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Jan 5 · 236
littlebrush Jan 5
Compose, wave your arms at the streams of the orchestra sounds-
sway, lead, be lead, 
swoon yourself at the glorious sound 

Awaken to the sudden silence, the loss of a reverie
There are no spotlights here,
there is no audience, no members,
no instruments. 

The empty chairs sit in the dark, 
as your gaze empties. 
Stand, still, stare.
Apr 2020 · 218
I'll admit
littlebrush Apr 2020
I think I found the answer when I swung my head back and looked at the ceiling,
******* drunk, and no one to text.
Apr 2020 · 248
littlebrush Apr 2020
it could've been me in your smoke,

somewhere in the baby cries in your home.

I see her and I see me,

could have laid down the necklace my aunt gave me,
could have taken the ****

could have, in the smoke and in the clouds,
cried in your home.
Feb 2020 · 385
I Find
littlebrush Feb 2020
At the bottom of the bottle
my own warped face-- the glass,
eyes that reflect 2014 for what it was

the bottle-neck becoming mine 

At the bottom of the barrel
I find words for poetry, words for me. 

At the bottom of it all I can see.
Feb 2020 · 272
littlebrush Feb 2020
at the end of the bottle,
I find the few embers of what the past held for me. 
a happy childhood

at the end of the bottle,
I find a few cracks of what the end looks like for me, 
and the picture is kaleidoscope,
the solar system looks like glitter from this end, 

and I know this is my end,
I look up and see the shards and see the glistening and the sparks
like a toddler who is amazed, 
who is amazed during their very,
very happy childhood.
hi it's me and I'm drunk again
Jan 2020 · 107
His Laughter
littlebrush Jan 2020
Im putting him in a box where i cannot like him
Where he has no hands
to titter tatter, pieces, scatter—

Im putting him in a box where he cannot falter

Never, never again.
Jan 2020 · 249
If I Lived Forever
littlebrush Jan 2020
I'd sit back on a lawn chair before a wide ocean,
look at the sparks on the sea and the sky
I'd think and think about beauty like it's not a waste of time

I'd drown my mistakes with years
The skin their hands touched would disappear.
I would get drunk somewhere in the beaches of Guatemala,
kiss strangers--

like the lights over the ocean at night,
like still water.

I would breathe, for once.
Jan 2020 · 613
littlebrush Jan 2020
She exhaled, and the smoke became her neighbor.
"I came from you," it said, "I've been through your lungs.
Why are you so anxious?"


She looked our her window. The trees were still.
"You came from my lungs," she said,
"why don't you tell me?"

She turned to it, but it was gone.
Jan 2020 · 245
littlebrush Jan 2020
Hello, 6 a.m.
Today you look the the six year old
who wrote stories.

She knocks on my door sometimes,

and I live in fear of her,
because she cries and it makes sense--

and I just can't think about it.
I can't think about it.
littlebrush Jan 2020
Pen-named or inked-- 
her wrist swivels. 
She's had many names, this author. 

even through so many lives
still learning how to be unafraid. 

Her wrist swivels. The page turns. 

And the blank pages terrorize
like a cliff.

and she, on the edge, 
does not know how to jump--
does not know if she should.
Aug 2019 · 246
The Cigarette I Stomped On
littlebrush Aug 2019
What happens to poetry
When it only exists
While it’s drunk?
#addiction #poetry #sadness #drunk #disorder #chaos
Aug 2019 · 210
I Miss Her
littlebrush Aug 2019
I miss the sound of snow crunching under my brown boots,
walking back to her, my friend—
Friends; people who, for goodness,
We beat and live and cheer each other,
cheer in the midst of our shattering, the fall-down,
and the rise—

and I was walking back to her,
my dearest,
dearest friend.
Aug 15, 2019
Aug 2019 · 496
What I’d give to pause.
littlebrush Aug 2019
maybe if I close my eyes,
if I stop thinking
Maybe the world will stop turning with me,
like a friend

And in this magnificient pause,
in that glorious stop,

maybe we’ll breathe.
Apr 2019 · 214
littlebrush Apr 2019
Not that it matters anymore!
Who knows?
Where will I be in ten, two
minutes, years?

Nor do I, you see,
nor do I know.

You, you elusive you,
whoever you are.
Yes, I'm speaking to you.

