The Poetry and Short Stories of Claire Fitzgerald The Writing Forum’s Writer of the Month - March 2012   POET’S BIO: My name is Claire. Im from Dublin, Ireland. I've been writing poetry and short stories since I was around 11 years old. It’s all I can imagine myself doing for the rest of my life. For me, writing is an escape from reality. It’s a way of expressing myself and being myself. I love, love, love writing. I have a partner who I’ve been with for years. He's my everything, and my main inspiration for poems. I also have a great love and relationship with my country, of which I also explore through writing. I am a young poet, at 22 years of age. My job in life is to make poetry young and relevant, or die trying. I come from the land of saints, scholars and writers, and I vow to be a part of THAT Ireland! To read my short stories published here at The Writing Forum, please click here.   Email: clairilio666@hotmail.com   POETRY BY CLAIRE FITZGERALD Click on the button in front of any title in the list below to be linked to that poem’s location on the page:   My Obituary   London   Power through   Dublin Castle   Mistakes   Tickle me breathless   Fate   Changes of my heart, and hand   Optimism   Easily Read   Raindrops   I can see no blood upon that board   The big one, The long one, The lovely one   Turning the ordinary into the extraordinary   Burning Fire   Therapeutic daydream   Absence   Baby Sister   Titanic poem for my sister   Battle, Grace, Jail, Bang   Burning desire; lyrics of fire   Blue Monday   Falling in Love   THE MAN   Anatomy of a writer   L plates   The Sacrifice   Time to Say Goodbye   Heart’s Plea   The story that I love to tell   The place of honour   New days   My Obituary With the words of a poet And the guts of a legend, I'll write what I know, And leave a legacy. A secret writer behind the scenes. Pretend that you know me, Pretend that you see. I work all day and I sleep all night. That's all you know! That's all I might be willing to show the world outside. But my disguise is the happy face, the open book, the doe-eyes, and the approaching look. I'm always happy and I love my life. But my darkest secret is how much I write. Unknown to many, Uncaring by the rest. My darkest secret is also my best. To look at me you'd never know. My youthful presence, Made-up glow. I reek of perfume on the outside, To disguise the smells of ink and pen. My inner surprise, Embarrassed of the smiles, Embarrassed of the fright. I will not become your typical writer. The kind I can't stand. The faker. The fighter. I simply put my pen to paper. Stress and pain, I'll see you later. Born a writer but not paid to be. After my death, people will see. Here's my message from beyond the grave, "When the reaper called, I was so brave. I thought of you all, Family and friends, I wrote of you all from the start 'till the end. I wrote for years, of different things. People, places, wishes and dreams. I did it in secret, Although some people knew. In work; on my lunch, Alone in my room. Riding on the bus, Sometimes on the train, Or I'd think in my head until the time came. I didn't parade it, though I certainly was proud. It was my little secret, And so I wasn't loud about portraying myself as a writer or poet. I didn't hide is, I just didn't show it. And now, though I'm gone, My poems keep me living. Chatty, Friendly, Honest, Forgiving. I did not wish to die, Instead I did fear. But I'm happy now, Do not shed a tear. So long, my brothers, Sisters, and friends. Think of me, until the end. There is nothing in life I did worth forgiving. I wrote, and I loved, And thus, Life was worth living". I plan to live many years to come, but will hold this poem until my breath is done. I'll die old, and happy, loved, and depended, surrounded by people, for love never-ended. I'll breathe my last breath as myself, only brighter. I'll live my last day As a poet, as a writer.   London It arrived right on time. A few short days. Sublime. I'll think about it all the time. My brand new happy place. And your face. And your hand. Walking in mine. Right on time. The sun was shining in the day. Sunny parks, A paradise. All the sights. And then the dark. The bright lights of the west end. Sparkle. All the pizza and wine in all the world. Comforted us in the greatest fashion. And the passion of a brand new place. Our warm embrace. Hand in hand. Smiling face.   