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Niamh

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Heart Whispers

Your words,

feather light

barely heard

cut deep

and changed my life

 

 

©Niamh Corcoran

 

 

Fairy tales…

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

The Voice

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

In the dark

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 Prize

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

Gone

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

Ghosts of the past

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.

Luck

if luck were sandy beach

would you  take just a grain,

or a bucketful?

build a castle to share

or a moat to keep

others and the sea at bay

 

if luck were a lawn

would  you take just a blade

or a handful?

let it grow tall and free

or mow it

so others could have less

 

if luck were stars in the sky

would you take a small one,

or perhaps the sun?

put it in a window to

to light the way

or hide it

so others live in the dark.

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