Here, "let me hold that soul for you".
Stranger, I know you,
Like I know how my heart bleeds in the middle of the night,
how I know my dry lips and skin rest on my crumpled bed sheets,
like I know my purged belly wrinkles itself inside out,
like I know the secrets hiding in my closet,
the many diaries I haven't been able to throw out,

You, dearest stranger,
you and I share this amazing pain,
this, this human-ness.

I don't know you, but I know you. Too well.
Here, "let me hold that soul for you".
If we drown, we drown together.
the quote is from this awesome poem:
Apr 2019 · 156
Lonely Anthem
littlebrush Apr 2019
I sit here drunk,
think: no one is here.

but I'm here,
and all of their teachings, all of a sudden
all of their words,
the comfort of old friends that I don't have anymore,

My heart keeps them.
This treasure,
beautiful treasure, of mine.

I'm lonely,
but I'm not.

I love you, I miss you.
Jan 2019 · 233
littlebrush Jan 2019
it was a bottle or two,
downed, you know,

by this grave, grave "poetic hen."

birthing eggs of nothing,

words that'll scroll up in a thousand screens

like yours, like mine,

we share, you and I,
a great,
a very great,
Jan 2019 · 226
littlebrush Jan 2019
Soy tormenta.

Por dentro, solamente.

Si me ves por fuera,
veras, querida,
a cualquier otra.
Como todas,
no hablamos del dolor,
ni de la incapacidad
de levantarse cada mañana.

Y como?
En esta Honduras?
Donde la penumbra se encuentra,
en la sombra de las criticas,
el chisme, clase alta,
y pendeja,

y por eso seguimos
Hope to reach some latin american friends out there.
Jan 2019 · 338
littlebrush Jan 2019
keep this,

In this loneliness,
I've missed you.
Jan 2019 · 12.6k
she’s not sleeping
littlebrush Jan 2019
In the deep corners of 3am,
I find her.
littlebrush Jul 2018
with all the fire bursting within?
will it make sense?
will anyone listen?

with all the rockets,
with all the roar and wild and the wind
roaring here, in my roaring heart,
in the boat in this storm of a mind,
this rocket ship,
will it fade?
Where will it go?

I am fire
I am burning,
not in passion but in thoughts
riling and riding my mind like a bull,
like a the storm that made the disciples run amok
here and there, screaming, at the edge of losing their lives

and Jesus is sleeping.
hasn't taught me how,
or I haven't learned yet.

That's probably it.

The art of resting
in the midst of the thunder,
lying in bed as the sky cracks and breaks into pieces

the art of slumber, of peace, of contentedness and gratefulness
is an art I need.
Mar 2018 · 230
Hope at Rock Bottom
littlebrush Mar 2018
Heart wallows,
wears, to the bone,

sagged lungs

and my soul no longer stirs
no "stillness" in peace,
but in numbness

and the bottom tastes like nothing,
it's all a great nothing.

yet I know,
weary arm can hold
can raise itself to the end of the tunnel

I know I'll be okay.
Your promise waits.

heart, air balloon,
the warmth of your presence,
fills me, raises me.

I am not defined
by the "i love yous" I never got.
or the ones that were taken away,
or the ones that were never meant.

I am not these mistakes,
not these storms,

I'm not the bent palm tree
the debris
of the hurricane.

But I am what I am,
a daughter, a child,
broken, bruised, beaten,
but not defeated,

I am here.
I am okay.
I am with You.

I will rise, I will not fall,
not any further.

And if I do,
your hands, Father,

my wallowing heart,
my weariness.

I am not defeated,
though I am beaten.

You will raise me still,
your hands will hold,
this I trust, Lord.

Your hands will hold.
God has me, even in my lowest (and hey, I think I've got a new record). But in Him there is hope, always.
Jan 2018 · 939
Heart broken.
littlebrush Jan 2018
See it fall
gradually, the heart

and what do you do with the pieces?
Fragments like broken glass
Each reflecting a memory I need to let go of,
These indifferent memories

I do nothing but sit on bed and
And it hurts.
And it hurts.
Jan 2018 · 636
littlebrush Jan 2018
Alright, there it is. He likes her.
The confident,
The blonde--

I drink.
Alone, dwelling on how blotted
I am.

I was art to him,
I was the sketch on his journals

And I didnt want to see it
I didnt want to see him move on
find someone new, "I don't want to be there for that,"
she said about her ex,
and I could also say that
to him.

