Gitanjali 35 – Rabindranath Tagore, (1861 – 1941)

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls;
Where words come out from the depth of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit;
Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action—
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.

– Rabindranath Tagore

(image by Alex DeForest)

In 2018, we’re going to stay woke, driven and kind to ourselves. And eat more veggies. Happy New Years!


with a prick,
he wakes his sleeping beauty
into the nightmare
she tried
to escape

– B. Brown


words: 15

(image: Dornröschen [lit. Little Rosethorn] – character of Sleeping Beauty fairytale. Paper cut by Lotte Gützlaff (1800-1900))


don’t weaken yourself
for someone
with something to prove,
they’ll jump
to make an example out of you,
no matter the record,
no matter the truth

their ego
will always
outweigh you

– B. Brown

(art by: Antony Gormley, CAPACITOR)

For Free

I was told

not to write 

Without pay

As if coin

Was the only currency 

I have to deal with

As if my power is limited

As if I scour for my lines

And rhymes each time

I sit to write to read

The bones 

Clattering inside me

As if I don’t write 

For me

For those who bleed

Like me

Who hurt chronically

Who neurotically

Self medicate

With narcotics 

And loving memories

I don’t write for free

No one has to pay me

To pay my dues

I do freely

Write to free me

And others being

Frantically living

– B. Brown 
(Time clock freestyle haha five minutes before the work day begins. Rise and grind. Good morning.) 


she breathed a sigh into the musky air
hips and neck rigid from wear

with slick skin and damp hair
her fingers trace her tummy

she felt so yummy,
wanted, his eyes were bigger

than his stomach when he locked on her
he flaunted her

he needed her
she turned over and purred

slid a chin over his shoulder
then covered him as fur

his body still a smolder

but he’d never been colder

his body recovering from shivers
exhaling in slivers

her body on his
lips boxing him in with kisses

her desire to be his
marking him with nips and scratches

consuming him, bit by bit
releasing himself into the burning pit

the only hit to make him want to quit
this sensationally stealthy thriller

but the more he fills her
the less he can fight her

– B. Brown

(art by Patricia March via Flicker)


drag me from the rails, along the deck
down the hallway, towards the back

through the door, down the stairs
into and through the cabin

surrounded by wood, no windows
spun around, five times, for good

surrounded by darkness,
no sense of direction

locked in oblivion
breathe in,

breathe out adrenaline
sounding from the depths again

pushing pardons
hearing the same old voice again,

you can come out
when you’re ready to listen

– B. Brown

(oil painting by Polish artist Justyna Kopania)


trapped with a salvaged map,

trucking through catacombs

lit white as bone

with flames

that maimed bloodlines

sacred rhymes

made claim

as the only holy domain

he walks over

floors worn scorned

walls caked, torn

and bubbled as the ceiling

crumbles rubble


pacing down rumbling tunnels


the thunder of stampeding

those roaming freely


the fools

with undoubtedly wicked

tools, with spools

of delusions, confusions

prayers impaired

of the ruthless

the others


by his ruling Spirit


-B. Brown


(image by Jillian Locke)



from no where

a gust of humid air

to cling to my hair

to weigh my head up

allowing much to see


so much heat

from this refreshing spring

within a hideaway

within glacial caves

that numb and refract

after hailing waves


at high altitudes

snatching my breath

the purest oxygen

to arrest me

to stop and listen


pressure of the sea

to push me to depths

thousands of leagues

through trials and toils

towards ancient soils


rise to rip my eyes

and all I feel are beams

piercing overcast

dreams that deceive

though I never sleep


-B. Brown


(art by Eric Lacombe (and holy crap his work is amazing))

The Power of a Smile – Tupac Shakur

The power of a gun can kill
and the power of fire can burn
the power of wind can chill
and the power of a mind can learn
the power of anger can rage
inside until it tears u apart
but the power of a smile
especially yours can heal a frozen heart

– Tupac Shakur

From his collection, The Rose That Grew From Concrete (1999)

The first poet to inspire me. I heard him from my mother’s stereo, every local radio and saw him referenced in damn near every video. He was one of the realest. Every time I listen to him, I run to paper and pen. Who was the first poet to inspire you? I need answers, been wanting to explore…

(image: courtesy of Pinterest, Rahiem)

The Last

I’ve heard much with these

compacted earth with these

and no one else will roam as me


I’ve maimed with these

with this, reached plenty of these

and no one can loom like me


I’ve witnessed everything with these

I taste for life with these

and no one charges like me


I am what’s left of these


-B. Brown


(digital paintings by Muraleedharan t)