Power through Through gloomy days of work work work, Keeping busy. As busy as a bee. I smile. Easy life of walking away. All work. More play. There comes a day when I just need more. Blue Monday. Freaky Friday. Every Thursday. I must not stress, Nor fall to the level of the free loaders, dossers, especially those that moan though they have it so easy. They'll see. Once I leave them, to pursue the career I've craved, And dreamed of. The pursuit is always on my mind. The chase. And true, I'm no closer to the dream than I ever have been. But it's all I can do. To strive. To thrive. To power on through.   Dublin Castle Behind the heavy stone bricks, that have sat for many years. Through invasions and war. These heavy cold stones have seen more than any human. The echoes of war are clear, when entering this space. This place. Of Connolly and Collins, And many more. The Viceroys. The wining and dining of Kings and Queens. Behind the scenes, of a stately home. That's been through a lot. From Norman invasions, Vikings, Celts. Demand ever seen. To the Easter rising of 1916. This Castle, at the Heart of Dublin city. It echoes war and importance. Even still. Inaugarations, from the heart of a nation. All of this beauty, sat silently still. Behind the heavy stone bricks, that have sat for many years. I applaud it. But they fought for it. No regrets, only tears.   Mistakes As troubled times have come, Have gone, Have ruined the love that was so strong. By my own hand! By my own wand! This magic, This strength, This love is gone. But the love exists in me hereafter, And if he could forget disaster. My arms are open, My tears are dry. My love is true. For him, I'd die.   Tickle me breathless So soft; The tips that bless my skin. Skimming across the moist and warm, The little hairs. The moon and all the little stars. So warm, my neck. Oh, ache for tips that bless my heart. So deep, they dig, they sweep across my very heart. My heart! Somehow, across my very heart. So is the end. My chest being the start, as blessed be my chest, my heart, my breast, my soul possessed. Oh, what a taste, what a sound! My pores bleed, they sweat. The rush. The start. They tickle my skin, you tips. They dig my heart.   Fate He shot me in the heart. Straight through, Wet arrow, piercing. No pain, at all. Nerves were there all along. I think he shot you too. God made the world in seven days. He made our story, soon after. Before it happened. Our epic tale. It took him more than seven days. Perhaps my existence is plastered on an item. Something special, Sentimental. Yours has too. Two single jigsaw puzzle pieces. That fit together. Perfectly. Perhaps, Subconsciously, We found each other. Our souls connected. And you came to me. You found my heart. That beats for you. Perhaps we shouldn't think so much. Just thank ourselves for meeting up. You found me, Or I found you. In love we fell. In love we'll stay. In love we live. Tomorrow is a lovely day.   Changes of my heart, and hand Through it all, I have kept writing. Through pain, despair, and frightening moments of self-destruction. Self-doubt. And more. More like giving up on myself completely. Mistakingly. Through career doubt. Screaming and shouting. Day by day. Wanting more, but never trying. Only crying. And with that, writing. And slightly hating the life I had created. Mistakingly. Don't get me wrong; The thrill of love kept me going. But I can't lie. 'Twas the thrill of despair that kept ink flowing. I can opt to keep crying. And writing. Or I can get a change in motion. Fatal potion of work, suspended. Pending a meeting or two. Writing on track, Sit and relax. I still have you.   Optimism It's new, and the start Of the rest of my life. But if I don't have despair; Of what will I write? My heart is pumping. Jumping. Thumping. So full of life, No longer hollow. Therefore I know, the words will follow.   Easily read I'm happily laughing. But held back? I might be. By anxiety, or the need to be a tragedy. Let's not be like me. Hiding? Find me. Lying? I might be. Trying to simply not be that tragedy. It's imaginary. Shook up, and life Life took a lot out of me. And now I can't relax. Perhaps, it's me. That tragedy. That tragedy in three acts.   I can see no blood upon that board Just inside your loosely clasped fist, Your delicate wrist. Palm facing up. Oh, I adore the smell of coconut! Your fingers spring open. Dice! "Move three places to the right". You clap your hands. Oh, we're a team, I understand. The game is over, we won! We won! I thought it had only just begun. I look at my hand, I'm holding the dice. You tell me that you're glad I came. I look at you. "Another game?"   