Paddy Gardiner

10th May 2013

Post reblogged from reference for writers with 120,686 notes

buttlicked:

You’re bad at grammar? *pats u on shoulder* their, they’re, there.

Source: buttlicked

9th May 2013

Post with 3 notes

Healing

I’m still healing.
I’m still putting myself back
together
and have been
since I fell apart
5 months and
2 weeks and
5 days ago;
You lost a loved one.
You lost what was part of you
and apart from you
and was never yours to talk to.
You lost a person
who never began
and I lost a person
to the grief of losing a person
and I lost
5 days and 2 weeks and 5 months and 20 years ago.

There was more of you before I was born
that I wil never see.
And there is more of you now that I am born
which might have never been.
The thing is,
Children
are like algebra…
They add to you
And subtract from you
And are always unbalanced
And they balance you
And add to you
And subtract from you
And they help you find ‘x’.

20 years ago you ate ice-cream
and mayo from a spoon.
Stars came from your fingers when you touched your gut.
And Suns came from your thumb as you strummed to your unborn son.
You broke your wrist - you don’t play much anymore.
One more piece that’s gone.

I’m still healing.

From a wound that isn’t mine,
and a wound that didn’t mark 
flesh or
bone
but Grey Matter.
And that matters.

I’m still reeling.

And the things in life
that reel me in
have fresh perspective
when set against
the loss of a loved one
that was never mine to lose.
And he isn’t mine to free
And how can I
When he only lives in memory?
in you
and me
and your husband
and pain
and algebra.
And in every thought and matter
in Grey Matter
Which matters an awful lot.

He lives in counting
where I can’t reach him
cause I’ve always been less > than a mathematical genius
like he might have been more < than me.

He never learned to learn.
He never sparked with electrical elation
at the things of the world.
He never saw the world
He saw his world:
warmth
and
redness
and
darkness
and
wetness
and 
warmth
and 

Frequent benign bouts of James Brown
to my James Taylor
trying to malignantly climb inside his cave
and my cave
and his world
and my womb
which was never mine to lose

I’m still healing.
I’m still Listening.

I’m just learning to dance like no one can see
and to sing like people are deaf
and to sing like I am deaf
and to “get up offa that thing”
and 
I’m just beginning to realise
What I have that he did
briefly…
fleetingly,
but swiftly lost.

I looked up at my mind
and down at my hands
and found
myself
existing so hard that it hurt.

And I looked up at my head
and down on my hate
and in the back of my skull I saw
me
existing in every single thought.
And I saw him
not.

You see
20 years ago
a child died. And
5 months ago
a child died. And
2 weeks ago
a child died. And
5 days ago
a child died. And
tomorrow
a child died.
And on the 13th day of June, 1995,
a child died
and he was not me
for on this day a child is born
and he is me.

On the 13th day of June 2065,
a child dies.
And he is me.
And he is aged 70.

And he is still healing.

Tagged: Poetryspoken wordspoken poetrywordsFamilypregnancylosspatrick gardiner

4th May 2013

Post

Outlet

There’s art in you.
Let it out.
Not through IV drips, 
to people who almost care.
Not in introspective catharsis,
which burns your insides.

Let it out in waves
To people who love to swim.

There’s art in you.
And there’s art in sharing it.

Tagged: poetryspoken wordPatrick Gardineroriginal