Author: Brooke F.

I’m a college student who has unrealistic dreams of being a famous authoress who writes mystery novels. Either that or a goblin... haven't decided which. I live on a farm up on a hilltop where the wind likes to mess up my hair and the trees sway poetically in the wind.

Evening Poems: The Ninth

~ Brooke F. ~ 1 Comment

How do you think a cat would spend its final life?

If it were old and on the ninth

I think a cat would spend its last days

Snoozing in the sun’s streaming rays.

Batting around that ball of lint

Dart around the hall, in a sprint.

And did I mention the

Sleeping. Sleeping. Sleeping.

And around the corners always peeping.

In short I would have to say,

That a cat would spend even its final day

Much how spent every year

Happy and without a single fear.

A cat on even its final minute.

Wouldn’t hesitate to then spend it

Dozing peacefully next to you, as your pet.

Because unlike you, he has no regret.

Evening Poem: I

~ Brooke F. ~ Leave a comment

I dont know why

I try and try

But theres no strength left in I

I turn left, and then turn right

I feel I am lost without a light

There is no strength left in I

I rely on that “I” so much.

So much that I start most sentences with an I.

I

I

I

Identity starts with I.

That’s on who I rely.

Me, myself, and I.

But not matter what I do

There is no strength left in I

At end of I

There is nothing.

Ironic.

Writing Prompt: Murder Museum

~ Brooke F. ~ Leave a comment

A museum displays the many artifacts and backgrounds of famous serial killers. It is popular for bone chilling as well as informative exhibits and draws a crowd world wide.

This is the Murder Museum.

Due its popularity, an exclusive tour is offered to those who sign up for the drawing to be allowed to roam this museum free of crowds. All night.

And of course things go wrong.

During the tour, someone notices the doors locking. And then the tour guide shows up dead.

Someone begins their murder spree using the many left over serial killer weapons and tools in the museum from the exhibits, everyone who turns up dead, dying in their own unique way to commemorate the serial killer exhibit it is based off of. It is now up to a few attendees to figure out who the killer is.

Sounds like an exciting night ahead at the Murder Museum.

Writing Prompt: The Ghostly Cafe

~ Brooke F. ~ Leave a comment

There’s a cafe in town in which residents frequent and go to decompress from their hard days. Lilting jazz music fills the air and produces an ambiance of peace that falls over the place and washes over its customers. It is such a serene scene, one would never think it was haunted. But, surprisingly, the ghosts are the heart and soul of this restaurant. Every hour, the ghost of a musician will serenade the customers as they listen with expectant ears and faces. Drinks are served by animated bone corpses. And that weird knocking on the wall keeps time with the music, not at all creepy.

Tell me the story of the ghostly cafe.

Evening Poems: Velvet Hearts

~ Brooke F. ~ Leave a comment

I’m sorry, they lied to you
Your heart isnt made of gold
I’m afraid, It is a lie most commonly told.

Your heart is made of velvet, vulnerable and soft.
Those who boast invincible
Are liars who should be scoffed

It is unavoidable,
The tearing of the heart,
So when you’re left in pieces, it is often hard to know where to start.

But there is a tailor,
Whose trade it is to mend.
I’m sure If you’ll ask him, a hand he will lend.

And then you will be
Stitched together by mercy and grace.
And better off you’ll be, in this world you must face.

Things to Romanticize

~ Brooke F. ~ Leave a comment

A list I began for no reason and will probably continue. I just want to fall in love with the mundane again. It’s all in the little things I suppose.

Car Rides

The sleepy feeling of driving at night with someone you trust. Chill music playing in the background. Street lights whizzing by in the dark. The green glow of the radio controls.

Letters

Pen and ink. The wonderful scratching sound of writing on parchment. Being unnecessarily fancy. Writing in cursive. Talking about the weather and how much you miss them.

Elevator Rides

You feel busy and important but not so much so that you’re above smiling at those who get in the elevator with you. The little compliments you offer your temporary traveling companions. A shared moment of quiet in everyone’s day as the chime sounds after each floor.

Freshly baked bread

The smell filling the house. Soft butter. Soup. Cold, wet weather.

Lightning bugs

The smell of fresh July air. Mason jars. Contests between siblings to see who can catch the most,

Sun Rises

Being up and about before everyone else. Quiet time. Reading as you watch the world wake. A misty blanket which slowly lifts.

Lace curtains

Rays of sunshine streaming through. Patterned shadows being cast on the opposite wall. Quaint and homey.

Dabbling in many different hobbies

Who knows what you’re into this week. Fast paced. Knowing a little bit of everything. Endless possibilities. The joy of learning for the sake of learning.

Hand written notes (the handwriting doesn’t have to be perfect)

Personal. Gratitude for everyone in a small way. Smudged letters that reveal a message that has that person floating the rest of their day.

Moths

Flitting around light. Patterned wings. Night butterflies.

Evening Poems: Its not that I hate myself, I’m just tired of my own crap

~ Brooke F. ~ Leave a comment

It’s kind of sad.
I dont know when exactly but I think I stopped enjoying my own company.
I dont enjoy being alone anymore.
It’s been forever since I’ve enjoyed my thoughts and told myself stories before falling asleep.
My head hasn’t been a nice place to be lately.
Things weigh down heavier than I remember.
And I’m just so tired of myself. Which is unfortunate as she’s the only person in this world that I’m guaranteed to have.
I dont know when exactly I started being uncomfortable with being alone. Maybe it was a slow sort of process.
But it makes sense now why I have so many hobbies. Things that can distract me from the company that I’m keeping.
I dont particularly hate myself but she’s a very exhausting person to be around.
And so I’m tired all the time.

Evening Poems: Candy Wrappers

~ Brooke F. ~ Leave a comment

I used to have time to write down the processes of my mind.
And convey them through weaving stories.
To make a feast of my innermost desires and fears to be consumed by every hungry reader.
Now I have less time
And even more thoughts.
So instead I package them like candy,
Coated with sugar to hide the sour inside.
And I call it poetry.