Raindrops The rain dribbles on the double glazed glass. Each drop racing with the next, as if to prove each ones capability. Before they all merge upon the wooden frame in one single splash. I love to watch them. Sometimes I tap my fingernail lightly on the glass. To help the little raindrop that hasn't yet grasped the idea of winning. Then again. Perhaps she is waiting until the last minute, Then she'll prove how she knew what to do. All along. What a clever little raindrop! She doesn't need my pity. Until a large drop slides along the glass somehow horizontally. Collecting, and growing, as he comes to take the little drop away. So the poor little drop has no way of showing. What she has waited so long to show. Now she has to go. Until another rainy day.   The big one, The long one, The lovely one Oh, fellow Irishmen and women. I am the next in line. To join the time of Michael and Eamon. I'm doing it. I can't go back, I've settled upon that. But I cannot feel this trapped any longer. I'm aiming to live like the did back then. But today. I don't care how long, or What others think. I'm not spending my lifetime. My one lifetime; Complaining, wasting, dreaming, or asleep. I'm awake, and proud of who I am. I'm definitely proud of where I'm from. Not so much of everyone I've met. But who do I need? There's people up there matchmaking for me. I'll leave it to them. The next time I even think about passion, Love, or infatuation to start. Is when the wind shakes the barley right into my heart. I want peace for Ireland, of course. I'd hurt any man who breaks any blade of grass, or lump of earth. Even if I'm the only one. But what does it matter? Since birth, I've been on a mission that I haven't quite figured out yet. But I've written it all down. Since adolescence. And though these poems of mine are just boring rants of a millennium teen to some. They tell the story, of an Irish girl who'll make a difference. They life she has and the one she wants, are 90 years apart. A wannabe poet, but no one knows it. She's obsessed with love, which will break her heart. Is mise Clar Ni Gearailt.* *Meaning "I am Claire Fitzgerald" in Irish.   Turning the ordinary into the extraordinary My bright orange pencil, Is rubbing against my finger, Causing it to blister. Scrunched up litter hides my feet. Creating a picture of great defeat. I'm aiming; Not for talent, or competitions, or glory. I'm aiming for a way for me to express, my feelings, thoughts, and premonitions. For a way to tell my story. What story? I've never been a Bishop, nor an unhappy Mother glowing gloomy silver. I get shivers, To think that someday I could be compared to a Frosty day. It's quite obscene, to consider myself a Shakespeare. Or a Yeats. But I'd love to see it. To know it. Like dolmens round my life so far. The people. The person that I want to be. A poet.   Burning Fire She's the one who knows it all, Somehow. And she's the one who wouldn't laugh if you fell. She'd fall with you. But I can tell. Here's a girl afraid to be someone else. Pretense makes no mark in her life. She is my life. And the sharp blades of love and despair, have tried To slice and dig and scare. But we're there. And we know what she's like when she's bare. She'll fight. Even if there's no one there to fight with. She knows that she's too strong to be messed with. Blessed with honesty, and love. And she might smile, and wonder why it's alright. She's not usually this tough. Yet, you were tough enough to escape from the grasp, of relationships lasting though testing your nerves. Contrasting to the one you'll have when the Gods above see what you deserve, and Who you should love. And it serves any man right, To lose you. If he thinks you can't fight. You've proved you're a survivor. You'll push with all your might. You're alive. And in our eyes. You've proven to yourself you're one of a kind. And in my mind. You've smiled, and you've cried. But you've survived. And I admire you for that, if nothing else. A burning fire melts all the ice. And the fire burns in you. Promise me you'll be true to yourself, and those around. You're unofficially crowned; The one we all need. And please remember, We'll all come through together. Three things on earth are worth admiring; Peace, true love, and you. And I'm aspiring to Peace; it's near. Love; of people, one another. You; and us, we have each other. So might you need us, we'll be here.   Therapeutic daydream Away from stress, Tests. Annual checks. Hustle and bustle. Workload doubled, Work place troubled. Tears, Fears. So many tears. Dread. The workplace I would love instead. Away from this pain. This pain I've described. Robotic life. I've tried to hide. There is a place, so near. Geographically. Yet so far away, in Daydream land. Where, hand-in-hand we walk the streets. The promenades. We shop for things we can't afford. We kiss. Always in the rain. We miss nothing of our lives to blame. We skip. We dance till late at night. We sit in parks, And read past light. We laugh on the streets, while sipping wine. We dine, Like Kings and Queens sublime. We see the sights. All the time. We dream. We dream of health, and laughter lines. I remind myself that this will be mine. It isn't long 'till summertime. So time will fly. Nothing says relax like Paris in July.   