My mind is adorned with weeds,
Rogue thoughts most people
Stamp out.
Not me,
For I myself am wild.
I feed such strange distractions.
With all their strength
And determination
To display so proudly
Their own extravagance,
It would be a great dishonour
Upon myself
Should I not allow them
To reach their crescendo.
Don’t you think?
– Essie Parker Walsh
Sunday By The Sea.
I want to lie down by the sea,
And fade into the sound of the surf.
I want to bury my hands in the sand,
And feel the grains on the tips of my fingers.
I want to stare into infinity,
And let my soul swim in its endless bounty.
I want to breathe in this freedom,
And let the gulls steal away with my silence.
I want to stay here a while,
Blissfully invisible.
– Essie Parker Walsh
When I Say I Am Lonely.
I finally understand that
When I say I am lonely,
I mean that I feel distant
From the part of myself
That keeps me breathing,
And I am scared.
There’s not enough
Me
In me.
The outside is getting in,
I feel it’s weight in my arms.
My smile falls like lead
And takes me down with it.
I’ve lost myself again.
– Essie Parker Walsh
Of Oranges And Barley.
I see you all
Stood side by side,
So perfectly
Together.
Bricks and mortar,
Grains and water,
Such is this fortress.
The iron clad door
Held open for all.
‘Not you.’
Not me.
Is it the orange cart?
The voice?
Or is it just
The way I look?
The life I bring
Does not fit in
With yours
You claim
So welcoming.
I wish not to live
Within your walls
Made of such
Hard stone.
But only to bring
My oranges here,
In hope
That you
Might smile.
But no.
It’s too much.
I’m too much.
I’m too much
For you
And your empty halls.
There’s too much
Me in me
For you.
That’s fine.
I’ll take my oranges
North.
What are you hiding from,
In your fort
Built from barley?
– Essie Parker Walsh
The Vala’a Noct Trail.
Your icy touch
With so much ease
Made worse this soul’s
Midwinter freeze
Which has me now
Down on my knees.
But I am brave
Dark thoughts like these
Leak out from all
My once appeased
I know my way
Through raging seas.
I find myself
Among the trees
‘Pon twisted branch
And rustling leaves
Down well-worn trails
And on the breeze.
I find myself.
I’ll find myself.
– Essie Parker Walsh
Inevitable.
Such power has this mortality.
It shakes me to my core.
It thrills me not,
But leaves me riddled with such a
Primitive fear.
Maybe tomorrow thy inevitability will
Send me to the stars,
In my matchstick rocket ship.
But not today.
Today will be a triumph should I simply
Breathe.
– Essie Parker Walsh
Frost.
An ethereal frost coats the leaves
Made gold by September’s touch.
To hold it in the sun at this perfect hour
And catch so simple a lustre,
Is the most wealth I’ve ever had the chance to hold
In both my hands
And my eyes.
– Essie Parker Walsh
The Haunting.
Spirits welcome at any time
I said.
Welcome,
The long since dead,
To my Godless existence.
There is no heaven here.
No reincarnation.
The only rebirth
Is from the chrysalis you pull
Yourself
Out of
After all you know turns to soup.
Eat yourself alive.
Let’s see if you can fly after that.
I tuck myself neatly away,
And break down every memory.
Every word.
Every tiny fucking movement,
Only to emerge still haunted
By the idea that
Even with my wings,
Made of sunshine and bones,
I am still not worth it.
– Essie Parker Walsh
Lullaby.
A sea of gold
Thine eyes behold,
In the light of the golden sun.
Fingers skip
O’er golden tip,
The golden hour has begun.
Thyself immersed
In the gentle verse,
Of birds by the gentle stream.
Rustling leaves
Upon a gentle breeze,
Gently then we dream.
– Essie Parker Walsh
The Perfectionist.
When poetry stains my porcelain hands,
And ink drips from fingertips,
And restless they do twitch,
My heart will sing in a hundred different colours.
-Essie Parker Walsh.
Essie P.W 