BrookieV - Hello Poetry

Tiny atoms Forged from ancient stars Formed into soft flesh Warm blood Hot breath Oxygen circulating Calcium forming bones Coppery iron in blood All recycled From a universe Rearranging itself It makes sense That when we take Our last breath And light leaves our eyes Those atoms Scurry outward Into trees Sunlight Water Flowers In that way We continue on When my heart stops And my lungs fail Do not search for me Only in graveyards Find me instead In trees swaying in the breeze In crashing waves Gritty sand between your toes Lake water against your ankles A yellow wildflower Slippery velvet moss A chirping frog And warm sunlight Because nothing in nature Ever truly disappears It only changes shape Again And again And again

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May 13

May 13, 2026 at 2:45 PM UTC

BrookieV

Changing Shapes

Tiny atoms Forged from ancient stars Formed into soft flesh Warm blood Hot breath Oxygen circulating Calcium forming bones Coppery iron in blood All recycled From a universe Rearranging itself It makes sense That when we take Our last breath And light leaves our eyes Those atoms Scurry outward Into trees Sunlight Water Flowers In that way We continue on When my heart stops And my lungs fail Do not search for me Only in graveyards Find me instead In trees swaying in the breeze In crashing waves Gritty sand between your toes Lake water against your ankles A yellow wildflower Slippery velvet moss A chirping frog And warm sunlight Because nothing in nature Ever truly disappears It only changes shape Again And again And again

42

An important thing, about motherhood is not to lose yourself. You're going to want to disappear in the love of your child. Your name Softened to "Mama" hollered wailed then whispered. The world will shame you for choosing a manicure over the park. and sometimes you'll shame yourself for choosing a night out over bedtime stories. So yes, Take them to baseball to football dance gymanstics read them bedtime stories and cook them meals but also go the concert go dancing take the art class get the piercing be someone outside of "mama" "mom" "mother" because you are not just something to be emptied. and one day when the house is quiet empty it will be just you waiting to see what's left leave something to find.

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Apr 16

Apr 16, 2026 at 12:30 PM UTC

BrookieV

Leave Something to Find

An important thing, about motherhood is not to lose yourself. You're going to want to disappear in the love of your child. Your name Softened to "Mama" hollered wailed then whispered. The world will shame you for choosing a manicure over the park. and sometimes you'll shame yourself for choosing a night out over bedtime stories. So yes, Take them to baseball to football dance gymanstics read them bedtime stories and cook them meals but also go the concert go dancing take the art class get the piercing be someone outside of "mama" "mom" "mother" because you are not just something to be emptied. and one day when the house is quiet empty it will be just you waiting to see what's left leave something to find.

53

My son told me his dad was cooler than me yesterday. His dad. The man who left when he was five, who drank until his body shut down on the living room floor, **** cooling through his jeans. The man who let him hold the wheel with baby hands, laughed like it was love. Who picked him up from daycare smelling like last call. The man who chose parties, drugs, ***** over his flesh and blood. The man who did the same to his daughters, old enough to remember it. The man who cried when I cut him off from our account, the morning after he burned it down to powder and smoke. The man who throws spare change at guilt, spells love with his thumbs, never shows up. Ten years of silence I filled Packing lunches, working overtime, missing extracurriculars, laundry at midnight, showing up tired, sick, drained Every. Single. Time. This man, this addict, this "father", is cooler than me. But he's not better. Cool doesn't raise a child. It just disappears when things get hard. I didn't.

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Apr 16

Apr 16, 2026 at 12:23 PM UTC

BrookieV

Cool Doesn't Raise a Child

My son told me his dad was cooler than me yesterday. His dad. The man who left when he was five, who drank until his body shut down on the living room floor, **** cooling through his jeans. The man who let him hold the wheel with baby hands, laughed like it was love. Who picked him up from daycare smelling like last call. The man who chose parties, drugs, ***** over his flesh and blood. The man who did the same to his daughters, old enough to remember it. The man who cried when I cut him off from our account, the morning after he burned it down to powder and smoke. The man who throws spare change at guilt, spells love with his thumbs, never shows up. Ten years of silence I filled Packing lunches, working overtime, missing extracurriculars, laundry at midnight, showing up tired, sick, drained Every. Single. Time. This man, this addict, this "father", is cooler than me. But he's not better. Cool doesn't raise a child. It just disappears when things get hard. I didn't.

