Farrel

There’s no question that the only thing on my mind more than you is my rifle.

Fri, 24 May 2013 22:55:56 -0400

There’s no question that the

only thing on my mind

more than you

is my rifle.

7 Myths About Police

Thu, 23 May 2013 23:15:47 -0400

They exist.
Jail is to imprison your body.
Uniforms equal comradery.
Justice is a job.
Protection is for everyone.
Fear and Anger are expressed differently
Myths are really Myths

How many times can you look at death before you fall in love?

Fri, 17 May 2013 19:15:21 -0400

How many times

can you look at death

before you fall in love?

It's Not Fair

Thu, 16 May 2013 13:56:48 -0400

You never had to see me cry.

You never had to watch my soul leave my body

as I unraveled into an into an incoherent wailing shell of a man.

I think…

If I was as tangible as he was,

and you had to witness the betrayal in my face,

maybe you would have remembered how much you loved me.

My first ever publication, in SUNY Plattsburgh’s Literary...

Mon, 13 May 2013 16:20:03 -0400

My first ever publication, in SUNY Plattsburgh’s Literary Magazine, Z-Platt!

Inanimate Love Letter

Sat, 11 May 2013 21:18:55 -0400

[Note: This is an idea I took from my favorite poet, Sarah Kay. This is a love letter from a Shoe to a mirror.]

You have a power

to tell people’s stories.

In an intimate overview you show people

their beauty, their bravery, even their ugly truths.

You show them

there is a light in their eye, even when they cry.

And that if they can face you every morning,

the world will be a push over.

I adore how the sun makes you sparkle every morning.

I am right next to the door,

always ready to run.

I never stay in the same place too long.

But you. You make me want to stay.

You make me forget about the door,

and all the adventure outside.

But I’m scared of how you’ll view me.

When I look at you

all I can see are my crisscross scars,

different colors down my body.

I know I’ve been dragged through too much

and I’m worn around the edges.

But you help me see vibrant colors

that are now faded.

You remind me I’m more flexible in my old age,

not so stiff and rigid anymore.

Maybe I can teach you to bend one day.

So don’t count me out.

One day, I might just REFUSE to walk out that door.

I would defy the very order of the world

to stay in this room with you.

We can be the couple that everyone talks about,

that no one thought would make it.

If you can just look past

my crisscross scars

I will love you forever.

Don’t call it beating. Call it shaping. Don’t call it punishment. Call it...

Thu, 09 May 2013 22:29:24 -0400

Don’t call it beating.

Call it shaping.

Don’t call it punishment.

Call it investment.

This is only the start,

to submitting your heart.

You say I give you beautiful words But you give me beautiful dreams Holding hands while taking a...

Mon, 06 May 2013 18:40:11 -0400

You say I give you beautiful words

But you give me beautiful dreams

Holding hands while taking a stroll

Through a gauntlet of falling autumn leaves

Winter wonder lands are our play place

Time frozen with snow flakes falling on your tongue

I dream of you,

Rubbing your swollen belly

Your face bright with admiration and wonder

There could not be a more magnificent sight

Then you holding our child against your bosom

You make me dream of a life

Not a series of days

Let this be a lesson to you

Mon, 06 May 2013 16:46:20 -0400

Devotion is

a soldier laying chest down on a grenade.

With your heart blown out your back

laying in bits in the dirt,

you can never love again.

Again

Fri, 26 Apr 2013 15:57:05 -0400

I drink my morning coffee

out of my Superman mug.

The blue, red, and yellow mug

is broad, strong, and empowering.

I want to be a man of steel.

I want to be impermeable.

Not to bullets.

I want to be invincible to your memory.

I run everyday. I’m not fast enough.

I wonder if Superman can outrun

devastation.

How many laps around the Earth

to escape from abandonment?

My button up shirt almost matches the blue of the mug.

But I don’t think Superman drinks his morning coffee

with tear drops splashing in his cup.

I cried this morning, thinking of you.

Again.

Farrel: The Celtic Poet

Thu, 25 Apr 2013 11:47:40 -0400

Farrel: The Celtic Poet:

Welcome. I am Farrel, aspiring writer and spoken word artist. Here I will share with you some of my…

I want to let all my tumblr followers know I just created a facebook page. I will also post poetry on here, but I hope to use this as more of a networking site and for social interaction with anyone who enjoys my work. Thank you all for following.

I am a deralict on the fringes of society, waiting to steal your breath away. Savor your moments of...

