We're you* careful with what you wished for?
No,  you weren't.
Did you call out for help when you needed it?
If you did, no one heard.
We're you there for me when I was falling down?
I didn't see you there.
Did you lay a pillow on the floor when I fell for you, so it wouldn't hurt?
No, cause you didn't care.
We're you thinking about me when you walked out the door?
If you did, you would've stayed.
Did you look back even once to see me crying all alone?
No, you were too afraid.
We're you ashamed of yourself for never telling me why?
If you were, I didn't know.
Did you ever wonder what's happened to me now?
Well, I finally got the chance to grow.

Thank you for all the things you didn't do,
Never forget The Girl Who Loved You.

before I can write, I have to stop
and consider the new nail growth
that has pushed nail paint further up
as my tiny talons become more worthy of their name.

earlier, I pointed at the individual students
one by one; they hesitantly mustered words
to match my unclear expectations;
hoping to avoid my sarcastic cackle,
or the full blown eyes gleaming
like the deepest darkest black marbles
wedged in my eye sockets,
their words trailed off, along with their interest.

I don't try to find a broom that fits my grip.
mine has always been the right fit,
and I've had the ability to travel through time,
and somehow connect one vague memory to the next,
adding detail and sharpening what was dull and lifeless,
so the imagery is mechanically pointed and precise.

My face paint is strategic war paint,
but brown, never green.
At once I'm judged as foreigner,
of foreign origin; young (you're THAT old?)

they will never know that I fear my own image
and imaginings
worse than they fear what power my pen wields.
to bear the weight of an expanse of thoughts--
strenuous, burdensome, careful responsibility--
with relief only once words materialize on a page,
on a screen,
that they will never read.

for no witch was born witch;
she was made so once her dreams shriveled
and resembled the lifeless frogs in her hands.

When something's not
right..... Homeless, unsheltered
by your category of routine....
it may invite emotions mental
security hired for the dismissal
of any loitering  

angry disappointment and frustration
just to name a few guards within
your mind who's considered the
most mean, tell me again why
your mind requested it's streets
to be clean

we are rich....
with health so many
can't even afford to
breathe... Can you
imagine living with
dreams of being able
to breathe absent
machines, or...: having
to bathe and hydrate
your child with water's
struck with a disease that
feast on living things, I'm
not revoking your right
to complain just lending
you the thought of  the
perception of you through another's
lens may mimic the one of
a king

we take so much for
granted and stress the
minor things when so
many struggle to survive
and pray that god intervenes

Silenced

© 2014 viewtifulink

Rendering Tears of painful knowing
beyond human endurance
her tiny nose pressed to the window
her little breath clouding over
shortness coming to her little form
in a voice of inky blackness
in a small voice she cried
till the very end ...

Her tortured heart becomes a shadow
Understanding blindness
just means another
Even in the vast darkness
overcoming the death of her blackness ...

The sky so blue changing colors
turning black to the touch she feels numb
Those were times she had wept so silently
never knowing what was to become ...

"Never go", she whispers softly
As the Angel sat at her side
holding the little one so gently
knowing the hurt she did abide ...

The dawn was coming
beyond the night
singing softly
a little song
Little Serenity was dreaming ...

She has now outlived
the pain and sorrow this day so long,
The Angel sat long and hard
Purple clothes had she
Holding the child in her arms
crying softly 'Why? Oh how could this be?" ...

Delivering the child softly and tenderly to the arm's of the Queen
She stood poise waiting for the blessed command.

Debbie Brooks 2014 Copyright

When I was a child I saw
a burning bird in a tree.
I see became I am,
I am became I see.

In winter dawns of frost
the lamp swung in my hand.
The battered moon on the *****
lay like a dune of sand;

and in the trap at my feet
the rabbit leapt and prayed,
weeping blood, and crouched
when the light shone on the blade.

The sudden sun lit up
the webs from wire to wire;
the white webs, the white dew,
blazed with a holy fire.

crystal ****,
popping drinks,
thats the way we live,
more like our way of having fun,
the stereotype of being young.
you can call us the new generation.
out in the streets and houses at midnight,
where beds are supposed to be filled with young teenage kids,
lost in a world of "childish" dreams.
their beds are as empty as a crystal clear glass.
replaced with the pleasure seeking party life,
dancing away their lives till morning,
tryna fight the inevitable tiredness of their bodies.
this is us,
the new generation,
the stereotype,
of who we are
and what we have become.

I've become blind.
you have made me blind,
not just by sight,
but by body,
soul and mind,
all three in one,
entwined,
in you,
I've fallen in love,
you give me courage to love,
freely,
willingly,
beautifully,
pleasurably,
Godly.
lost in you,
I've learnt to find a place I can be
who I want to be,
lost in you,
I've find a better me,
the happier me,
a woman whose worthy,
to be loved.

I know the truth buried under the lies
I know the face hiding behind the mask
I know the pain locked behind a smile
I know the laugh sealing in the hurt
I know the phrases covering the truth
It was the cat
I fell into a thorn bush
It's just a scratch
I know the pain you've endured
Find your voice and speak the truth
It wont go away if you don't try
They wont stop laughing on their own
The pain wont just disappear
The tears wont suddenly stop flowing
Find your voice and speak up
You're strong and beautiful
Please stay awhile dear

It was October
He was inside me
I was crying.

The ink crawled down my throat,
Mixing with the blood,
Without a boat.
They sneered at the dare,
Cruel friends,
Open-mouthed stare.
A fire kindled deep within,
They still laughed,
My eyes watered,feelling a sting.
Foam at my mouth,
Stupid urge to pout.
Distracting the feeling of fall,
Shouts all around.
Abhorrent playground.
No one continued to notice the frail,pale boy on the ground.
Ardor of death,
Feeling of dread,
Tasting someone's cold breath,
My soul,wispy,fragile threads.
Suddenly my eyes closed,
Devoid of feeling,
My end fate chosed.
                                   -**Firefly

I'm sorry God, but they've taken you prisoner.

Their words indubitably once streamed from your lips,
as your fingers projected beams of light,
falling from the Heavens:
people dumbly read your signs so literally.

They've closed you in a book and recalled your name
when such mentioning benefited their own name,
hypocrites they are;
for there was never a hypoChrist
capable of making wine a commodity
and bread a demon,
unless it is gluten-free.

How your intentions are clouded in veils.
****** in your name.
To glorify you.
Pushing scared young lovers--two men-- against barbed wire fences
and insisting they are sinful, foul--better off dead.
Maybe the hate is right
because it wins ten times out of nine.

God, they constantly judge each other
when they don't believe in the "right" version of you.
And they represent a new hipper you for the youth:
they want to understand you, when really they just
want to be understood.

Some days I walk past strangers and wonder,
"Who do you want me to be?"
Am I not Muslim enough unless I cover my hair?
Am I too Moz-lim if I say Allah and mean God--
just God, not whatever inane misnomer you'll tell me I really believe
you to be.

I think you tire of our piddle paddle,
how we puff up our chests, only to blow out a tiny breath of air,
that in one instant you can extinguish:
the candle had no choice.

We think we give the world meaning.
We feel so special when we hear ourselves think,
but sometimes, I wish you'd speak instead of all these false prophets.