Ellen Mckinnon Poems

What makes us who we are?
Is it where we grow?
Who surrounds us?
Or the way we express ourselves?
...

Age is but a number, nothing less, nothing more
For a white-haired man could still be selfish and petty,
Where a young boy could be giving and moral
Though the white-haired man is safe and protected,
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War is a demon, with blood dripping fangs,
Who cause the death from the shot of a gun to the old man hangs,
Do you hear the demon laugh, a sound of gunfire and screams,
If you survive this demon, you balance on sanity's thin beams,
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Many wonder why one so young, loses themselves in books so,
Some snob intelligence some sneer insanity,
Yet the answer is, the characters in books and words, do not lie,
They tell a story of love or life or find.
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What I wish for on midnight's first star,
Is to cure the war that reaches from afar,
Not for my own soldiers, not for my own men,
But for their's as well, the wives and children that they defend,
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Even after the smoke has cleared,
I can still feel my fear,
For the bang of the guns and the cries of death,
Still ring in my ears, and are all that's left,
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Ever felt a hand on your sholder but there was nothing there to see,
There could be many lies you tell yourself, but only think It could be,
Only the Fae can touch a mortal, be seen without being seen,
They Fae like to play, to trick though they can not lie, their truth is just as mean,
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Tell me, answer me, for you may have one,
How is it that the ones we rely on, turn?
The ones who judge and thoughtless, band and sing empty praise and feel fulfilled?
Yet the single lost follower, is left with empty heart alone?
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Life is a delicate flame,
Touch to much, can you feel the pain?
But let it be? The flame spreads untamed and free,
A gentle touch, with one set of hands is the key,
...