Her Belt

I wonder if she thought of me
when she cinched her belt,
and if she had to punch
extra holes in the leather
before she did it,
and if it was real leather
or as fake as we were.
I wonder these things,
and quickly follow up
my wondering with more,
like why I am this way,
and if I was the one
who handed her that belt
when I walked into her life
and took it from her.
Living feels hard
when death comes calling,
whispering names
that sound like yours,
but dying seems easy
when life comes calling,
shouting names
that should have been hers.
And maybe that is why
I wonder about that fucking belt
more than anything else.
That belt would have served me better,
holding up the weight of this life
she would have lived
fuller than I have.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

In Collapse

Still, I wonder, here in collapse,
if I should pick the jagged stones
of humility out of my knees,
or let them settle in, pushing
rough edges into my vulnerability.
And if I did, would you see me as divine?

© Nicole Lyons 2017

All Of The Cynics Are Left Instead

All of the stars in me are falling
all of the waves have breached the banks.
All of the hope in me is spiralling,
all of the hate has been given thanks.
All of the love in me is aching,
all of the pain has come to dance,
all of the light in me is flickering,
all of the darkness has another chance.
All of the life in me is weeping,
all of the death has come to call.
All of the ships I sailed are sinking,
all of the heavens have begun to fall.
All of the faith in me is breaking,
all of the will has met its end,
all of the giving has turned to taking,
all of the evil has become my friend.
All of the words have turned to dust,
all of the poetry has lost its soul,
all of the music has stopped playing,
all of the burdens have taken their toll.
All of the magic has lost its lustre,
all of the believers have gone to bed,
all of the artists have given up,
all of the cynics are left instead.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

Nothing To Say

There is nothing to be said about the way you hover over me,
nothing about the way you grind your hips and your filth
against me from somewhere inside places, I have never been.
There is nothing to be said about the way you breathe,
hot and filled with rage, against the back of my neck
when I write your ugly truths into existence
and when I speak my words above yours.
There is something to be said about the way
a woman’s voice carries, though, and it crosses oceans,
climbs mountains, and charges through wastelands,
gaining speed and strength with every ear it tickles.
But there is nothing to be said of the shoulders
too weak to hold the weight of those voices,
the ears too ignorant to listen,
and the mouths too vile to spit anything other than hate.
No, there is nothing much to say about any of that,
but you can be damn sure I am going to say it.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

Syllable by Syllable

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

Freakshow

I had always wanted to be
the center of attention
until I was shackled
into the main attraction
of her sideshow.
A three-ring circus and her
freak show, fisting gaping
chests and shredding hearts.
I stepped right up
and felt the twisting
of my head,
I heard the cracking
of my skull,
and I was mesmerized
when the spotlight hit
my juggled mind and I
heard a thundering ovation.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

A Collection of Madness and Magic

18057792_306746873093694_3626401402095011994_n

My mind is light and dark and always uneven,
a rest stop for a long line of weary travellers
and mischief makers; a home to thousands
of manic spiders spinning sticky webs
of dark delusions against the back of my eyes.
My ears itch with the whispers
of hyper charged bits of paranoia.
My throat burns from the speed
at which I swallow the rants
and raves of transient thoughts,
and I am able to breathe again.
My blood boils with electricity,
ferocious enlightenment kicking
through the walls of a dead heart
and I am alive again.
A collection of madness and magic,
I am a place where art and illness collide.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

The Hill On The Way Home

What an exhausting thing it has become,
being held captive inside your darkest thoughts.
Rocking back and forth, massaging the balls
of my feet on each step up your spine,
wiggling my toes, pushing into
the sweet center of every weakening vertebrae.
It is a tricky climb, your backbone,
steep and full of hidden twists,
but the bend of it beneath my weight
is so beautiful I pause and consider
resting for a moment, right there,
in the hollow of your pride.
I could stretch my limbs and close my eyes,
lulled to sleep upon the echoes
of your deep growls and the rhythmic sway
of your need to release me
from all the places I will never leave.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

To Stitch A Soul

I am a lover of words
and tragically beautiful things,
poor timing and longing,
and all things with soul,
and I wonder if that means
I am entirely broken,
or if those are the things
that have been keeping me whole.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

Vintage Heart

For Tamara, with love.

backgroundsunflower

She’s an old soul
with young eyes,
a vintage heart,
and a beautiful mind.

© Nicole Lyons 2017