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Broderick Jan 2013
Well, let's see it like This.

He's tall, handsome, simple to understand,
and there's me,
yeah, me, the kid who
grew up alone so he learned about
       different species of mushrooms and
       how poetry has a meter
       (Not mine, not here, but somewhere, some does).

He can tell you how pretty you are,
while you stare at him, into those shallow souls of eyes.
He'll hurt you, right? Yeah, probably.

The human nature is to tend towards simplicity and ease,
and I'm not easy to understand or simple.
He is.
He's your "Normal" that all of your friends want.
He's your athletic-scholarly(Ha!)-goodboy-Christian kid,
and then there is me.
Your friends don't like me, and that burdens you.
Because I'm different and they are judgmental, but hey,
he's a good kid (not) and he's very smart (I'm still smarter)
but he will hurt you and scar you and I will
take the scars and heal them and use my
care as a fierce weapon against the night.
Broderick Jun 2012
the clouds loom overhead
depleting masses of water,
slowly crying over the dusty ground.

there's a boy on a bridge,
watching a river swim beneath him
imagining himself swimming,
taking the loneliness away.

there's a girl lying on a porch swing,
watching the river swiftly pour down, carrying
the tears of heaven away
and hers.

he takes a walk from the bridge
and crosses two streets,
with a notebook in his hands,
spiral binding and blue cover.

she stands up and wants to
walk into town to see the library,
and grabs only a bottle
of fresh lemonade.

he makes it a mile,
sweat is replacing the rain, the crying above,
and he just wants to make it to
the forest at the end of the road.

she misses reading-
she hasn't read in quite some time,
no poem, no story, no venture,
nothing but the thoughts she owns.

he is thirsty, for anything,
as his throat dries and his legs weaken,
the sun now welcoming itself back out,
the warmth coming up.

a car passes on the left,
the wind behind a gentle friend for her,
and she notices a faint dot
about a mile away.

he sees this moving pixel, and grabs
for his glasses to see who it is-
what faint hair, reddened,
and what does she hold?

she is nearing him
and nervous, because now
she is a witness to his charming looks
and his saddened disposition.

he is worrying-
what should he say? to the girl
whose looks, even from a distance,
are catching him off guard.

she notices his sweat,
asks if he would like a drink
and he takes the bottle,
thanking her very kindly for her generosity.

he notices her eyes fall on the-
what, the seam of his shirt, the
veins of his arm,
or the writings in his hand?

she notices his tanned face,
the gentle muscles of his arms
seeming to force the liquid
inside of him.

he asks if she would
like to read the insides,
(his internal self, is to say)
and she would.

she asks him to sit on an old train-track post,
decaying alongside the road,
next to the river of a million tears,
suddenly becoming a thousand, ten, one, none.

and so was the afternoon of Saturday,
spent on a moist post lying parallel to a
rain-filled river,
and the warm air of summer
suddenly become a little more comforting.
Broderick Apr 2012
I wrote about you, at first, in small increments,
and gradually formed more words.
Formed more lines, more sounds, more thoughts.
Oh, my state! I called you, earnestly.
And, irony plays out that the way I finish thinking of you,
is that of before;
in words.
Maybe fortune has played something new for you to grasp hold of, as it has for me.
Maybe there is more for you than just me.
I hope so; I really, really hope so.
You are such a precious gem, and I wish I could have held your sparkling edges for a few more moments,
a few more seconds of time,
but the longer I would have waited,
the harder it would have become to let go of my possession,
my lust, my love.
Goodbye, so long, farewell!
You have dug a hole into my heart,
and there you shall stay,
but never doubt that you will stay, in some form, in some way,
inside me.
Broderick Mar 2012
My name is etched into the bank's clay,
            all of the molecules of impure water
            will erode my letters from such a marker.
The trees die, and so do their carvings,
falling to a moldy pile of a weakened sappling.
              I will be forgotten.
              No effort can leave my name in
                     ink upon all of the trees,
                            and their trees
                                  and so on
                                           ad infinitum.
I will die; so will my name-
            How vain am I to think I am special?
Broderick Feb 2012
My God is dead, dead, buried in the ground.
At his funeral, we wore white. Everybody.
I looked at his white beard,
and it looked much darker than I ever remembered it.
I tried to hold his hand, but I touched it for an instant and felt its cold, horrible texture.
I tried to look him in the eyes, but, dear him, they never were so black before.
My god is dead, dead, buried in the ground.
My Jesus is alive, my Muhammad beats on.
But this? How can I go without this?
How can I drink now to know that I killed this man?
How can I ever empty out the guilt I endure?
My knife spoke its way into him, and thought its way through him.
So, to God, I am sorry you died,
but with all death comes birth and progress,
and so, to, shall from you.
Broderick Feb 2012
This whisper is on fire in between my walls,
      their thin, white tales are colliding everywhere,
but only the corners of this room are touched.
     Nobody gets to touch the vibrations.
Earlier, I was surrounded by others,
   I was feeling stuck in myself.
I felt the need to hide certain sides of myself.
       I was trying to lose myself in my breathing,
just so I would slip out of that tomb.
Just so I would get out of that clutter.
        And in this way, I was ostensibly out of focus,
so it was only me and my thoughts.
        And I still am like that,
but they have left, now, and I am by myself.
Openly honest to this room who lies withing, this
                        this style,
                        and I let my mind drift carelessly, slipping out every
                        silly and simply honest thought.
In this I find my tranquility.
I felt alone, until I was.
Broderick Jan 2012
It's cold. Very cold. A window in the car is down, and your dad is smoking.
The turn signal flashes and pulsates a few times.
The clouds overhead zoom past in a spectacle of stellar proportions.
The car smells like tobacco, which isn't a good smell.
He mumbles something about deer to himself.
There's a humble stillness in the vehicle.
But I don't notice any of this, see,
because I have you on my arm.
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