Brooke M. Harris, 7 december 2011
Twinkle, twinkle, in the night.
The darkness comes to see the light.
You cannot give up without a fight.
They tell you this, “You must do what’s right.”
The game is on and you’re a player.
To stay and battle and become the slayer.
The people speak and give a prayer.
The gods throw down another layer.
You fumble for the light in the dark.
A silver glow lights up you mark.
A shine so sweet and so smart.
A slimy river that contains a shark.
Your body’s full of strength and might.
A sure things or a sure blight.
Your spirit’s free, just like a kite.
The gods renown you, you’re such a sight.
The people scream, you’re now the mayor.
And you’re so nice, man you’re a sharer.
A natural giver, you’ll give this and that without a carer.
So full of kindness, no one is gayer.
The gems are twinkling at the start.
Just like your cold, old, shriveled heart.
It’s a true and horrible piece of art.
Twinkle, twinkle, says the meadow lark.
Brooke M. Harris, 7 december 2011
You were fine at the start.
Your hands, they held my heart.
You were so sweet that night in the dark.
But afterwards you gave me a horrible start.
Your hands no longer held my heart.
I was just a piece of art.
Just another body in your shopping cart.
Another slab of meat at the meat mart.
I now hate you; I hate you, with all of my heart.
Man, you were just great at the start.
Until you stomped all over my heart.
And stole my body in the dark.
Brooke M. Harris, 7 december 2011
Sand flies as I run by,
kicked up by the soles of my feet.
I can hear him running behind me,
but I’m scared and won’t stop.
He calls my name, but I don’t hear.
The thudding of my heart is filling my ears.
I feel a hand grasp my arm and spin me around,
forcing me to look into those green eyes.
He tells me he’s sorry, but how can I believe him.
All he ever does is say sorry, like it even does anything.
I pull my arm from his hand, breaking free, slowly backing away.
When he doesn’t make a move towards me, I turn and run away.
I am finally free of all the lies and the cheating.
Free to mold and shape my life the way I want to.
Thanks for finally letting me leave you!
Thanks for letting me get away.
Thanks for letting me run ahead.
Thanks for letting me seize the day.
Good-bye, Green Eyes, I’m finally on my way.
Brooke M. Harris, 14 november 2011
Cool, calm, and collected.
A balm to my rough days.
A quench to my growing thirst.
These soothing waters in my lake,
keep me from going crazy.
The waters surround and invade my pores,
somehow seeping into the farthest reaches of my soul.
It touches me deeply,
worming its way into my heart and mind.
These waters of mine are truly the best,
for no other can make your heart slow and put your mind to rest.
My soothing waters surround my island,
where every day I leave me cabin to sit
on my dock and stare into their veiled secrets.
The combination of nice days, great water,
and a secluded forest island, make for a soothing time.
If you should ever be fortunate enough
to find something like my waters, grasp
it with all you have and never let it leave you.
Because with it your life is far more stable than ever without it.
Sitting here, I never want to leave it again.
I will always come to see my waters, whether
life is hard or easy.
Brooke M. Harris, 14 november 2011
Ripped and torn to pieces,
all because of jagged lines,
crisscrossing my broken heart.
Zigzagging along my flesh,
they cut deeply into my being.
They pull, they tug, until nothing is left.
the search, they seek, looking for my weakest spots.
They suck, and they suck, until all that
is left is an empty husk,
waiting to be filled.
These jagged lines bring forth
my darkest fears, pulling them
through the cracks into the light of day.
They force me to look at myself,
not as a person, but as an object.
To evaluate my weaknesses and feelings.
My mind and heart are at war,
each telling me something different.
Each prompting me to be more, but
it’s still not the same.
This jagged line has done too much,
asked too much of me.
It wants me to finally crack,
to finally give in.
But should I let it break me down?
Should I let them slowly eat me alive from the inside?
Or should I fight back,
taking the needle and thread and pulling myself back together again?
No one is perfect, no matter how
hard they try to be.
So while I may not ever be able to
fully close all the gaps and heal myself completely,
I can still try to keep the seams
from tearing apart and leaving me helpless
to my own desires.
Try, with all that you are, to
be true to yourself, for all of time,
and protect yourself from jagged lines.
Brooke M. Harris, 14 november 2011
Soft in my rough hands.
Cool soothing, smoothness
over mad, crazy rage.
Vibrant colors swirling and blending.
Mixing into one solid shape and color.
Feathers surround everything and
fill all that we can be and are.
They describe a mother’s touch
and a lover’s embrace.
They are the angels in the sky,
guarding us in our daily lives.
They are stuck to the birds of our worlds,
helping them to fly and survive.
These feathers we see are only the beginning,
for there are far more beyond the capabilities of our eyes.
They float in rainbows and clouds.
They write our histories stories,
and paint our biggest masterpieces.
They sketch, they draw,
they shape, they write.
Feathers are everywhere that we are,
and everywhere that we aren’t.
Life is full of many feathers.
Brooke M. Harris, 9 november 2011
Cry, cry, at the sound of my sweet lullaby.
Shed a tear in the night,
when you hear me softly signing.
Do you feel it in your heart,
when you hear the first sad notes?
Do you tremble, ever so slightly
in the rhythm of the dark?
See my fingers as they move,
gracefully doling out the sweet sounds
of weeping angels.
Do you see my closed eyes,
feeling this lullaby so deep inside?
Do you see my eyes fill with glistening tears,
about to break free and fall out?
