot override the beat.
The voice accompanies me
night and day,
even as I sleep
the drumbeat
relentless in it desire
to destroy.
© Niamh 27/04/12
The Voice
A whisper of moments past
a reminder of a time, a place
I thought I was stuck
a loop, a beat, once unending
but now silenced
even in the night
I hear the birds sing,
the rain, and rustle of leaves,
the hum of the earth
beneath my feet,
the pulse of joy
in my heart
and I know I am free.
The voice that berated
criticised and
almost destroyed
was not mine
but memories of
words spoken
to me, of me
that sunk in
and became my truth
held me prisoner
its power washed away
by gentle words of love
that set me free.
© Niamh 19/01/19
I hear the music
not with my ears
but through
the soles of my feet
I feel the earth beat
as it changes with time
each season a movement
my life a symphony
I am the second violin
to your first,
together we move
in tune
in sync
We wait for the orchestra
to join in
to become one body
of song
we can heal
the world
if we can all play
the same notes
© Niamh Corcoran 9/11/2012
I hear steps behind me,
soft soled creeping slowly closer,
then dropping away
just like you did in our life
playing on my fears and emotions
a Chinese water torture
of anger and dread
denial and disbelief
even then I knew the truth
but hardly dared believe,
now I am moving on
breaking slowly free
but still your footsteps echo
long into the night
cutting into my sleep
a cry before dawn
© Niamh Corcoran 31/1/2016
The pellucid promise of a sunny future
turns opaque in a mist of silence
and carefully timed thrusts
screams stuttered to a halt
by a look, a smirk, a knowing
that you’re caught as surely
as a noose around your neck,
the gold band you wore so proudly
the children you love so deeply
bind you to your jailer as he waltzes
upon a trap he believes unbreakable
humming a tune only he can hear
deaf to all but his own words, blinded
by his overgrown ego; he is safe
does not notice the subtle changes
that will break the walls trapping you
he has stolen your voice claims your
body as his own but not your soul nor
the strength of spirit that will set you
free
when the price becomes too high
the knife edge seems sharper
the blade cuts deeper, each wound
bleeds brighter, longer
the noose tightens, suffocates
the world turns a nauseous
shade of blue, each breath stabs
even as it grasps
the lifeline dangles just out of reach,
held aloft by your raw and bitter
laughter, your foot on my throat
stamps and
blackness takes hold,
your apologies with your tears
fall like blood drops
to a sanitised floor
I watch through swollen eyes
as you are led away
between two policewomen
with well-practised ennui
a nurse fiddles with a drip
pats my hand in sympathy
tells me you will cause
no more trouble
but I know better
you will chase me down
the prize is not in the having
but in never letting go.
© Niamh 20/01/2015
to see me
not as a body ripe for
harvesting
but as moonlight
an unwavering glow
no, not the moon
for she waxes and wanes
but the steadiness
of the sun
a constant
not reliable or
responsible
but prone to bursts
of fire
by times hidden
yet you know she is there.
To be your sunlight,
to warm you
guide you
to have you
seek me.
© Niamh 8/11/2011
In the bright noon sun,
I sensed the warmth of you next to me.
I needed someone to validate me
I grasped your love with both hands
And threw myself into the whirlpool.
As the sun sank, I realised
I expected too much of you.
I thought you could set me free.
Now I know that was too much to ask,
That love for another is not what I need
But to learn to love me.
In the shadows of night I can see
That it was never meant to be
You were nothing but a fantasy.
The pedestal on which you stood
Slowly crumbling as time went by.
I stand alone, unloved, unworthy
There was no pedestal designed for me.
As the morning dawns I wonder,
If I could feel your love again
Would it change how I feel about me?
© Niamh Corcoran 29/05/2011
I sit surrounded by ghosts from the past
old chests of drawers, desks and shelves,
age has rendered them useless
yet they take up space in my house.
Occasional tables with legs too spindly
to bear any weight, dotted around,
paintings of scenes I do not recognise,
portraits of people I do not know,
stacked behind doors and cupboards
because there is no more wall.
Past lives lived and forgotten,
yet they take up so much of my life
they are not of my past, my history,
but they are here to stay
as another cannot let go
of these meaningless things,
they have passed for years
an unbroken chain through a family
and ended up with me here.
I feel these ghosts looking at me
disparagingly, disapprovingly,
for I do not share their values,
their lifestyle, their pasts
I am from a different time and place
I have no need of them or their things.
I wish to live in the present
uncluttered, unhindered, free,
yet someone important to me
clings like an anemone to a rock
to the ghosts of his past.
