Maybe you don’t see it when I push you down,
Maybe it’s invisible to your eyes,
Maybe when I laugh at your tears,
Maybe you can’t see behind my lies.
I know that I’ve hurt you,
I know you’re in pain,
And I know you can’t see round
The smile that I feign.
Every time that I break you,
Every time you fall cause of me,
I see my own pain reflected,
And her bottle of whiskey.
Maybe you never noticed,
When i walk home at night,
The bruises and cuts,
From the previous fight.
The smell of the alcohol ,
Fresh on her breath,
The swing of a fist,
Curses wishing my death.
I hate her, i hated her,
Now she lies in her grave,
I never had time to,
Return what she gave.
Now you chain me up,
Lock my door with a click,
Hate me forever,
Think I’m so sick.
This anger i feel,
It’s not my own,
It’s what she’s never given,
Is the love I’ve never known.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Pull the Trigger
In my experience, those who beg for mercy rarely deserve it. It’s criminal, the way human emotions are so easily swayed by the merest glimmer of a tear in an eye, or a dry sob of fear. Anger can so easily be turned to pity, hatred so quickly turned to fear. And all because there is that part of us that is so innocent. So wanting the world to be a perfect place. And yet some people don’t see the fear.
As I stood above him, my gun trained on his forehead, the cold weight of the trigger so reassuring in my hand, I saw the fear in his eyes. Those horrible little squinty eyes and crooked nose that fell slightly to one side of his ugly wrinkled face. I hated that face. I hated the way he breathed so raggedly, the way he licked his dry lips and the way the muscle under his left eye twitched out of control.
His eyes quivered, the black pupils dilating in fear. He shuddered under the point of my gun like a little girl, in no way a man. Sweat beaded on his forehead, trickling down his wrinkled, sun marked skin.
“Please,” he whispered under his breath, barely able to create the words, “Please.”
I drank in his fear. It was beautiful, his horror and distress. I loved it. Was this how he had felt when he had turned his gun on her? Did he feel this great rush in his body when he had pulled the trigger of the gun? When she had hit the ground, had he felt satisfaction?
I shook myself mentally. The street around us was dark, the glow of distant headlights too far away for him to run. I knew that, and he knew that.
I shrug my coat closer to me, the rain dampening my clothes and drenching my hair. I know I’m stalling for time, know that he can see it too.
“You don’t remember me do you?” I say, trying to distract him from my own reluctance.
He squints at me from under his mane of grizzled dark hair. I can almost see the cogs turning in his head, working hard to place my face.
I hadn’t expected him to remember. It had been almost a year now, and we’d only seen each other for a fleeting glance. I imagine he’d not thought of me for more than a moment as he had run from the train station, fleeing from the oncoming police. I remember the cold of the cement floor when my knees had hit it. I remember the blood staining my jeans as i reached for her limp head, covered in her own blood, already drying. Her new dress was ruined with the red tide that spread across the floor.
Ben had been crying. I remember not being able to lift my hands enough to take him from her lifeless arms. He continued to cry, confused by the sudden absence of warmth from her body.
“You didn’t even have to kill her,” rain poured down my face and into my eyes, running down my cheeks, “She didn’t have to die.”
I could see the sudden realisation rising in his face. He would remember now, the day he’d run through the station in that black leather jacket and wool cap, the gun hidden under his arm.
“It was an accident,” he stuttered, rising a little from the seated position he had taken on his heels, “I didn’t mean to kill her.”
“It was her birthday,” I whispered, the memory of the golden locket I had saved up for, put aside money every payday till her birthday.
“Hey, man, I didn’t know,” he scooted forward, arms still raised in surrender, holding his head to the side of the gun.
I turned the gun back on him, holding him at bay. But my hand was shaking with rage.
“You didn’t see the baby, did you? My son. What’s he suppose to do without his mother? Did you think of that?” I screamed, my anger getting the better of me.
He fell back again. I could see my own face, contorted with rage, in his large fearful eyes. I looked older, darker then I had a year ago. Now my cheeks looked gaunt and pale, my eyes haunted with a wisdom that I could have done without. It had been so long since I had looked in a mirror, I didn’t recognise myself.