65

Buggy full, in line behind a man with dirt on his clothes, work boots, and four little kids, tangled hair, grass stains, mismatched socks. He puts four pairs of shoes, packets of socks, pants, shirts on the belt. Bending my head, I look at my own shoes, white slip-ons from this store. My kids, Nike everything. It’s my choice. I don’t think it’s his. “Can I hold them?” a little voice asks. He hands her those pink shoes. She beams. He ruffles her already tangled hair. On the corner, a woman with a sign Anything will help. I remember when I was a teenager, my friend and I snuck $20 into a homeless man’s sleeping bag. We crawled up while he was snoring, tucked it in, ran off giggling. We saw him cross the street to the corner store, leave with a bottle in a brown paper bag. We looked at each other, shrugged, whatever gets you through this life. My own father, not homeless, drinks bottles out of paper bags. A family. New baby. He won’t stop crying. Mom says, he’s probably hungry, and I don’t have his food. Rummaging in our closet, I find the formula samples, give her what we have: bottles, ******* diapers. He wet his clothes. We don’t have spares. That night, I buy onesies for our closet, just in case. My mom used to sell these expensive clothes. She had some left over. We took them to the Dream Center, set up a fitting room, steamed them, hung them on racks. Women came in, worn out, tired. Tried outfits on. Left with bags full, smiling, feeling confident. One woman hugged me, tears wetting my shirt, “Thank you. I haven’t felt this beautiful since before my cancer treatments.” She lost everything because of medical debt. Why do some of us struggle and some of us prosper? Surely it’s not always the choices we make. Because if it is… explain the children in line. The baby in wet clothes. The woman, cancer free, and homeless.

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Apr 7

Apr 7, 2026 at 11:14 AM UTC

BrookieV

Paper Bags

Buggy full, in line behind a man with dirt on his clothes, work boots, and four little kids, tangled hair, grass stains, mismatched socks. He puts four pairs of shoes, packets of socks, pants, shirts on the belt. Bending my head, I look at my own shoes, white slip-ons from this store. My kids, Nike everything. It’s my choice. I don’t think it’s his. “Can I hold them?” a little voice asks. He hands her those pink shoes. She beams. He ruffles her already tangled hair. On the corner, a woman with a sign Anything will help. I remember when I was a teenager, my friend and I snuck $20 into a homeless man’s sleeping bag. We crawled up while he was snoring, tucked it in, ran off giggling. We saw him cross the street to the corner store, leave with a bottle in a brown paper bag. We looked at each other, shrugged, whatever gets you through this life. My own father, not homeless, drinks bottles out of paper bags. A family. New baby. He won’t stop crying. Mom says, he’s probably hungry, and I don’t have his food. Rummaging in our closet, I find the formula samples, give her what we have: bottles, ******* diapers. He wet his clothes. We don’t have spares. That night, I buy onesies for our closet, just in case. My mom used to sell these expensive clothes. She had some left over. We took them to the Dream Center, set up a fitting room, steamed them, hung them on racks. Women came in, worn out, tired. Tried outfits on. Left with bags full, smiling, feeling confident. One woman hugged me, tears wetting my shirt, “Thank you. I haven’t felt this beautiful since before my cancer treatments.” She lost everything because of medical debt. Why do some of us struggle and some of us prosper? Surely it’s not always the choices we make. Because if it is… explain the children in line. The baby in wet clothes. The woman, cancer free, and homeless.

107

I wonder if it’s enough to be behind the scenes. The one feeding the actor his lines. The puppeteer pulling strings, “Now nod your head in agreement.” “Place your hand on your heart.” “Emphasize, **** it.” Just so he can lead. Like the time I fed him the line, and they praised him for thinking of it. Who told us that anyway? Was it consensus? Religion? Tradition dressed as truth? Why would the cosmos design men to be the lead when what they’re best at is taking orders? Why would women sit back in silence and let this logic live for generations? The silent weavers of the invisible web, and we don’t even get to eat the insect.

