Rifled

he scrolled through his contacts, debating on who’d hear the ringing shots,

who’d get burned by a stray shell and who’d toss his gun

not who’d get cut down mid-run

trying to save him

from himself:

the ride or die

who pawned her life

for his love

– B. Brown

(art courtesy of Pinterest)

She Raises Me

A prose poem that I wrote for class:

Flirting with thirty from down the hall, barely grasping the scheme of it all, I pull my breaker tighter though the weather is nicer as she tugs on the strap of my baggage, slowing my pace. In a line, with no front and no end but I’m next, in the midst of a contest with no rest… I’ll sprint ’till my shins split and she knows this, believes this even as the tears streak. I’m crushed and ground, salt of the earth, weak. And she still sees the beauty in the beat and swollen me. Is certain that this hurt is only temporary… she tempers my tantrums on the contrary. One of the most beloved set loose from a luminous galaxy to find… me and to wind… me while the rest of this test worries into my vitality. I’m taller. But she’s bigger. I now read well. But she is the cover, my daughter, six and none the wiser that she’s wiser, a better mother to the child in me.

– B. Brown

(art courtesy of Pinterest)

To Whom This May Concern…

As sorry as I’ve felt,

at the foot of my bed,
fetal and folded in

holiday in flannel,

softening for a cigaro
persuading tomorrow,

while clasping laughter

of way back when,

(it sometimes slips)

to sing with your arrival
and to
ring with your arousal

like when I ushered you through

down my Nile,
risking defile,

I will never
apologize for kissing you,
loving you,

only for listening to you

only for

missing you,

like always

for you

-B. Brown

(art image courtesy of Pinterest)

Dance With Me

I skip to the rustle

of emerald leaves,

dandelions

riverfronts

in the bustleing breeze

kicking to the sun

and it’s holy choir

singing to my skin

and humming

within the safety

of serrated mountains

keeping tempo

above the earths momento

a trail of tears and hopes

worn in by my foregoers

can’t you hear it?

quiet and listen

this symphony

is our only theme

hold my hand, please

pull me close

careen with me

please

will you

dance with me?

B. Brown

(image courtesy of Pinterest)

Journal: Tight Rope

I’ve been walking a tight rope lately,
my arms stretched as far as they’d go
into the winds,
challenging my balance…

I don’t know what keeps this line suspended,
tight enough to hold my weight,
slack enough to keep me wavering…

I do my best not to look down,
I’ve fallen before,
rather not have it happen again,
but it’s tempting…

I keep inching, hoping for something
anything, an intervention
divine, an intermissive stimulation

I keep hoping for a surprise,
looking for a sign saying maybe
it wouldn’t be the worst
thing to dive, to get it over with

to slip and accept with grace
another body to offer a chance,
an extraction from my delayed reaction,

this fear of forming any attachments…

– B. Brown

(image by Alain Laboile)

Trust Issues

what happens when it’s all you got left

keeping you afloat,

giving you hope

a line to other hearts,

a line to be used against you,

as a tournicate

strapped across your vital parts

how can you bleed?

how do you breathe?

– B. Brown

(stitch art by Andrea Farina)

Pulled Apart

on display
sold as is
no returns
after alterations
so you were stuck with me
defective,
useless
for your prerogatives,
unaware
that I was more
than what you wanted

I was everything
that you needed

– B. Brown

(Doll Chateau Stacia)

My Story Still Continues…

I published my first book back in November. I emptied everything I struggled with into it and then sent it off to the world. My friend asks me why I haven’t been promoting it and I told her the truth, even though it was kind of silly.

The truth is that I’m a teeny bit embarrassed about how much I put into it. I gave it my all, like I was supposed to but still, putting such tender pieces of myself onto those pages… it’s like I’m not ready for the entire world to know yet.

Yet…

I still relieved it’s out there and I know that it could help someone who struggles with loss and their faith just like I do. At least from these pages, someone will know they’re not alone. That there is someone else out there with the same hang ups about family, love and death.

If you’re interested, you can find my book here: Amnesia

I’m working on another collection of poetry as well. This one will be a little less solemn as it is about learning love and understanding the beauty of our nature. My story still continues and I hope to share more with you guys soon.

A Little Extra

with everything that I am,
with breast that have fed,
the marks that snake up and down
my tummy and thighs,
my blood shot eyes
and stiff shoulders
and mind,
my calloused feet
and swollen tear ducts
no one wants to admit
that I’m more than just a good fuck,
that their touch runs deeper
beneath my veins
and trains of thoughts,
that what is asked from me
I’ve fought to be able to give
that I fight to be able to live
with the demons that drug me daily
that my mind is weary
and in need of another soul’s fury
that I need more than just fire,
that the rain has a way
of cleansing my desires
and that words are my earth,
that I stand on critiques and literature
that I still need to be nurtured

– B. Brown

I am not ashamed for being a little extra when it comes to my needs, because all of my adult life, I’ve had people take more than what they’ve cared to give to me. I am extra and I do the most because I am constantly trying to be the best me. So yeah, I am a woman who’s entitled to her needs.

(Art by Rekouane Kamel)

The Gamble for Gold

you wouldn’t see it
in the wrinkle of my brow

or know it
even as I told it
with a quivering frown

or hear it
in my shaking voice

how I felt
that I had no choice

but to risk it
and run with it
with you

for a chance
to love again

before it all
fell away again

– B. Brown

(image courtesy of Pinterest)