“You will pay,” I narrowed my eyes, composing myself once more.
“Look, man, this....you don’t...,” he stuttered, trying desperately to find a way to talk himself out of the situation.
“You have to pay,” I repeated myself, taking another step forward.
I could feel the adrenaline rising up in my heart, making it pound loudly in my chest. I had been waiting so long for this moment. I’d hardened myself, planned for so long, searched far and wide and now I had him, under the point of my own gun, begging me for mercy. The same mercy he’d denied her so many years ago.
I took a deep breath, my hand tightening on the handle of the gun. This was it, the moment i had been waiting for, breathing for, living for for the past year. This was it.
Suddenly headlights shone in my eyes. Blue and red lights flashed brightly in the darkness, blinding me and throwing his shadow across the ground.
“Drop the gun,” a magnified voice boomed around me.
“I sentence you to eight years for attempted murder,” the bang of the gavel rang through my head.
My eyes fell to the ground. The chains around my wrists were cold and hard.
I felt his breath on the back of my neck, the stench of his sweat stinging my nose.
“Someone has to pay,” he whispered, before turning and heading toward the door.
As I stood above him, my gun trained on his forehead, the cold weight of the trigger so reassuring in my hand, I saw the fear in his eyes. Those horrible little squinty eyes and crooked nose that fell slightly to one side of his ugly wrinkled face. I hated that face. I hated the way he breathed so raggedly, the way he licked his dry lips and the way the muscle under his left eye twitched out of control.
His eyes quivered, the black pupils dilating in fear. He shuddered under the point of my gun like a little girl, in no way a man. Sweat beaded on his forehead, trickling down his wrinkled, sun marked skin.
“Please,” he whispered under his breath, barely able to create the words, “Please.”
I drank in his fear. It was beautiful, his horror and distress. I loved it. Was this how he had felt when he had turned his gun on her? Did he feel this great rush in his body when he had pulled the trigger of the gun? When she had hit the ground, had he felt satisfaction?
I shook myself mentally. The street around us was dark, the glow of distant headlights too far away for him to run. I knew that, and he knew that.
I shrug my coat closer to me, the rain dampening my clothes and drenching my hair. I know I’m stalling for time, know that he can see it too.
“You don’t remember me do you?” I say, trying to distract him from my own reluctance.
He squints at me from under his mane of grizzled dark hair. I can almost see the cogs turning in his head, working hard to place my face.
I hadn’t expected him to remember. It had been almost a year now, and we’d only seen each other for a fleeting glance. I imagine he’d not thought of me for more than a moment as he had run from the train station, fleeing from the oncoming police. I remember the cold of the cement floor when my knees had hit it. I remember the blood staining my jeans as i reached for her limp head, covered in her own blood, already drying. Her new dress was ruined with the red tide that spread across the floor.
Ben had been crying. I remember not being able to lift my hands enough to take him from her lifeless arms. He continued to cry, confused by the sudden absence of warmth from her body.
“You didn’t even have to kill her,” rain poured down my face and into my eyes, running down my cheeks, “She didn’t have to die.”
I could see the sudden realisation rising in his face. He would remember now, the day he’d run through the station in that black leather jacket and wool cap, the gun hidden under his arm.
“It was an accident,” he stuttered, rising a little from the seated position he had taken on his heels, “I didn’t mean to kill her.”
“It was her birthday,” I whispered, the memory of the golden locket I had saved up for, put aside money every payday till her birthday.
“Hey, man, I didn’t know,” he scooted forward, arms still raised in surrender, holding his head to the side of the gun.
I turned the gun back on him, holding him at bay. But my hand was shaking with rage.
“You didn’t see the baby, did you? My son. What’s he suppose to do without his mother? Did you think of that?” I screamed, my anger getting the better of me.
He fell back again. I could see my own face, contorted with rage, in his large fearful eyes. I looked older, darker then I had a year ago. Now my cheeks looked gaunt and pale, my eyes haunted with a wisdom that I could have done without. It had been so long since I had looked in a mirror, I didn’t recognise myself.
“You will pay,” I narrowed my eyes, composing myself once more.
“Look, man, this....you don’t...,” he stuttered, trying desperately to find a way to talk himself out of the situation.
