A Collection of Madness and Magic
I am so overwhelmed
with the way I love you
and hate you
and look for you still.
I am overcome with the us
that never was, and the we
that never existed,
and I know that we, and us,
and I will be better off
when I close the door
to this nothing,
and pull the curtains
across the windows
I have left open, just in case.
© Nicole Lyons 2017
This was previously published on my poetry column on Feminine Collective.
The Mmm of Her
I was convinced she was crazy
and I couldn’t stand the pitch of her voice
but for the way she would say, “Mmmm”
when I told her about the thoughts,
and how they pummelled me darkly.
I liked the Mmmm of her, the way
it brought out the whites of her eyes,
and I wondered as they closed
if they were watching her thoughts
as closely as they watched mine.
And I wished to poke at them,
her thoughts not her eyes,
although I would be lying if I said
I hadn’t thought about poking those too.
I always left feeling less of myself,
like I had left little bits of me with her
and I started to wonder what she did with them,
those pieces of me that lingered in her office.
Did she think of them as hers now?
A project she could shelve
until the mood struck right,
or a maybe a pet, a defiant dog
she coaxed with treats
and whipped into submission;
or perhaps I was a blossom,
force flowered and placed perfectly
in the corner of her office where
she could watch me wither,
in the spot that never sees the sun
just the bite of the cold air pumping
from her ac unit and the whites of her eyes.
© Nicole Lyons 2017
He had a way
of bringing beauty
to the filthiest things,
and I have yet
to be as beautiful
as I was with him.
© Nicole Lyons 2017
When autumn winds
have stolen
summer’s last kiss
I will find you
again in my dreams;
over and over past
thousands of Thursdays,
until I can meet you
under grey skies
and flaming trees.
© Nicole Lyons 2017
Wow! This is a perfect example of why he is one of my favourites.
I died again. In the waters as usual. It is always the water. Somehow it all makes sense. It is always the minor things. The minutia that pulls me under. The little, wet idiosyncrasies, stuffed words, distant miscommunication. I die over and over again. Each time, I emerge from the waters, gasping for air. Shedding my wet skin, warming myself by imaginary fires. There is always a new life, new thoughts springing forth from moist soil. But, the disappointment is daunting. The little, sad failures leave me paralyzed in bed, stomaching churning, limbs seized. I stand in the grocery store, gazing at nothing, avoiding mediocre conversations with a neighbor about apple trees. There is a scream boiling up inside me. A smile creeps across my face and I nod, backing away slowly. There is nothing I understand about their world. My days are secret disasters giving birth to revelations, new…
View original post 193 more words
Sometimes the memories become too much,
and I wonder if you have locked me away
as I have you.
And if every now and again I begin kicking
through the walls of your mind,
overwhelming you,
and if I do I wonder if you quietly surrender,
or if you furiously gasp for air
when the regret takes you under, too.
© Nicole Lyons 2017
I wrote a poem called In Blues and Golds that was published on Sudden Denouement a few days ago and one of my dear friends, Rachel of Bruised But Not Broken, read the piece and was inspired enough to write a piece around a couple of the sections of my original poem. Upon reading Rachel’s poetry I was taken aback, quite literally struck dumb for a few minutes while I soaked in the power of her words. When I could finally speak, I asked Rachel if she would consider allowing me to play with both poems and combine the two and without hesitation, she agreed and I am blown away by how it has turned out. We hope you like our collaboration: Selfish On Sundays
And Rachel, thank you again my dear friend and warrior soul, it’s an honour to sit with you in words and soul.
God, I am selfish.
I am a selfish lover,
and a selfish friend,
and I am a selfish saint.
But am I selfish on Sundays
when I break my bread
and remember that girl
and her tingles,
and every prayer I whispered,
when I was running
from scared into terrified?
I am a selfish lover, because the first hands to love me,
pleased themselves.
I am a selfish friend, because the first friend to show me
the self, loved with her hips and not her pulse.
But am I selfish on Sunday, when her own blood
stands before me, and I morph the memory
into something beautiful for the sake of the baby
that came from her womb and with his innocent eyes
looking into mine, I silence them.
I was unselfish when
I was terrified in that tunnel,
and I was high on those vibes
when we met.
The electric terror and tiptoes,
the sweet sound of bored teenagers
breaking trust and all the rules.
We smoked her stepfather’s cigarettes
and drank my mother’s wine,
and we spray-painted our names
inside each other’s secrets
in golds and blues across dirty metal,
and then she laid me down.
I was unselfish when I lay there and let her merge
the trauma carried in her muscles, into mine
and told my sister to turn away so the memory
didn’t stain her eyelids, so she didn’t feel it.
