Tag: Poetry

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.

Evening Poems: Regret

~ Brooke F. ~ Leave a comment

Regret it a skeleton.  

His bones are made of lead.  

He wont stop talking.  

He sits on my bed.  

Out from his sockets 

Blood does drip 

As he pours me poison 

that I continually  sip. 

His skull is cracked  

And from it you can see 

A heart sits  

where his brain should be.  

Red Ink, Blue Ink: Rambles Between Two Parts of my mind

~ Brooke F. ~ Leave a comment

***

I must admit, I’m so very tired of it all.

Why is that?

There are so many things that need to be fixed in this world.

If you were made to fix broken hearts, you would have been born with a needle and thread.  

***

When you look in the mirror, what do you see? 

Everything I’m not.  

That is a lie that may you feel, but never believe. Remember, A butterfly cannot see its wings.  

***

What is the hardest truth for you to accept? 

You can try so hard and do everything right and you can still meet a sad ending.  

Why do you try then? 

What else do we know but to try.  

Is it worth it in the end? 

I hope so.  

***

I am breaking.  

For a star to be born, something must collapse.  

Does it hurt? 

Everywhere.  

***

How was your day? 

I came home last night. I sat down and was greeted with silence. Is silence loneliness or freedom? 

Only perspective can tell.  

***

People come and go. Why do you bother?  They are rivers, ever changing.  

They come and they go, but I will never forget them. Not even one.  

But do you not miss them? 

If someone leaves, another is met. When a door shuts, another opens.  

But do you not miss them? 

Yes.  Very much.

***

Tell me about the sun. 

It is alone yet still shines.  

Is that all? 

What else is there? 

It is alone, yes, but it is proof that endings can be beautiful.  

Only if you can see the colors. 

You have to look through the clouds.  

But is it not sad? 

The most remarkable things are both sad and beautiful.  

***

What troubles you? 

I’m scared.  

Of what? 

It’s not that I fear that I won’t be loved, but I wonder, will I ever be understood? 

Both would be the greatest gift.  

***

It is heavy, this weight we carry.  

Hearts of gold often are.  

Just because one carries it well, does not mean it doesn’t weigh them down.  

It hurts to care.  Is it worth it all in the end? 

Always.  

Why do I Write?

~ Brooke F. ~ Leave a comment

Why do I write?

I thought I knew the answer to this question. I write as a coping mechanism, turning any negative emotion I had into words, and letting the ink bleed in my stead. But I never actually knew exactly why. I thought it was simply escapism. Finding solace in a world that I could create and then control. But I don’t think that is exactly right.

When life hits me, really hits me, it is often hard for me to dig myself out of my emotional “hole” so to speak. I know logically that things are going to be alright and that there are brighter days ahead but my feelings seem not to listen. They act independently of my thoughts, trying to assure me that this really IS the end of the world. And so I write. Not to escape but tell myself the truths that I know to be true, over and over again through characters and their story’s. Truths like goodness always pays, beauty is only skin deep, and pessimism really is the thief of happiness. All these truths and more I tell myself repeatedly, assuring myself that these things are true and always will be. I wrote what I needed to hear, at that moment in time when I thought I was lost.

I think that’s why I want to be a writer. Because maybe somewhere, someone else needs to hear these truths too.