Mon, 08 Apr 2013 16:16:57 -0400

I am a deralict

on the fringes of society,

waiting to steal your breath away.

Savor your moments of safety,

clasp on to your fear of uncertainty,

and count your last days of control.

There will be no mercy when I come,

no returning, no forgetting, and no predicting.

You will be mine.

Play Me Out

Sun, 24 Mar 2013 19:55:00 -0400

He fingered the bow nervously, licking his lips, stirring in his seat. His throat felt on the verge of closing as he tucked the Violin under his chin. The familiar resonating calmed him slightly as he drove the bow against the strings. Gentle at first, then he quickened his pace as he gained confidence. Sweat rolled down his face, kissing the wooden instrument. He dared not play to fervently, constantly aware of the weight in his lap, slightly pinched between his stomach and thigh. A tune started to build a life of its own. It grew and learned, stumbled and rebounded, expanded and made its presence known. His excitement caused him to nearly drop the L shaped steel awaiting his hand. He could not tell whether tears or sweat beaded on the body his violin. Nonetheless, his strokes gave rise and fall with mastery. Playing the melody of a sadistic romance on a crescendo of melancholy. Fear had disappeared, longing was at an end, he played the closure so succinctly he knew it was time. The bow in his hand was replaced, those were the last notes he ever played.

Love Has A Name

Sat, 23 Mar 2013 15:28:40 -0400

Admirable is the true heart.

May violins serenade its effort.

An expert seamstress could

Not sew atriums back together.

Doubt not its value;

Air is not as precious as love.

Weight in Love?

Fri, 22 Mar 2013 19:14:15 -0400

How sincere are these words

professed in passion?

If found out to be lies

what would happen?

Can we really taunt fate

by wagering our breath?

Are our hearts true

if we do not pay with death?

Trees Only Grow Leaves Once

Sat, 16 Mar 2013 16:42:10 -0400

It will be too long

before these leaves fall.

Crimson wilting from solar flares

is more of a danger.

They say Fall always comes.

But how long can a tree

hold on to its leaves

when the frigged cold

threatens to strip it bare?

Each leaf is a connection

to a precious season.

When the Sun shined

for only two trees

in the whole valley.

Can a tree die

from holding on to its leaves?

Will the leaves become toxic

like fatal obsessions?

What if a tree becomes stagnant

and never flourishes again?

This new season is ugly.

In a valley of dead grass and grey clouds.

The trees’ leaves are dry, cracked, and brittle,

but firmly attached.

It stands against the darkness of the moon,

alone,

next to a stump.

If Only

Sat, 16 Mar 2013 15:43:36 -0400

farrel-valorous:

If I could only stay

eternally articulate.

Then I might exemplify

the heart of a poet.

I might bring both pleasure and pain

to a world so desperate for both.

While obsessive study of psychology

offers bountiful insight.

It also brings neurotic decay

of reasonable thought.

Leaving only a vague view

of ones former self.

If only my physiology

had poetic transmitters.

My goosebumps might form

beautiful soliloquies.

My anxiety would traject

great bursts of emotional energy.

Touching the nerves system of my readers,

causing them to feel the same tingle

up their spine, into their brain.

If only I could permanently achieve

the correct level of sanity and psychosis.

Then, then my creative juices would flow

like the Mississippi. At the same time

they would be crafted into eloquence

by sanity like Niagra Falls.

In that balance, is where real poetry lives.

Extracted from the darkest parts of mind and soul,

then skillfully presented by the adept artist.

If only I could live in that place every day.

Why be a poet if writing all the poems in the world will not bring you back.

Thu, 14 Mar 2013 21:39:59 -0400

Why be a poet

if writing all the poems in the world

will not bring you back.

A Twisted Smile

Thu, 14 Mar 2013 16:12:27 -0400

I sat,

a despondent shell of a man.

Barely restraining

my emotional malady.

An endless gloom

rendered me impotent to the world.

She was

two maybe three feet tall.

She made

precious attempts at whole sentences.

She looked up

and she smiled.

I sat,

swimming in an aspiration.

I dived

into what was once a reality.

I smiled,

as if she was our daughter.

A thought not so illusive rests in the mind of the weary. A redundant temptation lives in the...

Wed, 13 Mar 2013 19:22:35 -0400

A thought not so illusive

rests in the mind of the weary.

A redundant temptation

lives in the disheveled heart.

An embedded desire

begs from the soul.

Escape.