“You have to pay,” I repeated myself, taking another step forward.
I could feel the adrenaline rising up in my heart, making it pound loudly in my chest. I had been waiting so long for this moment. I’d hardened myself, planned for so long, searched far and wide and now I had him, under the point of my own gun, begging me for mercy. The same mercy he’d denied her so many years ago.
I took a deep breath, my hand tightening on the handle of the gun. This was it, the moment i had been waiting for, breathing for, living for for the past year. This was it.
Suddenly headlights shone in my eyes. Blue and red lights flashed brightly in the darkness, blinding me and throwing his shadow across the ground.
“Drop the gun,” a magnified voice boomed around me.
“I sentence you to eight years for attempted murder,” the bang of the gavel rang through my head.
My eyes fell to the ground. The chains around my wrists were cold and hard.
I felt his breath on the back of my neck, the stench of his sweat stinging my nose.
“Someone has to pay,” he whispered, before turning and heading toward the door.
Am i getting old?
I've been doing a camp this week with Whizzkids in NUIG. The camp starts at the age of ten and it goes up the fifteen. So i am the oldest. At first i thought, damn it, this is going to be like really awkward. but since its started, i've felt like i've actually gotten younger. i really wish i was that age again, even though i spent those precious years wishing i was fifteen.
Youth maybe wasted on the young, but age is wasted on the old. i spent time after time wishing i was fifteen, thinking how great it would be to date guys, get my first kiss, go to discos and what not. But now i'm on the otherside of the curtian, how much i wish i could go back to not caring about these things, to believe that they would all be so wonderful, when to be honest, not that great. Teens involve a lot of drama, and i can tell you, fifteen ain't no walk in the park. There's hormons and rejections, rejecting suitors and loosing friends you thought you'd never loose.
And i watch these eleven year olds running around, playing rounders or soccer, not caring who's a guy and who's a girl, and i gotta tell ya, seems like more fun to me then the drama of the teenage years. And I'm only half way through it. It only gets worse from here. More responsibility, more drama, more heart breaks. what did i ever see in being a teen?
Youth maybe wasted on the young, but age is wasted on the old. i spent time after time wishing i was fifteen, thinking how great it would be to date guys, get my first kiss, go to discos and what not. But now i'm on the otherside of the curtian, how much i wish i could go back to not caring about these things, to believe that they would all be so wonderful, when to be honest, not that great. Teens involve a lot of drama, and i can tell you, fifteen ain't no walk in the park. There's hormons and rejections, rejecting suitors and loosing friends you thought you'd never loose.
And i watch these eleven year olds running around, playing rounders or soccer, not caring who's a guy and who's a girl, and i gotta tell ya, seems like more fun to me then the drama of the teenage years. And I'm only half way through it. It only gets worse from here. More responsibility, more drama, more heart breaks. what did i ever see in being a teen?
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Bird's Song
There's a tear in the sky where the clouds huddle near,
There's a drop from a now broken atmosphere,
There's weeping from the choking poisoned birds,
Unable to utter a pleeful word,
And for the creatures who can't look up anymore,
For the ones who've shut themselves behind doors,
They've forgotten the bird's that flap on broken wings,
The bird's who've lost the voice that sings,
They've forgotten the world that still spins round and round,
They've forgotten the beauty that once could be found,
now the hills falter to the shovels of trucks,
and the ponds have sucked out from under the ducks,
The birds will wait till we see once again,
But can they survive till then?
There's a drop from a now broken atmosphere,
There's weeping from the choking poisoned birds,
Unable to utter a pleeful word,
And for the creatures who can't look up anymore,
For the ones who've shut themselves behind doors,
They've forgotten the bird's that flap on broken wings,
The bird's who've lost the voice that sings,
They've forgotten the world that still spins round and round,
They've forgotten the beauty that once could be found,
now the hills falter to the shovels of trucks,
and the ponds have sucked out from under the ducks,
The birds will wait till we see once again,
But can they survive till then?
Top Ten Things I Miss About America (Not including my awsome friends)
1. I miss the feilds and feilds of golden grain that haven't been rained on recently, that smell dried and crisp, ready to be harvested.
2. i miss basements. don't really know why, but i do miss them, that cool feeling of being under ground.
