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)

Scenes

their wics flickered

like cautious stars

and her moving mind,

the heaviest hole

– B. Brown

(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)

Estranged

how comfortable I was

giving everything

I thought I was

before I knew

what or who I was

conforming

performing how a hidden

witness does

how solicitous

with barely a soul to offer

if it’d give me a chance

a place

a body to harbor

– B. Brown

(image courtesy of Pinterest)

Untimely Wisdom

like a flower who bloomed too soon,

I witnessed the harshes of winters, alone

pelted with acidic rain

no chance to glisten with dew,

only frost, fragrance diffused

I welt before decaying leaves,  

my flush foreign

amongst fraying faculties,

couldn’t fathom following through

as a phantom into the spring

– B. Brown

Where is the Balance?

when I have to convince myself
that maybe you too
could have a penny for me
a coppery cent to fund
my stimulation organization

that you’ll help me grow
keep my vines thriving
bearing fruit from our labor
oh, I can just taste it now
a candied poison berry flavor

but I have to hope and pray steadfastly
that you’ll come through for me
through the ache, my anger
to wager through to me to love me

and I have to demand
that you see me clearly
wash your hands
before you handle me
understand
that you’re becoming part of me
for you to know
I’m not taking you lightly

when I have to plead for you
to forgive me
for simply acting on my tailored beliefs
for splitting myself to drip heavily, feeding
where is the balance
if you won’t feel for me?

– B. Brown

(art courtesy of Pinterest)

Premeditated

two bullet wounds
one puddle
of gleaming rose
petals
too many tracks
not enough prints
her lipstick
a good bye letter
tacked to his collar

-B. Brown