Category: Poetry

Evening Poems: Homesick

~ Brooke F. ~ Leave a comment

I woke up today with an ache in my chest 

It was so strong, it impeded my rest. 

The feeling and loss of a place I call home, 

As time goes on, I seems to have only grown. 

Darling, I’m homesick for fields so green 

Skies that are bluer than you’ve ever seen. 

Sick for sunflowers in their neat little rows. 

And for bubbling creek that in the forest flows. 

I’m sick for the house that’s sits on the hill. 

Nestled next to trees that the wind does fill. 

Sick for the kitchen, with yellow on its walls. 

With a goldfinch on the sill that continually calls. 

Curtains washed, air and white. 

Cows in a field, just barely in sight. 

Darling, I’m homesick for every little thing. 

The cows, the kitchen, and the birds that sing. 

But most of all I have a desire that can’t be quelled 

For the innocence and love that that place held. 

Evening Poems: The Comfort of Lonely

~ Brooke F. ~ 1 Comment

The sadness hurts, but at least it listens to me when I talk. 

The security of the space by my sides as I walk. 

The comfort of sadness and of being alone. 

Is the one thing that has remained loyal as I’ve grown. 

The unfortunate thing, is depression is a friend, 

And the only one who stuck with me till the end. 

I know what to expect in this cloud of grey. 

Despite frequently wishing it all away. 

Evening Poems: Ending

~ Brooke F. ~ Leave a comment

Like feathers falling on fresh snow. 

It’s the price we all pay. 

Don’t shield your eyes. 

From the oncoming day. 

You are now empty-you can see it in your eyes.

They are now singing 

For a new soul shall rise. 

All must pass, my darling. 

This much is true. 

And they are all so happy to meet 

Someone as lovely as you. 

They say this is death. 

The sad, sad ending. 

But they are wrong. 

This is the healing-this is the mending. 

Evening Poems: Twenty-Something

~ Brooke F. ~ 3 Comments

People rarely say what they are feeling. We mask our hearts in a cloak of quiet.
Why do we stay silent?
But what do I know?
I’m only twenty-something.

We travel around the sun on this floating rock and yet we do not believe in miracles.
When did we let cynicism poison us?
But what do I know?
I’m only twenty-something.

We have forgotten what it means to have faith in something because in the end it all disappoints.
But isn’t that the point of faith?
But what do I know?
I’m only twenty-something.

Rain actually feels quite nice and yet we complain and pull out our coats in annoyance.
Have you forgotten what it feels like?
But what do I know?
I’m only twenty-something.

But someday we will age. And we will regret not allowing our breath to be taken away or not pausing in the downpour or holding our tongues.
Because as we all know,
You will not always be twenty-something.

Evening Poems: Anger

~ Brooke F. ~ Leave a comment

Anger is a feeling you should feel 

But never house.  

When his stay is over, 

Know when to take his coat from the closet, 

And let him go.  

Some make the mistake of letting him overstay his welcome  

Offer him a bed to rest.  

For anger is a distant relative you can let in only for a time or he will eat you out of house and home.  

Let him sit at the table but not the head.  

Let him only once sip the wine and break the bread.  

But when the clock strikes late 

Send him on his way.  

Anger is only a feeling that is felt- 

But should never stay.   

Evening Poems: To be an Artist

~ Brooke F. ~ Leave a comment

I romanticize my suffering, 

And then I call it art.

Pathetic is now pretty,

Because it is from the heart. 

Cutting words are poetry,

Because now they rhyme .

Beats that flow perfectly.

Words that read in time. 

Bleeding is now beautiful.

The pain to be a creator. 

This is my written world,

And I am the dictator.

And so I will write them,

To any who will listen. 

But little do they know,

The words I weave are my prison. 

Evening Poems: Little Things

~ Brooke F. ~ Leave a comment

People say that little things are what makes life worth living for. 

The little rays of sunshine and coffee that warms you to your core.  

But what if the little things are what can kill you too? 

Thing after thing piles on and ends up crushing you.  

Spilling that glass of your favorite drink 

Failing that class and crying till you cant think.  

A head cold that normally wouldn’t matter. 

You find yourself sinking sadder and sadder.  

Gas prices are up; they shut down a line. 

I find it a lie to simply say “I’m fine.” 

I need a new job with vastly better pay. 

Friends that love and actually stay.  

And I have found that I can’t taste. 

But it doesn’t matter because money spent on the unnecessary feels like a waste.  

I’m broke now. Emotionally too.  

They say it gets better. 

But I waited so long- so what now do I do? 

Evening Poems: Anxiety

~ Brooke F. ~ 1 Comment

Anxiety is man, 

He tells earnestly 

For what I should worry 

But as I focus on his features 

He seems to be blurry 

So I’ve come to find out 

He thinks he knows best 

In his well trimmed suit 

With a velvet vest. 

But his words are empty 

A spiral of care. 

Obsession dressed in good intentions

To hide the nightmare.

Evening Poems: Bridges

~ Brooke F. ~ Leave a comment

You say I burn bridges 

Reckless and without care 

But I implore you to listen 

Such a judgement is not fair 

I did not light the match 

I did not start the fire 

It was them I say  

Who piled up the pyre 

But one day I was done. 

One day I began to tire. 

Of bailing water on the blaze 

That persisted in growing higher.  

So I stood still.  

And let it burn down. 

Perhaps it would have lasted 

If it were more structurally sound.  

Evening Poems: Art Therapy

~ Brooke F. ~ Leave a comment

Once upon a time
I laid in a bed of disgrace
Running from my demons
That kept perfect pace
No matter how much I ran,
They always won the race.
I sought a way to beat them,
So I gave then a face.
Armed with a brush
Their features I did trace.
Till I trapped them in a portrait.
I put them in their place.
On my wall they hang.
Frozen in time and space.
A monument in acrylic,
To the demons I face.