3. I miss Walmart. No, i never liked it, but it was always a land mark i could rely on. "Where do you live?" "Oh, you know where Walmart is..."
4. I miss yellow school busses. They were so obviously school busses, no need to put up strange numbers in windows or crazy symbols, they were all school busses, no weirdos, no public transport.
5. I miss the blue sky. I've said it many times before, but I'll say it again, blue sky is rare in Ireland, and it wouldn't hurt to get it once in a while.
6. I miss my keyboard telling me the right letters and symbols. since we started using irish websites, the @ and " signs switched places on our keyboard and now I've got to think before i writer any dialogue.
7. I miss the smell of hay. I ride horses, and never before i moved to Ireland had i heard of silage, and yet, since hay can no longer be kept dry, i stink of silage. My horse stinks of silage. Where's my lovely golden hay??????
8. I miss the ise skating rinks. i mean real ice skating rinks, not the tiny little kiddy ones they put up at christmas time, i'm talking real hokey rinks that you can skate around forever and ever.
9. I miss outdoor swimming pools. its kinda hard to swim in the rain, and the sea just keeps getting colder and colder. i miss being able to lie in the sun next to tons of screaming kids all splashing about.
10. I miss the american twang sometimes. not all the time, and in Italy on one train, i certianly did not enjoy listening to two american college boys waffling on about thier jewish girl friend. but sometimes i do miss it, i iss the sound of my american friend's voices.
2. i miss basements. don't really know why, but i do miss them, that cool feeling of being under ground.
3. I miss Walmart. No, i never liked it, but it was always a land mark i could rely on. "Where do you live?" "Oh, you know where Walmart is..."
4. I miss yellow school busses. They were so obviously school busses, no need to put up strange numbers in windows or crazy symbols, they were all school busses, no weirdos, no public transport.
5. I miss the blue sky. I've said it many times before, but I'll say it again, blue sky is rare in Ireland, and it wouldn't hurt to get it once in a while.
6. I miss my keyboard telling me the right letters and symbols. since we started using irish websites, the @ and " signs switched places on our keyboard and now I've got to think before i writer any dialogue.
7. I miss the smell of hay. I ride horses, and never before i moved to Ireland had i heard of silage, and yet, since hay can no longer be kept dry, i stink of silage. My horse stinks of silage. Where's my lovely golden hay??????
8. I miss the ise skating rinks. i mean real ice skating rinks, not the tiny little kiddy ones they put up at christmas time, i'm talking real hokey rinks that you can skate around forever and ever.
9. I miss outdoor swimming pools. its kinda hard to swim in the rain, and the sea just keeps getting colder and colder. i miss being able to lie in the sun next to tons of screaming kids all splashing about.
10. I miss the american twang sometimes. not all the time, and in Italy on one train, i certianly did not enjoy listening to two american college boys waffling on about thier jewish girl friend. but sometimes i do miss it, i iss the sound of my american friend's voices.
Pickle Jar
To me, politics seems like a big long line of people all trying to open a pickle jar. The first guy tries opening it, but he can't do it. he hands it to the next guy in line, and the next guy's all like, "You're such a fool," until he realises he can't open it either. so the next guy tries, and he's sneaky about it. he tries using a knife, or hitting of a table edge. But that doesn't work either. The next guy in line seems like he's almost got it open, and just when your tummy's rumbling with the idea of a pickle, he takes his hand away and there's a giant blister on his palm. He's no good either. The next guy secretly manages to open the jar, and steals a pickle while no one's looking, then reseals the lid and it's all hush hush. Then all the guys in line start arguing about the best way to open the jar, shouting at one another, and basically forgetting about the jars actual presence all together. And all we can do is watch these men fighting over the pickle jar, hoping against hope that one of these ejiits in line can open the blessed thing cause by now we've finished our hamburger, chips and are moving on to the jello.
Its all just a bit useless, isn't it?
Its all just a bit useless, isn't it?
