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 Oct 2018 Brianna
Sam Hammond
Autumn
 Oct 2018 Brianna
Sam Hammond
It has turned to autumn now
But that's not what I see.
Where the leaves are brown and red
Is black and white to me.

Yes, the frost as gripped the air
As summer bids adieu,
But I was cold in mid July
So tell me what is new?

Soon the lakes will glaze with ice
That's carried in the breath
Of the autumns genesis;
Exhaling gelid death.

So, another season comes
Another season goes.
All that's dead remains as such
And all that's living grows.
All that's cold in self and touch
Will some day decompose.
Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just
pretentious?

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?
Problems only We True Artists face.
 May 2018 Brianna
chris
im not
 May 2018 Brianna
chris
longing for you or
missing you

i just miss the time
when we were together
just us
I am such a baddass
I could list
My reasons
But girls would get ******

Beware to females
Who commit the heinous crime
Of  admitting they like themselves
If I could turn back time
I would hit Backspace all day,
Id put on Caps Lock
and SHOUT what I say.

I'd use the whole Alphabet
To tell you hello,
Press seven Numbers
Til you picked up the phone.

I'd Tab through the comments
I didn't want to hear,
And use the Arrow Keys
To drag your body near.

I would Delete the harsh words
I didn't mean to speak,
And Insert the "I love yous"
I before couldn't leak.

I would use Ctrl to
Keep reigns over my heart,
And I would Escape lies
That tore us apart.

I'd Print out your photo
And kiss it goodnight,
Use the Calculator
To check that we were right.

I'd Paint you a picture
of us, you and me,
Then I'd hit Enter
Just so you would see.

Those are the things
I would do in my strife,
If only Backspace
worked in real life.
This is the first poem (that I have a copy of) i wrote that I actually thought was good. I was in seventh grade, twelve years old, and I wrote it for a newspaper competition. I knew it was really great but I didn't think I would beat all other applicants in the state in my age group. So you can imagine my surprise I'm sure when I DID win! That is the first time I was proud of my writing. So this one has a lot of special sentimental value. Thanks for reading.
 Feb 2018 Brianna
Virginia Kasmi
You know that space between sleep and awake?
That place where you are thinking,
but not dreaming yet?
Right at that moment, right at that place it hurts the most.
I close my eyes and your silhouette appears at a dark street corner.
I stand next to you and we smoke in silence.
I spot us at Irish pubs drinking beer.
I see us in shapes and colors and lines,
Losing ourselves on crowded dance floors.
I feel your salty skin next to mine,
While whispering promises to each-other.
I follow us while getting lost in sunny unknown cities.
Passing by car lights cracking my thoughts,
I turn around in my empty bed and I want to feel the warmth of youth in a cold set of sheets.
My eyelids get heavy,
I am about to disconnect.
I get anxious as i drift away in the dark abyss of my subconscious.
It’s the place before sleep and awake,
where I love you the most,
but I still lose you when I dream.
 Jan 2018 Brianna
Lunar
have you ever wondered
why   am   i   always
f  a  s  c  i  n  a  t  e  d
with the phenomena
of     a    red and rare
l u n a r   e c l i p s e?

with every time we meet,
i turn red;
but with every time we part,
i don't turn blue.

rare doesn't mean
"once in a lifetime."
it only means that
you'll always return,
no matter how long it takes.

and i believe that
someday
for sure
again:
*i'll see you.
aren't we all fascinated with the things, events, and people which come rare?
it makes us cherish them well.

(j.m.)
 Jan 2018 Brianna
Eric Fraley
What if dying isn't death

If when we leave this world…


The weight of it is simply off our chest

When we take that final breath

We live the most memorable of moments all over again

But this time…


We’re at our best


What if only the best of memories replay

All the sadness,

The shame,

The madness

The blame and the anguish…


What if they’re cast away

What if it's like waking up to not just another day

If only the happiness is the feeling that stays


What if…

Death is truly the end of all pain

If love is all we retain


What if…

The night sky…


And all the stars from above

Is all that remains


But...

I’m wondering about those stars

They too some day die

So…

What if we’re like stars…


We only shine bright when alive

Just a small light in a vast world that one day burns out…


What if the weight of the world’s what living life’s all about

All the people,

The places,

The sorrow and joyous filled faces…

  

Each of our books of life and their;

Some better,

Some worse but…


Still lively filled pages…


Are what leaves those we leave behind with heartbreak and…


Sorrow filled grievance…


What if our memory is truly all that's left when we pass into the unknown

An empty bed in a place we once called our home

A place where in our old age we had grown…



What if our lasting legacy is only the moments in which we shared an experience

If...

The wisdom,

The kindness,

And the hard work filled progress…


Is all we leave behind

If we only leave what we project into those empty filled spaces

In our loved ones' hearts and loved ones' minds…


I wonder what I'll see when I'm staring up at the ceiling or sky…


Somewhere down the line…

Life hanging by a thread

Watching the story of my life as it flashes by...


Will there be regrets,


Goals never met,


Things never said,


Thoughts trapped in my head…

Or...

Will I be able to say

I did all that I could

Willing to die without needing to lie…


T o  m y s e l f


What if…


The money we made


The status we gained


The list of the people we blame

For the shame on our name…


If none of that ever really matters when our…


Book of life comes to an end…


What if

It was only ever about the mark on everyone's hearts we ingrained


If like stars we burn out but…


Just burn out much faster

The difference for us is…


No tomorrow can be guaranteed


If...

This life…

Was the only book you could write

If tomorrow was your final chapter…


Can you say your book of life was the best it could be


Like only the greatest of books

When they end...

They leave the world with sadness and grief

With…

Wonderment and pure disbelief

If your life was the best it could be

Can you close your eyes

Fall into that endless sleep

Feel your heart's final beat

Come to a close as you cease to breath


And go satisfied…


K n o w i n g   y o u r   b o o k   o f   l i f e ' s   w o r t h   t h e   r e a d
 Jan 2018 Brianna
skyler
golden
 Jan 2018 Brianna
skyler
he may have broken her
but her eyes will still glow golden in soft sunlight
even if her cheeks are stained with tears

s.s
wish we could talk like we used to
At age 7, I was guilty
when I accepted an invitation
to go into the apartment of a neighbor
He smelled of beer as he groped me.

At age 10, I was guilty
when I walked home too late
because I missed the train
He popped out of the bushes
exposing himself.

At age 12, I was guilty
when my uncle forced
tongue into my mouth
because I could not
get away.

At age 14, I was guilty
when my uncle forced
me to sit on his lap
while in my bathing suit
and I ran away from home.

At age 16, I was guilty
when my uncle convinced
everyone that I was a liar
and I quit school.

At age 18, I was guilty
when I gave birth to
my first child,
because I was ignorant.

At age 20, I was guilty
when I saw the cardiologist
in the reflection of a lamp
*******  and the
police laughed at my report.

At age 30, I was guilty
when my employer
trapped me in the elevator
to ***** me, because I
was his subserviant.

At age 36, I was guilty
when I earned jujitsu honors
but risked going to jail
for defending myself.

At age 70, I was guilty
when a neighbor brought
me fruit and grabbed my
breast, because I was alone.

At age 72, I am guilty
of being a ferule woman
for 50 years and for
NOT be silent!
How many times must a woman be guilty for her existence?
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