I was unselfish and terrified
that time I said yes
when I meant to say no,
but her fingers were quick
when my resistance was weak,
and I was two seconds to thirteen
and a lifetime from knowing better.
What was I when I let her lips press down on mine,
still carrying the stale taste of the beer from his tongue
and I swallowed both their shame?
And now I can’t help but feel sorry
when I remember her then,
under those flickering lights
a block away from home,
and the way we kissed.
That kiss that stormed the skies.
That kiss that shook the plains.
That kiss that had her speaking
of tingles and first love,
and body rocks.
How my body wanted to deny her,
but my hands ground down her hips
and I needed her to know I knew him too.
And I’m still selfish on Sundays,
when I look back at our prayers amiss the tears
that were our words and I still taste her wounds.
That kiss and those tingles,
on that body from a lifetime ago,
are now ravaged to bits
in a home somewhere,
eaten by the degenerate mouths
of degenerative diseases,
and here I am,
still selfish and terrified,
at breakfast on Sunday,
saying a prayer and wondering
if the tingles her body is wracked
and wrecked with now
can come close to the ones I gave her
in blues and golds, way back then.
© Nicole Lyons 2017
© Rachel Finch 2017
Rachel is an old soul bursting with young energy, her work is a glorious mix of heaven and hell. She writes with a soul shattering, ethereal, raw edge that holds nothing back. As the founder of Bruised But Not Broken, Rachel has helped thousands of people find a safe place, reach out, and tear the shame from their stories. A true humanitarian, Rachel is one of my heroes and I am grateful to call her my friend. Follow her on IG and her blog.
It’s suicide prevention month, and as most of you know, suicide is the second leading cause of death in children and teens, second to motor vehicle accidents.
Imagine my surprise when I woke up at 3am (I rarely sleep when I am beginning to swing) and went to twitter and saw the following from this ignorant fool:
Now we know that this guy is clearly lacking any sort of empathy, but my issue is that in 2017 we are still having to battle this ridiculous fucking mindset – ignorance – and with these people who have these platforms and followers who struggle with mental health themselves.
It is never okay to discount an illness, not fucking ever, that is the stuff that stops people from reaching out for help, and that is never okay.
Unkind people are usually that way because others have been unkind to them, but there is no excuse for ignorance or complete denial of mental health issues, that is a dangerous thing.
When ignorance is given a voice, ours must be louder.
Tate goes on and on in his Twitter rant stating, “Sure I’d be depressed if I was broke. Fat. Lonely. With zero life goals. Do I need pills or a reality check? You propagate the excuses.” and then I think about the well known and much-loved souls who have died by suicide and seemed to have been living everything Tate praises and I get furious.
Kurt Cobain
Robin Williams
David Foster Wallace
Chris Cornell
According to Tate, “Pretending depression is something you catch and absolving all personal responsibility while downing pills and complaining is BS.” and that, my friends is fucking staggering to me. Because this guy can not wrap his tiny head around facts, he’d rather admonish anyone who struggles and then kicks it up a notch with words like these, “Everyone’s a depressive now. Oh, you’re all so special and have such hard problems those in Syria are glad they aren’t you boohoo.”
If you are struggling at all, reach out, it is hard to do, but it is one of the bravest and best things you will ever do. Never be ashamed of your illness, it’s not your fault. Never let the unkind words of another stop you from seeking help because regardless of what fools say, they are only that: fools, fools who are looking for attention. You matter, your life matters, and you are never alone.
If you are struggling please call The National Suicide Prevention Hotline
And sometimes these words,
they save me, but sometimes,
most times, they kill me,
syllable by fucking syllable,
they rip me to shreds.
© Nicole Lyons 2017
Thank you to Jasper and SD for publishing my new poem. I hope you enjoy it.
God, I am selfish.
I am a selfish lover,
and a selfish friend,
and I am a selfish saint.
But am I selfish on Sunday
when I break my bread
and remember that girl
and her tingles,
and every prayer I whispered,
when I was running
from scared into terrified?
I was unselfish when
I was terrified in that tunnel,
and I was high on those vibes
when we met.
The electric terror and tiptoes,
the sweet sound of bored teenagers
breaking trust and all the rules.
We smoked her stepfather’s cigarettes
and drank my mother’s wine,
and we spray-painted our names
inside each other’s secrets
in golds and blues across dirty metal,
and then she laid me down.
I was unselfish and terrified
that time I said yes
when I meant to say no,
but her fingers were quick
when my resistance was weak,
and I was two seconds…
View original post 218 more words
English-Language Thoughts
David Lohrey
Light your words on fire
burn after reading
