It Never Heard That

I don’t want to remember exactly how I was or who I was before you,
and I know that isn’t what this world wants to hear,
but it never listened to the beat of my broken heart
or caught the pain in my eyes anyway.
It never heard the way I hated myself when dawn hit my window
and sliced its way through the mountains of maybe next time
I won’t hurt myself, but for now just cut these colours
easy enough to taste something less bitter than I am.
It never heard that. It never listened to the way I could gulp and howl
under the light of a full moon, a new moon, of any moon,
of a sick and sculpted summer moon that hung above the grime
I pretended not to notice. It never heard that. It never listened
to my voice calling out from the dark when every last light in me
had been dimmed, it never came to chase the shadows or the monsters
that waited to lunge the second the lights went out.
It was never there to shine hope into my darkened heart or hear the cries
of my soiled soul. It never heard that. I never knew that silence
with you whispered the most extraordinary tales, and sitting
in the way of sunsets with you shifted the ugly inside of me,
and burst beautiful rays into the dark of my eyes.
I don’t want to remember who I was when I was without you,
but I do, and I will, and perhaps remembering how cold it was in the dark
will never let me forget how I can hear the warmth in the light.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

The Keeper of Time

I swear to God, I am not proud of it,
this wishing and unwishing,
and the wishing and unwishing of more,
as if that could make these things be something
or nothing, or take them all away,
or even add a maybe to them all.
This wishing and unwishing are killing me.

If I could go back and take it all back,
or change it all I would,
God help me, I would.
There are so many things I would change
and so many things I couldn’t,
and wouldn’t, and would never want to,
but if I started to change one thing,
I would never stop.

I would wish to be the keeper of time
to whisper my secrets to you,
and we would sit beyond time and I would tell you

You can change this. I have kept your time.
I have kept your seconds.
I have kept your wishes and your memories
and your love here, in this notebook,
and I give it back to you now
with an eraser and a pencil.
And I would look there, on your notebook,
on its dog-eared edges and its faded cover,
and I would wish for brighter colours and
I would say to you,

Here is the notebook of your life,
the notebook of your time,
and I am giving it back to you.
I am giving you this one pass,
as the keeper of your time
and the keeper of your sins,
I give them back to you.

I give you back your dreams,
rewrite them.

Write it all, and don’t write it
as if you were afraid

of what people would think.

Don’t write it as if
you haven’t been given a second chance
upon a first chance,

because you haven’t.
But still, write it.


I, as the keeper of your time,

and the chronicler of your memories,
give you this page and this pencil,
and I ask you to write without fear,
without consequence,
without hope or sorrow,
I ask you to write, so write.

I can not reset time,
I can not make things right
as you see them be,
because your right is wrong
in everyone else’s eyes,
in cosmic eyes that stare down at us all.

Don’t read the rewrite,
and I will keep you secretly,
and give you this page and this pencil to write
all of the things you wanted to write,
all of the things you wanted to keep,
all of the things you wanted to change,
all of the things that are time and are not,
and will not or never be,
and I ask you to write it solidly,
without despair, without guilt, without question.

Write your rewrite that I can never grant you,
and sign your name to the bottom of it, proudly.
For there is nothing wrong with a rewrite,
in this life or in others, there is nothing wrong
with wanting a rewrite, even if we love
our stories and the way they began
with a once upon a time and ended
with a happily ever after,
because you are many stories.
You are a great book of love, and loss, and light,
and the wisdom of your pages, between your pages
could never be rewritten into the stories that are.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

Bring Your Wishes

It is empty in here.
This place that once
felt the fire of falling stars
is now cold in his fading light.
So I shall invite you in
and ask you to bring your wishes,
and perhaps the both of us
will burst like suns again.

 

© Nicole Lyons 2017

Under Your Bed

I have loved as I have never been loved,
and in loving as I have never been,
I have held the hands of gods
and laid weeping before the closed fists
of disappointment dripping with my own blood
and barely skimming forgiveness.
Perhaps it will come to me,
this love, a love, beneath your bed,
behind the curtains or under you mother
and her Sunday night dinner,
the one I was invited to
before the devil tickled my back
and your angels scorched my belly.
I wear these marks well,
my kisses from heaven
and my brushes with hell,
yet here I am on my knees again,
looking for the love you dropped under your bed.
I know it’s here somewhere,
amongst the monsters and the memories,
making friends with the lonely socks
missing their mates, and reaching
inside the crumpled wrappers,
the pink ones that burst the stars
upon your tongue before he broke the door down
and taught you all the ways you should never love.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

The Outside Doesn’t Match The In

Look
at these worlds
bursting
inside my head,
these words
burning
beneath my tongue.
Quickly
whisper me
your secrets and I
will build beauty
from your pain
as if I was
a craftsman,
an artist,
something
more than
a lying fool.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

When we were kids

we lived
in small town
simplicity

high
on the hills,
and the purest air

our lives were set
to sunsets on old
school watches

second hands
worn from work

filled
with peach pies
for shy neighbours

life was
sweet when
we were simple

but so it goes
how simple
is complicated

and filth
can climb
mountains

© Nicole Lyons 2017

Marshmallows and Misunderstandings

If my mind
should ever
eat all of me,
please remember
the girl
I tried to be.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

Hush is now available worldwide

Hush is now available worldwide through Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Booktopia, and The Book Depository. You can also contact most indie and chain bookstores and have them order a copy in for you. I hope you love it. Thank you again for your support.

Purchase your signed copy of HUSH here

HUSH written by Nicole Lyons, is a searing collection of poems that takes the reader on an emotional ride, through the tunnel of mental illness and reckless love. Nicole Lyons’ voice undulates from pain to ecstasy, at breakneck speed. Erotic, soulful and authentic, Nicole has written a raw memoir encapsulated in poems. Stepping off the cliff, delving into HUSH, readers will find themselves breathless and wanting more.

Hush-white-final-sm-outline (1)

Have a peek at some of the early reviews here.

The Souls I Keep

c94b52d7927ea880b316d1111e371a02

The moon is full, the night alive;
the ones I love are hidden inside.
Upon blazing stars wishes are kissed,
and memories cursed from burning lips.
On this night a great fire blazes,
calling witches forth to take their places.
The moon is full, the night is wild,
the day is young for the smiling child.
The day is young, never need for sleep,
within the company of the souls I keep.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

I Once Was New

 

My body has been used;
tossed to the ground
to wipe away indiscretions,
and the grinding filth
of lying whores.

My heart has been starved;
cupped in sweaty palms
to ease burdens,
and the murky hypocrisy
of righteous men.

My spirit has been wrung;
pulled inside of fists
to stretch truths,
and the sour hesitation
of bitter regret.

My soul has been worn;
placed upon rails
to catch tears,
and the heavy wetness
of desperate sins.

© Nicole Lyons 2017