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littlebrush Aug 19
What happens to poetry
When it only exists
While it’s drunk?
#addiction #poetry #sadness #drunk #disorder #chaos
Aug 15 · 136
I Miss Her
littlebrush Aug 15
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
littlebrush Aug 15
Do you think of me?

When you watch all those cliches,
—that you like a lot, by the way,—

Trinkets, Duff, “To All the Boys I Loved Before,”
when you watch that girl,

Do you think of us?
littlebrush Aug 14
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 11 · 140
littlebrush Apr 11
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 11 · 93
Lonely Anthem
littlebrush Apr 11
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 27 · 161
littlebrush Jan 27
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 27 · 133
littlebrush Jan 27
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 27 · 285
littlebrush Jan 27
keep this,

In this loneliness,
I've missed you.
Jan 21 · 1.4k
she’s not sleeping
littlebrush Jan 21
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 · 181
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 · 888
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 · 589
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 · 328
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 · 283
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 · 381
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 · 2.8k
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 · 472
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 · 236
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 · 304
Getting up in the morning.
littlebrush Nov 2016
My weakness is here,

That I may know–
that I may know

Your strength.
Jun 2016 · 670
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 · 755
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 · 441
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 · 1.6k
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 · 362
Renewing the heart.
littlebrush Mar 2016
You peel open my chest–
how beautiful, Lord–
You turn this rotten apple,
to color.
Mar 2016 · 221
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 · 1.0k
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 · 335
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 · 257
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 · 325
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 · 212
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 · 388
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 · 242
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 · 544
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 · 315
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 · 457
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 · 1.1k
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 · 692
A hunch.
littlebrush Jan 2016
Prowling by. One paw, one paw–it hunts slowly.
Jan 2016 · 393
So she failed.
littlebrush Jan 2016
[A prose poem]

       I never loved apples. They taste just okay. But I looked up "how to be anorexic" on google once, and an ana-pro idiot said we should imagine food as monsters. "Take an apple, for example. Imagine it turning into a dead pig. Imagine it rotting. Worms coming out of it."
      I still don't like apples. But I still like chocolate.
Jan 2016 · 271
littlebrush Jan 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. They incline to the chubby side, your fingers. And they hold the thermos with strength, like they hold everything– except for your papers and your keyboard. You don't grip those. You tap. Are you aware?
       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.
       You took 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 your alarm goes off. No snooze. The ropes are gripped tightly by your fingers, and I don't know why.
Jan 2016 · 389
A letter to my old self.
littlebrush Jan 2016
Child, please look up.
I know you don’t want to listen.
But you will, you will take what suits you.
I know you well.
Stop, wait,
You don’t need to blur the lines.
There is no black and white–
I know you’ve learned that the hard way,
but just wait– don’t shade just yet.

There is a certain grey.
But don’t rush– hush,
Put the paintbrush down.
You don’t need to sin to understand.
Child, I’m sorry you’re so lost.
Take it from me:
You’ll be fine.
You’ll be fine.
Jan 2016 · 386
littlebrush Jan 2016
For there she was.*
Upright, bliss.
Blooming petal,
do its wish.

What a day,  

sounds, sounds
and people,
she says.

Dalloway, her petals,
the ones she picked,

She breathes
air like silk.
Details, dresses,
Precious petal,
does not know.

And the patient,
the open palms,
wait for prayers–
prayers, perhaps.

What a day.

*Mrs. Dalloway said,
she would pick the flowers
(First and last line taken from *Mrs. Dalloway*).
Jan 2016 · 226
littlebrush Jan 2016
(First and Last lines taken from Paradise Lost).*

Through Eden took their solitary way,
the contemporary mind, page by page,
sitting idly on his soft bed and modern age,
witnessed the injustice, far away.

“Not today’s fault,” cries the observer.
“It is for the first man to pay.”
There is no reason a mind so clever,
could muster in its wavering faith.

What fault was his in such arrange?
Was he to pay for something so estranged?
Was it his own pain to ache?
Was it not years, years too late?

But away from his leathered book,
off to the pristine white of a winter’s day,
his eyes wander, and cry his inner grey.

His hand would abate this fray.
For if love can cast out hate,
In love, His grace will satiate.

What could he understand?
Isn’t feeling all he knows?
It is in the tears, the gentle hands–
In grace, His love will flow.

For if the stars are in our veins,
and hidden lives in a single verse,
if there are wonders in the mundane,
and even more in the lofty universe,

How could one aspire,–
How could someone underestimate–
to audaciously take life’s fires,
and in his mind, encapsulate?

So the man decides for sweet abandon.
And finds that in his soul it would suit,
to trust someone with infinite compassion,
as he read the story of the devil’s loot,
*of man’s first disobedience, and the fruit.
Nov 2015 · 2.9k
The stubbornness of sadness.
littlebrush Nov 2015
Bear with me, Smile.
Let me cling to this denial.
Nov 2015 · 282
To hunt.
littlebrush Nov 2015
Sleep, rose.
Wither your petals slowly.
Hush, now.
The wolf prowls soundly.

The snow is kind.
Sleep, please.
End this softly.
Aug 2015 · 1.2k
littlebrush Aug 2015
you're heavy.
let me sleep.
Jul 2015 · 655
littlebrush Jul 2015
Oh boy,
I've sinned again.

Fuzzy trinity.

Judas might have met me
and Heil––
such is my betrayal––
and Heil.
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