Absence My Heart. It aches, and pains, and probably bleeds when you are absent. My tears, so blank and pale. They burn my skin. My supple skin upon my face. Like acid. These tiny little translucent things. They ache, they pain. Like acid on my milky skin. My fingernails. Permanently resting, or pressuring, that little fleshy bit of thumb upon my palm. These little moons of white, now red as though to mask the pain and hide the dread. To dilute the things I fear. Instead, To promote the joy of Love. Bright red, though chipped; My nails have said what I cannot. Love, I do. Admit, I shall not. Driven demented with bloody heart and acid tears. Painted nails scarring my palms. My palms, which ultimately tell of my pain. The scars, The lines. Love, life, fortune. It's all the same. How many times, must I cry my bloody acid tears, or bleed my heart. Heart stopped. Short breath. The pain I cannot wait to forget. Your absence. It breaks my bloody achy heart. And turns me violet. Driven demented, sitting quietly. Pen and ink can't help me now. When I cannot breathe, and Cannot move, or speak, or see. And suddenly. The light appears. My watery tears cloud my eyes. Sunrise. It's now one night down, two more to survive.   Baby Sister I was quite embarrassed when I figured out everything. My mother was putting on extra weight. Baby shaped. Right around her belly. T-shirts were baggy. Moods were crabby. I shuddered to imagine the cause. I remember asking my Mam to call it Elizabeth. Regardless of the sex. It shut me up, when along she came. I saw her face. I knew her name, Mary Elizabeth. Now nothing makes me happier. Than bringing her to look for the bats. Or hearing what name she'll call me next. And perhaps, To this day I forget how much I love her. I can literally pinky promise, I'd jump in front of a car for her, If it gave the world just one more day of knowing her.   Titanic poem for my sister Tweed coat with silver buttons, My daughter grips my palm, A horn sounds loudly from the sea, We hop aboard a tram. The hustle of Southampton’s streets, A departure from our life, The horn again, as we board, Myself, my child, my wife. Returning to America, The land I left behind, Gone twenty years, now 1912, And fear was on my mind. The ship itself was magical, As large and grand as promised. The nights we spent, the laughs we had. Pure joy, if I’m to be honest. The dreaded night it happened, Nothing at all to be expected, The food we ate, the band they played, Disruptions were simply rejected. When forced inside life jackets, I turned to my child and spoke, “You will be fine, you’ll always be mine”. I heard my own voice choke. My beautiful wife held my hand, Our daughter gripping hers. Looking at the frightened crowds, It was hard to fight back the tears. Up on deck, the wind was fierce, The band playing beautiful notes, Women and children were to be first, To board the safety of the boats. My wife was stubborn, as was my child, They pushed, they screamed, they roared. I looked at them, and with a lie, Said I’d be joining them on board. I watched them right until the end. It was the hardest thing I’ve done. Though knowing they were together and safe; I can say I died comfortably numb.   Battle, Grace, Jail, Bang As he clamoured into battle, Snow white bandages wrapped his neck. He could barely walk, Or give orders, But his little stained notebook showed, He was the martyr with the brains. He wanted just to go Fight for Ireland’s independence. His aide-de-camp Collins Probably became so successful later, Because he followed someone, Shy in appearance, but bold in nature. His plan was greatly followed, Which was doomed a failure. But any plan was. His main success, his arms from Germany Gave the men, the bullets and the balls To fight for the freedom Of their emerald green shining country. They didn’t get that much. However, Plunkett’s plea and clever battle Had a lasting effect on everyone. It showed the damage we could do for what we wanted. And here was a man, and his companions, Who wanted that more than anything. He died for his country, Which earns my admiration. But never got to see Ireland’s independence. Which is totally frustrating.   