Cry, cry, as the sun rises,
for I will begin to fade.
You wished me here, and so it is,
but I was not meant to stay,
lurking here, a figment of your imagination.
You have called for me, and I have come,
but it is finally time to send me away,
until next time.
Cry, cry, at the hollow,
and broken sound of,
of my dead soul’s sweet lullaby.
Brooke M. Harris, 9 november 2011
The bright, warm sun
glints of the cold, white beauty of the snow.
A grey wolf trots the land,
looking for prey to attack.
The wind blows the white
snow into exotic swirls,
that pass before my eyes.
The mountain peaks are
wearing their caps,
reading for the night.
The coldness seeps through my
gloves and numbs all of my fingers.
I clench them into fists and rub
them quickly together, trying to heat then up.
I turn from my northern window
to the east, where everything is completely different.
The warm, hot sun
beats down on the hazy pavement,
warming my entire body.
I strip myself of my winter things
and open my arms wide, embracing
the humid heat.
The rays of light, lick their
way across flesh that
greedily absorbs it.
I laugh out into the promising
day, overflowing with joy.
I watch the dust sweep the land and
raise my hand, shielding my eyes from its sting.
I turn the other way, leaving behind my desert
road leading into oblivion, to face a new day.
There is no sun here, though there is light.
The clouds float before it’s warm rays,
blanketing the hot globe in chilling coldness.
The wind blows, hard. Almost knocking me
to the ground with its force.
Leaves are whipped into a frenzied spiral,
swirling around my face like a mini tornado.
My breath leaves my hot mouth, clouding
in front of my face as I pull my warm jacket on over my cold body.
I spot a pile of leaves in my neighbor’s yard and run over,
throwing my body into the wet pile.
As I rise and disentangle myself from
the veiny sheets, they stick to my face,
and plaster themselves to my body.
I look up at the clouds that suddenly break open with rain.
The wet drops fall on my upturned face.
My mouth is open to catch the glistening drops,
and my eyes are closed, savoring its cool feel.
I look back down at the land which has changes completely.
The ground is bursting at its seams with flowers
of every shape and color imaginable. The visible fragrance coats the air.
The trees are heavy with ripe, succulent fruits,
and their leaves are a charming green.
I’m standing in a field of clover, surrounded
by Mother Nature’s sweetest embrace.
It is nice here in this silent, secluded world
that I share with the forest creatures.
I can’t help but look in wonder at a land so
fertile with a promising future I can’t wait to behold.
I lay back an close my eyes, savoring the different seasons.
Brooke M. Harris, 9 november 2011
The winds blew the sand
by my wet face.
The water lapped
at my cold toes.
The flies flew by
my unseeing eyes.
The rain fell
on my pale face.
The light glints
off the knife
in my chest.
The blood pools
and soaks the sand.
The red covers my
chest and hands.
The letter flutters
in the breeze,
a testimony of my life.
The sirens blare
and the people cry.
The birds screech
so high in the sky.
The table is grey
and so very cold.
the metal is frozen
in the morgue.
The bed is warm
and snow white.
The wood is deep
like life’s blood.
The makeup coats
my frozen flesh.
The family cries
and closes their eyes.
The lid is closed
and there is silence.
The preacher speaks
of only kindness,
for the girl
that took her life
by the sea
in the night.
The jolting feeling
of being lowered.
The loud thuds
of shoveled soil.
The earthy smell
of disturbed dirt.
The sirens call
of the angels.
The golden gates
welcoming me in.
This is what happens
when I am dead.
Brooke M. Harris, 2 november 2011
Crazy days come in May,
when it is time for my birthday.
There is sometimes cake, and sometimes pie.
There is special dinners and special desserts.
The days are full of happiness
and joyful times.
Crazy days come in October,
when is time for Halloween.
There are candy corn and vampire teeth.
There are Princess Belles’ and Prince Charmings’.
The nights are full of spooky things,
that disappear in the sun’s pleasant rays.
Crazy days come in November,
when it is time for Thanksgiving.
There is mashed potatoes and pumpkin pies.
There are large turkeys and cold ice-cream.
The afternoons are full of clattering plates,
and the cheerful chatter of family.
Crazy days come in December
when it is time for Christmas.
There is hot chocolate and yummy eggnog.
There is banana crème pie and canned yams.
The evenings are filled with twinkling lights and rustling,
filled to the brim with love and laughter.
Crazy days come in December,
when it is time for a new year.
There are party hats and sparkling juice.
There are football jerseys and falling balls.
The dead of night is full of whoops and cheers,
rooting for the brand new year.
Crazy days come in Febuary
when it is time for hearts and love.
There are pink candies and little note cards.
There are hearts and ribbons, soaring cupids.
The bright day is filled with swooning girls,
and young heart-throbs.
Crazy come in April,
when it is time for Easter.
There are baskets and eggs.
There is candy and fake grass.
The mornings are full of squealing children,
trying to find their hidden delights.
Crazy days are from June to September,
when it is time for summer vacation.
There is suntan lotion and bikinis.
There are vacations and light clothing.
The days and nights are filled with sunny heat,
children’s laughter, and adults sighs of relief.
Crazy days for everyday,
when the years pile up.
There is Mondays to Sundays.
There is midnight to midday.
The year is filled to its seams
with crazy days for everyone.
Poetry
Prose
Photography
Graphics
Video poems
Postcards
Diary
Books
Handmade