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Apr 6

Apr 6, 2026 at 1:00 PM UTC

BrookieV

Silent Weavers

I wonder if it’s enough to be behind the scenes. The one feeding the actor his lines. The puppeteer pulling strings, “Now nod your head in agreement.” “Place your hand on your heart.” “Emphasize, **** it.” Just so he can lead. Like the time I fed him the line, and they praised him for thinking of it. Who told us that anyway? Was it consensus? Religion? Tradition dressed as truth? Why would the cosmos design men to be the lead when what they’re best at is taking orders? Why would women sit back in silence and let this logic live for generations? The silent weavers of the invisible web, and we don’t even get to eat the insect.

30

Thick brown strands Short, wavy Sprout from my head Silver streaks Peeking through Two grey orbs Cyan in sunlight Hidden behind glass Housed in metal frames Brown dots One below One above Mauve lips Broad shoulders Cradled babies Held patients steady Made something From nothing Full mounds Once milk-filled Fed babes Soft Chunky Round middle Kept three souls Warm, safe, fed Readying their lungs For first breath Strong Lean Limbs Steady me For hours Nurturing Healing Balancing Broken and sick Nimble hands Graze Weave Render All the love I hold All of this Compressed Zipped Squeezed Into five feet Parts I adore Parts I resist Every single piece Belongs to me

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Apr 4

Apr 4, 2026 at 12:20 PM UTC

BrookieV

Brooke

Thick brown strands Short, wavy Sprout from my head Silver streaks Peeking through Two grey orbs Cyan in sunlight Hidden behind glass Housed in metal frames Brown dots One below One above Mauve lips Broad shoulders Cradled babies Held patients steady Made something From nothing Full mounds Once milk-filled Fed babes Soft Chunky Round middle Kept three souls Warm, safe, fed Readying their lungs For first breath Strong Lean Limbs Steady me For hours Nurturing Healing Balancing Broken and sick Nimble hands Graze Weave Render All the love I hold All of this Compressed Zipped Squeezed Into five feet Parts I adore Parts I resist Every single piece Belongs to me

51

Buried deep under the tissue of my skin, muscle, fat, between my beating heart and inflated lungs, spilling into my abdomen, burrowing into my pelvis, scorching, yearning, howling for release, is all the **** I’ve swallowed. Every time I said yes instead of no. Every time I let disrespect slide. Every time I bit my tongue until it bled. When I was nice, cleaning up messes I didn’t make, giving away my body heat while my teeth chattered and my lips turned blue, bandaging wounds to stop the bleeding while I bled out. Rotting inside me: obedience. decorum. passivity. All of it scratching at my throat. I release it.

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Apr 2

Apr 2, 2026 at 12:59 PM UTC

BrookieV

Not Nice

Buried deep under the tissue of my skin, muscle, fat, between my beating heart and inflated lungs, spilling into my abdomen, burrowing into my pelvis, scorching, yearning, howling for release, is all the **** I’ve swallowed. Every time I said yes instead of no. Every time I let disrespect slide. Every time I bit my tongue until it bled. When I was nice, cleaning up messes I didn’t make, giving away my body heat while my teeth chattered and my lips turned blue, bandaging wounds to stop the bleeding while I bled out. Rotting inside me: obedience. decorum. passivity. All of it scratching at my throat. I release it.

37

So wait Lemme get this Straight I’m supposed to show you Appreciation For alternating Washing the dishes Starting the laundry Making dinner Paying bills Feeding the dogs I say to you I do appreciate Those things But can’t you see? The bar is low. They aren’t a favor To me. Uncomfortable silence. Maybe that hasn’t ever Crossed his mind. Maybe he thought “This’ll do.” His mind wanders Never touched Another woman. Only on a screen. He does the dishes And starts the laundry. On the list He writes: Milk Ketchup Eggs “If women show appreciation, They’ll get loyalty.” And I suppose that means If I tell him thank you For doing things That keeps himself alive. He won’t lust. I’ll be worth the effort. The surface is clean. Underneath is mud. While I emotionally prepare For myself, Kids, His meltdowns. While I watch, Listen, Stay ready. He gets pats On the back Every time people See him with His daughter At Burger King. And somewhere in that I realize— I’ve been clapping For crumbs While carrying The whole table.