Burning desire; lyrics of fire This little something That keeps me going, Of precious potion ever flowing. My aching hand, And aching mind. It fills my pen, And all of mind. I wrote of long and wonderful things. Of long lost love, Of want, of knowledge. And it sings and dreams, My hand does now. It sings the lyrics of a song unknown to me. To my parchment. To my reader. For times are gone, and lost for good. I know not to write of true love, Of the purest kind. Love at first sight, Love reunited, Eternal flame, Fate above fate. More than I have ever known. Though I’d never lie. Nor try to change the lyrics of my heart, Now know, I have fallen in love, And must write it so.   Blue Monday It's on this day Every year. I shed a tear. A tired verse, Over-written song, Thoughts in my head. For so long. Too long. Dreaded shadow and clouded mind. On this day, My rationality is blind. Simple reality. Dreaded fear. The shift in gravity, of Changing my career. This Monday in my Twenty-second year. On this day, This day so blue. Dreams are clear. My talent must not have me fail. I'm too creative to work in retail.   Falling in Love When you told me that you loved me For the very first time. I blushed. I think about it all the time. Feeling sublime. Flushed. My heart desired you. Geography required you to move for me. My heartbeat inspired me to fall for you. Romance in my life was tired, Until you implied, That your life wouldn't survive without Me as your bride. And what a relief! Your belief, that my heart would beat for you, That my mind would speak to you, That my body would bleed for you. That simply, I needed you. Your belief, spoke verses to me. Not versus, like the insignificant Dots of ink I write, Of anthems of a Millennium teen, Of fears, of dreams, Of ends, or starts. Not your name inside a roughly drawn heart. Your belief, spoke versus, Like Romeo & Juliet. Like Shakespeare said, Or young Cosette. Like Rowling wrote, of young romance. The tasteful dance of years to come. You spoke to me, in a moment of need. My life has succeeded. My dreams have exceeded my expectation. Honestly, With the force of a war and the hope of a Nation. I fell in love. And its more amazing today than it ever has been.   THE MAN My heart protested, When the man molested my shocked and aching body. His hands were cold and shaking. My heart, he knew, was aching. His breath was warm and smoky. He saw me as a trophy. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, as soon as I saw His matted hair, and anorak. His chubby face. A scruffy waste. He saw the potential for a chase. Out of sight, out of mind. Or so I thought. The reality was, I wasn't blind. He wasn't kind. His chubby face, peirced my mind. I wasn't wrong. He wasn't gone. Any second wasted was a moment too long. In contrast to reality. You helped, the second you looked at me. Your eyes were warm. Your hands were firm. Your want to help made my heart take a turn. I knew I wasn't crazy. I could tell you weren't lazy. You would find the man who did this to me. The man who scared. The man who dared. The man who made me forget who I used to be. But luckily, you reminded me.   Anatomy of a writer My ink is dry once again. I feel I must try, and then Shall I retire my quill? To the thrill of the Doubters, And haters, And damn non-believers. I do not look a certain way. Unlike a writer, I’ve heard you say. Must I look brighter? Take a good look at me, And see the premature wrinkles of a 21 year old girl, Who’s troubles doubled the day she tried to handle the world Take a look, Inside my mind, at the many books of inspiration I’ve read. And the other ones I prefer instead. Of teenage wizard, or long lost love, Of Middle Earth, Or anything else I’ve understood. Take a look upon my body. See the scars of paper cuts? Never fatal nor intentional, Though ever present. And did I mention? The scars of ink I’ve chosen to wear. Exclusive to Claire. Which inspire me more than your cigarettes and smoky breath. Take a look upon my hands. Dry, no doubt. Nails perfectly painted in a colour to match my mood that day. Today, they’re grey. Decorated by one single ring upon my finger. Not that finger. A gift from my sister, Who saw the hands, and heart, and crown. And knew I needed it. She could see that it was the final part of my masterpiece; My hands. Which speak to people far and wide. Take a look upon my face. Perfectly painted, each eyelash in place. I don’t try to hide, I simply try to decorate. And celebrate. Everything I have come to be is thanks to me. I may work in a shop. I don’t travel, or smoke. I may be the butt of your intellectual joke. I may have dropped out of college and you may have a degree. At least I can see my future ahead. I would dread yours instead. I’ve written each day since the day I turned 10. No, I won’t retire my quill. Through it all, I have been stripped bare. Writing may not pay my bills. But it’s my air. Take a look at my appearance now. Do I look brighter? How dare you say that I’m not a writer.   