Remember This

I will unwrap all of me
and lay myself naked
at your door,
but remember this:
I will bite back.
With every promise
you have broken
and every lie
you have told,
I will bite back.
But if you would meet me,
naked and aching,
I would give back every promise
I have broken
and swallow every lie
I have told.
I would give back,
everything I have sworn
and the little I have left,
to the one brave enough
to bare their filthy soul
next to mine.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

I Won’t Always Be Me

I won’t always walk gently.
Sometimes I will stomp, and I will rage,
and my footsteps will shake
the mountains of love
you have heaped upon my earth.
I won’t always speak kindly.
Sometimes I will spit, and I will scream,
and the venom from my tongue will poison
the oceans of love
you have brought to my shores.
I won’t always live passionately.
Sometimes I will hide, and I will cry,
and the blackness from my soul will darken
the gardens of love
you have planted at my door.
I won’t always be me.
Sometimes I will be the very thing
I have been fighting against,
and it will swallow me, and it will laugh,
and I will climb out of the depths of it all
to meet you gently, and kindly,
and passionately again.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

 

 

Picture Source: Pinterest

A Cosmic Disappointment

I drink

and I scream

and I curse the stars,

and still you are here,

blaring in my fucking veins.

Nicole Lyons 2017

Most Days

I don’t know if I will ever

know the truth of us,

and what could have been,

what should have been,

what will never be.

But I do know I loved you

and I think you may

have loved me too,

and most days

that is enough.

Nicole Lyons 2017

Robbing Air

I don’t want to live this life anymore,
but you are pinks and deep hues,
the tangerine clouds behind sunsets
that giggle and puff themselves
into the shape of my mother,
when she slouched proudly
against the cupboards that robbed my air.
You are the pink of her that opened
the doors on their mothers
getting busy with our uncles,
and the red screeching from a pillowcase
bursting with the Siamese kittens they drowned.
You are deep hues and an ugly reminder
of small towns and smaller minds,
stroked once and cut twice
from a life, we are all running from.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

Pandering

Sometimes I feel as if
I am pandering to savages,
sealing my soul and selling it
for an innocent kiss
or a quick fix.
And then I push and I shove,
and I make my way
to the front of the line
to buy it all back
from the wasted souls
who look an awful lot like me.

© 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

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

Sudden Denouement Publishing Presents Nicole Lyons’ New Book: I Am A World Of Uncertainties Disguised As A Girl

MY BOOK IS OUT!!!!

And sitting at number #1 on Amazon Hot New Releases 10 hours after dropping, thank you all for the love and support. My cold black heart is ever so grateful.

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

Sudden Denouement Publishing Presents: Nicole Lyons’ New Book –I Am A World Of Uncertainties Disguised As A Girl is available now via Amazon. 

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[I am honored to be part of bringing to the world a new collection of the exquisite poetry of Nicole Lyons.  I have discovered so many wonderful souls on this journey, Nicole Lyons has become a wonderful friend, adviser, and mentor to me. It is an amazing privilege to announce this book.  Jasper Kerkau]

‘I Am A World Of Uncertainties Disguised As A Girl’ written by author and poet Nicole Lyons, is a breathtaking collection of poems that blurs the lines between love and madness. A sorceress of words, Nicole Lyons takes the reader to the edge of the abyss of creativity, sanity, and love, and asks the question, ‘can one survive both a broken heart and a broken mind?’

I Am A World Of…

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Chicken Dinner – Nicole Lyons

I’m on Sudden Denouement today, have a read.

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

We crossed that bridge
the second you came upon it,
beach blankets soaked
and the lovers’ notes
carved a generation before us
had seemed entirely too heavy
until that night when I sat down
to undercooked chicken and overcooked rice
served with an unconditional side of love.
And I remember feeling sorry for the chicken
at that moment in all of my wise teenage years,
and having an epiphany right there
at the dinner table next to an alcoholic
control freak who called me stepdaughter
and walked upon me to seal it
like the gummy flap of an envelope
stuffed with unloved letters,
and a mother who wore exhaustion
hidden inside her navy pumps.
Death, no matter how it is served
will always precede dinner
unless breakfast beats it to lunch.
And I thought myself wise beyond my years
in that moment, still warm
from the glow of your summer…

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