Cheers to this heart,
I'm broken and wallow
In the shadow of
her voice, her hair, herself

May 2017 · 370
Here You Are
littlebrush May 2017
So if I look at a star-struck night, or a dim one here in Fredericton,
If I walk these silent streets and think of the hum in the stillness,
may I think of You, Breather, Your heart beating and gentle hand.
How am I still here?
When I think of the 'big' world there is and my insides knot with ambition,
And I turn to look for adventure, magic, for something different,
may I realize there's Your gaze draping everything,
with beauty, cognition.

To know the dew that sprinkles over this life,
comes from Your love, Your own existence–
may this earth and all that comes alive raise its voice to say,


be glorified, forever and ever,
Psalm 8:3-4 = "When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars, which you set in place, what is mankind that you are mindful of them, human beings that you care for them?"
Feb 2017 · 335
littlebrush Feb 2017
Can't fix like You do.

to think I can heal,
is proud.


help me let go
and go
grip Your hand

not these old
shards of mine.
Feb 2017 · 428
How a friend can hurt you.
littlebrush Feb 2017
Wounds that bleed for years
are silent.
Only underneath this band-aid
you'll hear howling dogs.

She doesn't know,
she never will--
how this wound still bleeds,

how her naive knife just

Nov 2016 · 4.2k
For you
littlebrush Nov 2016
I pray for you night and day.
Sometimes, as I do the dishes, or play videogames.
You look so gentle, you sleeping phoenix.
I know you're capable, but still,
I see you're fickle. I can't let you fade.

So I pray for you, night and day.
I'd miss you, a whole bunch,
if you listened to your tears,
if you gave in.
or gave up, no less.
Nov 2016 · 501
littlebrush Nov 2016
[prose poem]

If You are love, and You are in all the things I love–
then You are in my morning coffee cup. The one I drink when I've had little sleep, and I feel the adrenaline sizzle my skin. You are in those fresh mornings, when everyone is asleep. And I walk on tiptoes, loving the silence, the delicate serenity.
You are in every string quartet I've heard, every pull of the string, every soft harmony. You are in pens, yellowed old pages, in nights I spent on balconies looking over the edges–
You are in my walks, here and there– You are in these pages.
You are sometimes even in what I hated.
This body that I predicated, that I detested– You've dwelt here, You've cleansed me. You chose this, before the ages.
You are love, and my everything.
Nov 2016 · 275
Thank You
littlebrush Nov 2016
Let there be,
in this moment,


Let in
these pages,

let there be peace.

You kiss
my soul
to sleep.

And I know,
that I know
that I know

You're good to me.
Nov 2016 · 334
Getting up in the morning.
littlebrush Nov 2016
My weakness is here,

That I may know–
that I may know

Your strength.
Jun 2016 · 732
I Noticed Gifts
littlebrush Jun 2016
[prose poem]

          I never noticed how mine these hands are. There, glossy, rinsed clean. Do I want to move my fingers? They will. All of them, they will.
Underneath the water's gloss I see the lines; some ragged and some fine, some smaller and some smaller than the small.
          Though I am no author of what I own, I can see how precious is His gift– and it's been here all this time.
I don't need too look too far. Even for clothes or something to dine. Though I am content with those, I've had, here,
          these hands of mine.
As I washed my hands I felt the strangest joy in the fact that I could control them. Yep. Strange. But then I thought of how grateful I must be, even for having hands– something we take for granted. And as I looked at all the lines that made it up (I mean, c'mon, just stare at all the little lines on your palm for a while), I thought they looked beautiful. So I thank God for weaving every bit of me, so perfectly.
Mar 2016 · 803
Painting People
littlebrush Mar 2016
The road tore,
just in two.

The colors
are yours,

brush me blue.

I'll go.

Your streaks
will be the boot marks
on my back,

and the other cheek.

Your rancor
will color me.  

But I'll make it,
Some people have marked me. Wherever I go, I'll have those marks. But I get to chose what to make of them.
littlebrush Mar 2016
May I go back to You?
     I'm sorry I've strayed. The wrecked trail looked so strange, and this stubborn heart of mine can't resist the foreign, the deranged. I'm sorry. I strayed.  
     I've bawled my eyes out so fiercely. I cannot seem to shovel the snow off this path, or tuck my hands back into the warmth.
     Take these ice-burnt palms of mine; take this lousy shovel, the pen I tried to use to uncover those layers off me; take the need for nicotine, for the viscous cycles that bound me in a life of backsliding, no ears to hear or eyes to see. Guide me, Father.
Guide me home,
set me free.
Mar 2016 · 476
littlebrush Mar 2016
Maybe its time to put these rabid dogs to sleep.
They’ve mastered the art of barking at midnight.
My eye-bags have sagged for eternity.