L plates A sudden jerk of hands, My mind berserk, The man beside me, The judgement etched upon his face. My mistakes, My face faking a pretty smile. All the while, My hands shake. My foot aches against the clutch. A single touch. A single look. The judgement of the spectators I find so depressing. The reality of a driving lesson. Though without a doubt, As the hours roll by. I start to know, or thereabouts. I start to try. My confidence firmer. Screw you all, Im just a learner.   The sacrifice The friends I’ve made throughout the years, Have shared the usual laughter and tears. They’ve shared the best and worst of times. The stress, The tests, The best of life, And the rest of life alongside me. I’m trying to be As happy as can be. But they can’t see the rest of me. They’ve been away for the tests And the rest that goes with University. They left me. Understandably. To endure the world of technology. Alone, you see. With no degree. And I fought my way, Found my pay, And ways to save for the future I’ve prayed for. My success grew further than anticipation. Pride replaced initial reservation. Plus a promotion. Career devotion. Love in motion. Everything was fine. Four years later in that short space of time My life sublime is overshadowed. Success is hallowed. Appearance shallowed, By my lack of degree. Lack of University. They all earn more. Though I’ve learned more after working for years. Throughout tears. And fears. The inevitable envy of green, Which doesn’t suit me. Am I kicking myself? Or thankful for the help I gave myself. I’ve learned a lot all on my own. My very own back-up career. Through any tears that may pop up. I’ve taught myself how to be tough. And just how much I love my life. No matter what the sacrifice.   Time to say goodbye That cold and dreadful morning, I played a game. I was the same, nothing wrong. A plain day to an art museum. I sang songs on the bus. I laughed. It was me telling the jokes. I tried to be normal, Yet it must have gotten to me. When I got home, I cried. And I felt so guilty for trying to hide What had happened. Because I didn’t believe it had happened yet. Not until I was wearing black, Travelling to her flat. Empty, Except for my relatives who had arranged to meet there. And what wasn’t fair, Was my little sister, not seeing what was wrong. Not even when that beautiful song, “Time to say goodbye” was playing. And it wasn’t long before someone cried. My big sister. Then, like dominoes, we all started. My arm around my brother’s shoulder. My dad’s around mine. The whole church holding on to each other in floods of tears. And I was sharing my one tissue around To all the people who needed to wipe their eyes. But there came a time when no one cared. Because then it really was time to say goodbye. I remember everything about her; Her patience to knit and go fishing with me and my big sister. Who equally miss her. And it breaks my heart now, to see My baby sister’s little chin shake When she’s been bold. Somewhere along the way she’s been told “Holy god, Santa, and Nana are watching you”.. She has a heart of gold. And when she’s asleep, and I’m Running my tired fingers through her hair, I see her holding her hands tight. She’s praying, like we all do each night. That Nana is doing alright up there.   HEART’S PLEA I gave up writing poetry, Because writing of sadness, loneliness and despair; Was all that came from inside a bare heart, an unlovable shell.                                  When all of a sudden, we met, and fell in love.                                       My world stopped. The world, as I knew it. And I began living life, instead of zooming through it. Yet once more now, My heart aches, almost bleeds. I’m still in love. But my heart pleads with me, To regain the love of my country I used to have. Now I fear that I am in love with a dead land, My emerald isle, of greenest grass and freshest soil. The songs, the language, But above all else, I long to love the heroes who fought for us. Ireland’s independence, The bloodshed, The war. What all the bloody fighting was for. * “Ba dhuthchas riamh d’ar gcine chaidh”, Tell that to the ‘heroes’ of politics and law. Now Ireland, my beautiful emerald isle, Is in turmoil. Bought out. Financial independence is in serious doubt. I worry for myself, for my children, and theirs. The bankers, and the politicians who did this to us, You’ve ruined my beautiful emerald isle, My financial situation, My faith in the nation. The sound of a hero brings tears to my eyes. The sound of heroes, Of the lost, Of the brave. The sound of our heroes turning in their graves. *This is in Gaeilge. Its pronounced "Bah dookas reeve dar ginna kaw" and it is a line from the Irish national anthem, meaning "We are children of a fighting race".   