Why Not?

why not enjoy it while it lasts
this truth that’s come to pass
nothing flourishes forever

love you or not, maybe I need you
why not, maybe you’ll want me to stay
why test it, why pick at it

there will never be another night
quite as cool or quite as calm
quiet enough to let dawn sneak in

above two souls quite like ours
love me or not, we’re here, and needy
we can break promises safely

as if it weren’t by chance you found me
as if it weren’t by fate that I prayed for you

– B. Brown

(image courtesy of Pinterest)

In One Sitting

I spilled
myself into you

everything Ive ever wanted
to let slip away freely
blindly
eagerly

and it left me empty

save the tea leaves
forewarning

a breach
in my psyche

– B. Brown

(image courtesy of Pinterest)

Special

this one time,
for one night only,

you belonged to me
and I was nobody’s,

free to be reckless,
as rough and eager

as we knew we both
needed, I thought

we were harmless
and we believed it

we were careless
winded and massless

falling harder
than we wanted

this night
for this time only

you belonged to me
delicate and daring

-B. Brown

(image courtesy of Pinterest)

Writing Tips: Breathing Space

We want to know the most,
so we research, listen and watch

to be better,
so we think, plot and execute

to become the best,
so we wake, push and write

and write and write and write
and write some more

until it becomes a chore
an assignment, a quota, a demand

and then we reprimand
ourselves with a shaking hand

under conditional rules
with splintered tools

we are fools for this love,
this creative writing passion

overthinking, mind overcrowding
with words, lines and pages

but we are not computers
or vending machines

we are sages, creating
dimensions from absolutely nothing

who need water to feel
and winds to heed

time and space, balance
and room to breathe

– B. Brown

Don’t forget to allow yourself to unwind. Pushing yourself , holding yourself to higher standards, demanding more from yourself is necessary to improve yourself but our brains are muscles, don’t forget that. Our brains are muscles so don’t forget that it can be strained, torn and snapped. Allow yourself a break from the craft to recharge your talent.

and if you’re still not convinced…

(image courtesy of Pinterest)

Cup of Sugar

you’re there
with a craving
for the coconut milk
that polishes my skin,
my neck, lavished with lavender
and my honey-lemon stained tongue

with a faint fragrance
of a hard working day
wet bark and grass, earth
cigarette smoke, motor oil and rum
or maybe dry erase, coffee and wood shavings

in any case,
you’re here to stay
with my arms hooked on your shoulders
and your hunger hooked on me, your sweetness,
your warmth when you’ve turned bitter and colder

– B. Brown

(digital sculpture by Kyuin Shim)

My Pardon

I leave

my dark work

to karma,

your blows will

only produce poetry

after I’ve turned

the other cheek,

uplifting me

-B. Brown

(art courtesy of Pinterest, but if anyone knows the artist, please enlightenment me because I love this style)

 

You Wouldn’t or You Couldn’t – Prose Practice

you were or you weren’t, hoping I was looking for you in him and her,
but one thing’s for certain, you saw more than what you earned
and now there’s another who has me faded, and they’re trusted
to bring me back to myself safely, that’s what you see
standing before you, this is me. they threw away the worn
and tattered pieces and let me freeform, that’s what you feel
beating, this is how love is supposed to be twists and turns,
ups and downs but never extremities to stunt the soul,
you did or didn’t have to see it through me, I am happy
as a reverie, no one told you to come find me

-B.Brown

(art by Timothy M. Parker)

Until It’s Struck

on a tree

still standing

alone,

I carved

my name

next to no one’s

inside a heart

with a switchblade 

– B. Brown

(image courtesy of Pinterest)

Self-Portrait with Sylvia Plath’s Braid – a poem by Diane Seuss

Some women make a pilgrimage to visit it
in the Indiana library charged to keep it safe.

I didn’t drive to it; I dreamed it, the thick braid
roped over my hands, heavier than lead.

My own hair was long for years.
Then I became obsessed with chopping it off,

and I did, clear up to my ears. If hair is beauty
then I am no longer beautiful.

Sylvia was beautiful, wasn’t she?
And like all of us, didn’t she wield her beauty

like a weapon? And then she married,
and laid it down, and when she was betrayed

and took it up again it was a word-weapon,
a poem-sword. In the dream I fasten

her braid to my own hair, at my nape.
I walk outside with it, through the world

of men, swinging it behind me like a tail.

– Diane Seuss

(image courtesy of Pinterest)