Irish or English
Ireland is the only place I've ever been that had so many accents in such a tiny amount of room. Even if you could understand Galway dialect, that's no garuntee you'll understand Cork. And to be honest, you probably won't understand either anyway. I've got grandparents in Cork and i still don't understand them, even after so many years. It's like you have to learn a whole other language to live in Ireland between the "Gowanyabuya!" at the GAA matches, to learning the volcbulary "savage," and "legend". I could not believe my ears.
Not saying that i haven't adjusted, I think I've done quite well, picked up a few phrases or two of my own, but I can't imagine the transfer students coming to learn english here. They've learned every correct use of the grammer, every proper punctuation, every adjective in its own context, and they're suddenly thrown into a shower of, "That's so legd," and "Feckin Hell,". I can't even start to imagine how complicated it must seem to them. It's like Ireland has taken english and made it have a whole new meaning, and it's not even like it's the language Irish (cause no one seems to speak it as far as i can see accpeting when my friends are forced to learn verbs and the appliances in the kitchen).
"What are ya on about?" that's another one that I've taken to. "What's the Craiq?" often used as well. Someone should write a guide to the Irish English language.
Not saying that i haven't adjusted, I think I've done quite well, picked up a few phrases or two of my own, but I can't imagine the transfer students coming to learn english here. They've learned every correct use of the grammer, every proper punctuation, every adjective in its own context, and they're suddenly thrown into a shower of, "That's so legd," and "Feckin Hell,". I can't even start to imagine how complicated it must seem to them. It's like Ireland has taken english and made it have a whole new meaning, and it's not even like it's the language Irish (cause no one seems to speak it as far as i can see accpeting when my friends are forced to learn verbs and the appliances in the kitchen).
"What are ya on about?" that's another one that I've taken to. "What's the Craiq?" often used as well. Someone should write a guide to the Irish English language.
Where are all the Italians?
So i went to Italy about a week ago for vacation. It was so gorgous there. we stayed in a smaller town called Lucca, one of the old forts with huge red brick walls surrounding it and the only way in or out is through the large arch gates. The buildings rose so high above us down every little pedestrianised street that sometimes you couldn't even see the sun over the rooves of the houses. I, being also an artist, got some amazing pictures done of the yellow washed buildings and that rusty orange coloured churches. It was so beauiful. The only problem was the open sewage line that ran around the outside of the walls. Really quite a revolting smell.
And as i was soaking in all this beauty, i suddenly realised, wait a second, I'm walking around looking at all the acient italian buildings that have stood hundreds of years, I'm being wowed by St. Mark's Square of Seina, The Baptistery, the Leaning Tower of Pesia, and i haven't seen a single italian resident. i mean, I've seen tourists from Germany, Spanish teens gawking at old statues, but I don't have a clue what Italy today is even really like. I sure as hell know what was going on like a hundred years ago, but who knows what a really italian looks like anymore? i know what german tourists look like, but where are the hot italian men? sometimes i wondered what Italy looks like from someone who actually lives here, cause obviously they're not trapsing across Venice, so where exactly have they gone?
Then i realised, hang on, if i'm over here looking at thier cathedrals, then they're over in Ireland watching us too. And its true. when i came back the population of Galway had changed from pale white, socks and sandals irishmen, to tan skinned, forgien teenagers, jabbering away in languages we can't quite understand. Every summer, both countries empty of thier own citizens and fill with those of others.
And as i was soaking in all this beauty, i suddenly realised, wait a second, I'm walking around looking at all the acient italian buildings that have stood hundreds of years, I'm being wowed by St. Mark's Square of Seina, The Baptistery, the Leaning Tower of Pesia, and i haven't seen a single italian resident. i mean, I've seen tourists from Germany, Spanish teens gawking at old statues, but I don't have a clue what Italy today is even really like. I sure as hell know what was going on like a hundred years ago, but who knows what a really italian looks like anymore? i know what german tourists look like, but where are the hot italian men? sometimes i wondered what Italy looks like from someone who actually lives here, cause obviously they're not trapsing across Venice, so where exactly have they gone?
Then i realised, hang on, if i'm over here looking at thier cathedrals, then they're over in Ireland watching us too. And its true. when i came back the population of Galway had changed from pale white, socks and sandals irishmen, to tan skinned, forgien teenagers, jabbering away in languages we can't quite understand. Every summer, both countries empty of thier own citizens and fill with those of others.
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