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Mar 31

Mar 31, 2026 at 3:41 PM UTC

BrookieV

Clapping for Crumbs

So wait Lemme get this Straight I’m supposed to show you Appreciation For alternating Washing the dishes Starting the laundry Making dinner Paying bills Feeding the dogs I say to you I do appreciate Those things But can’t you see? The bar is low. They aren’t a favor To me. Uncomfortable silence. Maybe that hasn’t ever Crossed his mind. Maybe he thought “This’ll do.” His mind wanders Never touched Another woman. Only on a screen. He does the dishes And starts the laundry. On the list He writes: Milk Ketchup Eggs “If women show appreciation, They’ll get loyalty.” And I suppose that means If I tell him thank you For doing things That keeps himself alive. He won’t lust. I’ll be worth the effort. The surface is clean. Underneath is mud. While I emotionally prepare For myself, Kids, His meltdowns. While I watch, Listen, Stay ready. He gets pats On the back Every time people See him with His daughter At Burger King. And somewhere in that I realize— I’ve been clapping For crumbs While carrying The whole table.

64

Riding in the truck Sun warming my face Hands folded in my lap Soft music playing Sun bounces its light off shiny vehicles into my retinas Carrying people somewhere Across the ocean an explosion undoes a family Pieces of their life found when the dust settles Because somewhere someone decided power was worth more than life Shiny vehicles aren’t driven roads aren’t smooth money isn’t spent on mulch or anything Miles away a child’s stomach twists aching with hunger mouth cotton lips sticking tongue yearning for water Down the street a mother struggles to find warm clothes for her child something to fill their stomach But I won’t eat my plum with the skin on And I wonder why I’m able to buy mulch to make my yard pretty To ride in this truck on smooth roads My kids safe fed warm My worry— gas is up soda a dollar more I hate to say I’m thankful because that would mean I’m chosen special better I’m not I’m just… born into privilege To ride in this truck on this road and think about all of this I squeeze my eyes shut swallow the lump whisper to the universe for those whom Can’t afford hope

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Mar 31

Mar 31, 2026 at 1:41 PM UTC

BrookieV

Cant Afford Hope

Riding in the truck Sun warming my face Hands folded in my lap Soft music playing Sun bounces its light off shiny vehicles into my retinas Carrying people somewhere Across the ocean an explosion undoes a family Pieces of their life found when the dust settles Because somewhere someone decided power was worth more than life Shiny vehicles aren’t driven roads aren’t smooth money isn’t spent on mulch or anything Miles away a child’s stomach twists aching with hunger mouth cotton lips sticking tongue yearning for water Down the street a mother struggles to find warm clothes for her child something to fill their stomach But I won’t eat my plum with the skin on And I wonder why I’m able to buy mulch to make my yard pretty To ride in this truck on smooth roads My kids safe fed warm My worry— gas is up soda a dollar more I hate to say I’m thankful because that would mean I’m chosen special better I’m not I’m just… born into privilege To ride in this truck on this road and think about all of this I squeeze my eyes shut swallow the lump whisper to the universe for those whom Can’t afford hope

73

Underneath the blazing orb in its golden embrace I nestle beneath the umbrella's shade. Violet morning glories grace us. Blush and lavender peonies stand alert. Black velvet fur weaves around my leg, vibrating with pleasure. My tanned, four-legged companion sunbathes by my side. A tiny kiddie pool, full to the brim, clear as a gem. A speckled trout dives and darts beneath the mirrored surface. Approaching me to slather on more sunblock- freckled skin, hair bright as fire. He creates a small wave as he dives for treasures. Closing my eyes, I imagine my heart's rhythm as ocean waves. Opening them again, I see clearly. My Heart's rhythm matches his.

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BrookieV

Mar 18

Mar 18, 2026 at 12:15 PM UTC

BrookieV

Speckled Face Trout Fish

Underneath the blazing orb in its golden embrace I nestle beneath the umbrella's shade. Violet morning glories grace us. Blush and lavender peonies stand alert. Black velvet fur weaves around my leg, vibrating with pleasure. My tanned, four-legged companion sunbathes by my side. A tiny kiddie pool, full to the brim, clear as a gem. A speckled trout dives and darts beneath the mirrored surface. Approaching me to slather on more sunblock- freckled skin, hair bright as fire. He creates a small wave as he dives for treasures. Closing my eyes, I imagine my heart's rhythm as ocean waves. Opening them again, I see clearly. My Heart's rhythm matches his.

33