But You touch the heavy heart,
the one that sags just the same.

It heals, expands,
and breathes.

I forgive.
Mar 2016 · 1.7k
Hands in bed.
littlebrush Mar 2016
[A prose poem]

I see a palm reaching out for me, from the pitch black.
     I try to sleep and close my eyes, but I still see this palm, trying to cover my face or scratch the skin it hates– I close my eyes and I still see it.
I know where this palm came from.
     I know it from the time the backdrop was not dark, but a horrid party at a lonesome house where I had too many shots. I know this palm will try to take whatever it wants, and it’ll crook its fingers and slide wherever it pleases, without caring to come back to my face when the tears roll down; it does not care to treat them, it does not care to wipe them. It does not care.
     Its been more than a year now, and still I go to sleep and think of hands. Of the word “no”, and how useless it is, just like trying to get some good sleep now. I close my eyes and try to forgive every one of those fingers.
Mar 2016 · 398
Renewing the heart.
littlebrush Mar 2016
You peel open my chest–
how beautiful, Lord–
You turn this rotten apple,
to color.
Mar 2016 · 262
littlebrush Mar 2016
It's as if You slid a silk sheet over my chest,
or placed Your big palm over my hunched back;
or kissed my knees after their knelt espousal.
Mar 2016 · 1.1k
littlebrush Mar 2016
You heard me,
when I whispered softly;
You held me,
as I wept loudly;
You love me,
despite me,
despite me.
Mar 2016 · 386
littlebrush Mar 2016
Now that I've pulled out the needles,
or that I've quit tracing the EKG,
I don't know where to dip my pen in.
Mar 2016 · 296
littlebrush Mar 2016
I'd like those passing trees to be my life.
Like a child who traces the contour of nature,
as they whoosh by the window,
on the backseat of a car.

I'd like someone else to drive,
to see one-fifty meters ahead, all the time.
I'd like the sunshine to toast my rested face,
as I head somewhere, always.

And sleep as the miles go by,
as the miles,
miles go by.
I don't want to spearhead or to take initiatives for a while. I just kind of wanna pass by everything and feel at ease.
Feb 2016 · 403
littlebrush Feb 2016
I see artistry in the way these branches bend and twirl.
The abundant bough goes naked.
I see there is artistry here.
Feb 2016 · 253
littlebrush Feb 2016
Who am I to dwell? Who am I to grieve?
Was I building walls in Israel? Or killed by Jezebel?
Who am I to cry for war, to be in pain?
Was I tearing my garments, was I tearing altars?
Who am I, for You to think on?

For who I am and who I'm not,
for what I've cried and all You've witnessed,–

Who am I, Lord,
for You to love?
Feb 2016 · 417
littlebrush Feb 2016
[A prose poem.]

I see you’ve got the ropes.
       Somehow you adapted. There, your green tea; you filled your thermos last night, preemptively. Your fingers have always been awkward too. You treat your hands as if they were chubby. And they hold the thermos with strength, like they hold everything-- except for your papers and your keyboard. You hold those differently.  
       Remember the balcony? You had too much wine, obviously. Your rolling on the floor from one end to the other turned legendary. But time rolls by, and so do tobacco leaves on papers, and you hate those two things.
       Listen, I’m not the same. I’m sorry. I now have posters on the walls of my room. And I still pick pieces off my lip, but I wear chapstick too. And I’ve started to drink coffee again, with sugar. I’ve made peace with mirrors. And I’ve also started to learn some french, Je m’excuse.
       What page number were we in? I’ve known you through some invincible years, but I’m starting to see the fray.
       You forgot to take the balcony along. You’ve got the hang of your schedule, where and how to tunnel your way to class; you get up as soon as our alarm goes off. No snooze. You sit down and vaguely remember the journals you wasted your soul in; all the conversations tinted with beer were drowned by fear, and fear by coping, and your coping is scaring me. The ropes are gripped tightly by your fingers, and I might know why.
       And I’m already mourning; I don’t need any more black clothes, any more sad entries. Know that I still love you-- that’s still the same. But, here, I am this. It hurts to know that is not okay, that at the bottom of our wine bottles there’ll be resentments, but I still love you all the same. I’d rather taste your rancour than bittersweet memories, wondering how I’d give you tulips, if you really want to be cremated.
       Maybe we’re tying knots on the veins of a good life– and what for?– the classic problem is, perhaps we’re still ‘too young.’ We lost the children we used to be, but we’re in that grey area between losing and finding something to find.  
       And I’m already missing you. And maybe there’s no point in begging, but,
I see you’ve got the ropes and I’m terrified.
stay with me.
This is a combination of two poems I wrote before ("Noose" + "How to tell someone you've changed.")
Feb 2016 · 277
Let Him save you, please
littlebrush Feb 2016
[A prose poem]