The story that I love to tell I find myself blissfully waiting, It's so frustrating, When my phone's not vibrating, and theres no sign of you. I wake To trumpets blaring, People staring, A heart finally caring, And thoughts full of you. I knew your name, but you were just that. A name, if not a wonderful game, where I never saw you, but constantly thought of you. And then you came. Like a god, or a dream, And it seemed like that. A mirage, nothing real. Yet I could feel the love running through my veins. And the love hits me every time it rains. And the love soils me as if it were stains of everything bright. This love is taking over my life. But it feels so right. When I rest my head upon your chest, I can hear your heart beating. Once, twice, and once again. It's almost as if it's speaking, to me, or to the world. I don't really know. What I know, is that your heart of gold, Of purest gold that shines so bright, tells me everything will be alright. I know that you want what's best for me. As long as you see, what's best for me, is you. Definitely. And I know, if you knew it could be done, You'd wrap up the earth in a green ribbon, and leave it somewhere for me to find. Your kind heart works so well with your mind. That's why I feel this way about you. And yes, I've doubted you. I confess, I did some stupid things as a result of my fears. Screw my fears, I'm avoiding the tears, and if that leaves me tightrope walking across love with you; Then whatever. Hold my hand and we'll fall together.   The place of honour To the rebels, the martyrs, the leaders of war. What was all the fighting for? That disgrace, brought to this place. Was it someone's mistake, or a noble uproar? "Our country should be led by the Irish and the Proud", is what they said. And I agree. Brave and noble, not drunken and loud. And so we led, from Wexford to Belfast, to Dublin and Cork. And it all happened so fast. Blood was shed. People were dead. The rest just bled. And the thieves gave half of what was stolen. With a fight. And the Irish, god bless them, went with all their might. They fought, for what was rightfully theirs. Ours. And some were happy, and some were not. And the cowards and the murderers stopped what they began. And they took their uniforms of black and tan. Trusted the free staters to control what they ran. And they ran. For the rebels no longer had a plan, just a taste for revenge. So brother fought brother for what was rightfully theirs. Ours. They couldn't share, For the rebels had nothing and the free staters had guns. What they both had was bravery and passion by the ton. And so blood was shed. And people were dead. And the rest just bled. Again. And again. For full independence or just all they could get. Was it worth it in the end? All the heartbreak? All the death? Pro-treaty won. Executions begun. Irish killed more Irish than the British had done. Let's hope now, guns are gone for good. And the executions, and the puddles of blood. And now that I see how it all began. I'm more proud than ever at how far we've come. To the rebels, the Martyrs, the leaders of war. I understand now, what the fighting was for.   New days Gone are the days of fires, and couples who admire each other, whatever the case may be.. Another year has run by, and still, I'm here. No fire, no wild desire. Until, I think, and I believe. I'm in the wrong era. I can imagine how I'd live with the friends who are near, and the others who are nearer. Oh, what I wouldn't give to live, or just to spend nine days, or ten, Back in the land of gentlemen. The work, I wouldnt mind, just to spend the time with the friends of the past who would be mine. Oh, to speak the language that has since then died! And I'd speak it all the time. Learning to love, and being ready, to fight alongside Damien and Teddy. To know, just to know, what it's like, To live and belong to the right time of life. Some, no, anytime in the past. Soon, now that life goes so fast. The life I have is in contrast. I'm too lazy to think and even more so to laugh. I try to trasure the world, to love and to trust. The earth; a great ball being destroyed by us. It's meant to be fields of green, not technology. I'm just sorry i'll never see, The life, and time that was meant for me.