I look at this candle and think of heat. Small ones, like these.
       You burnt a mouse when you were young. It screamed and screamed, you said. It screamed until it stopped.
       And so you inch away from little heats, like these. Candle lit evenings are not your thing. Little flames are not for warmth, but for the vague memory of a distant sin.
Here, take a seat.
       I know you'll want to run away, where the screams can weigh heavy without the watch of– well, me.
       I don't know how much smoke you've breathed in, or how your little hands and feet will fare trying to reach for clean air, for the life you want to set ablaze in anywhere but yourself. I don't know how you're planning to use burnt out matches.
      The mouse is gone. He's gone, he is. Listen to me.
      There is no greater scream than the past's flames. It doesn't matter how much I say I love you. In the end, I can't set ablaze a lump of ashes. And you can't just "love yourself" either– that won't help you, see?
       Roll your eyes; glare at me. But if you don't let Him give you new matches, you won't be able to set hearts ablaze in the midst of more screams.
Jan 2016 · 575
littlebrush Jan 2016
Your love is, and yet,
    I have no way to say it.
Your love?– how can I?– open arms and hugging suns, and softening clouds for weary hearts?– Your love?
    As I curl up in bed– a little bonfire in my chest–
how will words do? and how can I best confess it to You?
    It is kind, yes, I know it is patient; it is visible and gracious.
    And perhaps it won't do, but still,
I love You.
Jan 2016 · 361
How I Met Your Mother?
littlebrush Jan 2016
[A prose poem.]

       We didn't meet by the train tracks, and not after a wedding reception. I didn't hover a yellow umbrella over you. There was no pouring rain.
       At some point I brightened; when I curled my fists with joy, you rolled your eyes, your tobacco leaves– there, your artsy nicotine– and puffed your own clouds over your own clean meadows.
       I wish you well, but I want the next one to know– if she is dark, if she is lonely– you'll say "I love you" way too soon.
To someone who loved my sadness.
Jan 2016 · 501
Humbled by Job
littlebrush Jan 2016
[Prose poem]

Look at how the wind lifts the snow. It looks like a spirit.
       Maybe I was here, sitting still. Looking at the snow being exhaled, from the rooftops and windowsills. You turn the diaphanous into strings, Your wind the bow, the sight a melody. Maybe the cold and white is purity, like it would seem to be. We die to live. Drop our leaves like vice baggage, and wear new sleeves. You crafted it all so carefully. The art of telling the proud waves to settle, to make an ocean while making seconds, and whiles, and everything.
       And where was I?
Maybe I was here, sitting still.
"Where were you when I laid the earth's foundation? Tell me, if you understand" (Job 38:4).
littlebrush Jan 2016
[A prose poem]

I used to have long hair. I chopped it off. It bothered me.
       But I was also numb, and sometimes ardent; I reserved my anger in patient and bursting wine skins. I was sad and didn't know it.
      Listen, I'm not the same. I'm sorry. I now have posters on the walls of my room. And I still pick pieces off my lip, but I wear chapstick too. And I've started to drink coffee again, with sugar. And I've also learned some french, Je m'excuse.
      What page number were we in? All I know is I'm not there anymore. I've known you through some invincible years, but I'm starting to see the fray. Like split ends.
      I'm not good with scissors though. This is not a threat, you need to know that. Because I'm not good with scissors. Please know that.
      And know that I still love you– that's still the same. But, here, I am this, I am this. This is who I am. Is that okay?
Jan 2016 · 1.2k
She cares.
littlebrush Jan 2016
[A prose poem]

I need to tell you about someone you should know.

She never uses her index finger.
          Well, that's not true anymore. She gave up on the quirk, and now uses the fullness of her thin fingers. They're wounded though. You have to know her hands.
        She picks the skin on the borders of her nails, as if the lack of red were mediocre. She needs passion, she does. And roses. They cascade on the right wall of her room.
        See, there's something about people who tape roses on their walls. I can see her scarred little fingers, pushing adhesive on the flowers.
Jan 2016 · 747
A hunch.
littlebrush Jan 2016
Prowling by. One paw, one paw–it hunts slowly.
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