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Neajah Brown May 2016
I walk around my neighborhood with my sister
We wear white mask and black coats with hoods
There’s never anyone in the neighborhood
She said
"It's too quiet."

Yet you could hear the sink left on
From houses people forgot they had
Maybe they lost their house keys

"Did you know that before that house was bought, there were squatters ?"
"How do you know?"
"I know because they were teens like me, but they ran out of luck.”
“They had no money, did they?”
“No money for what? Oh, they had money, but not enough.”
“Enough for what?”

I said “Making dreams come true in reality.”

I remember telling my mom what I wanted to do for others in life
Once I got done she asked me
“But what do you want for yourself?”
I said
“To be known.”
She said
“What if your not known like singers, dancers and actors?”

See I hadn't thought that far.

Maybe that's why they became squatters
In a house with broken blinds
There was not a place for them

My sister said
“Maybe their dreams slipped through a crack in the floor of their old house.”
Of the house in which they prayed for things to get better.
Paid light and water bills
And barely made it
She asked if they were lovers
“If they were, I wouldn't know. I doubt it.”

We wipe the condensation from the insides of our mask
With the ends of our sleeves and adjust our hoods
As they adjust their blinds to the outside world.
I understand if you are inspired, but being inspired and copying are totally different. Please do not copy.
Neajah Brown Mar 2016
I knew my great grandfather wasn’t happy
Wearing  khaki overalls with a dark brown flat cap
And having to give up all his pens because I kept losing them
He was a man with a straight face
Who I think wore dentures and glasses older than himself
He sat on the couch closest to the fire place
Where his navy picture stood front and center
He never sat next to his wife or laughed as they watched stories together
Maybe it was just her that enjoyed watching stories
Every day he’d walk in and out of the house
Sometimes he’d have a shovel in his hand
And sometimes it's covered with dirt
I never saw exactly any progress in the yard
But something was happening slowly

I never had the chance to talk to him
And ask him ‘What were you always working on’
Maybe it was because I was so young
By the time I hit an age where I could form full sentences
And think of that question exactly
I wasn't able to because I'd only seen him once after I left the house
And I was too busy looking into his eyes
Where I could tell that he no longer remembered me
I remember telling him my name
Thinking he would remember me
He could remember me
But he didn't and that's ok
Because the funny thing is that I never knew his name
I grew up with a Papa and that was the only name I knew
Something I came up with
Now what laid  in his hospital bed was wrinkled memories
That once covered the cheeks of a broken old man

My mother said ‘I'm taking Teen to the hospital’
Why I responded and she told me PaPa’s in the hospital
I knew it was because it was time he’d rest
But the day that he did
I pretended that I didn't care because of one mistake
That he made and I didn't say goodbye
Some of his family never did either
I didn't feel so bad though
Until I realized I wasn't crying outside of my thoughts
I cried inside because I never knew his name
And never forgave him
And never dealt with his death

*In Memory of Papa
Neajah Brown Mar 2016
is it my father that reaches out to me, standing taller than when
alive and pure like coco? why is his breath, once taken away from
him walking among me, as if i am alive? i evaporated into his last
breath, the day the dandelions fell apart without a child´s blow.

lord, i’d pray to my father that he’d be my light through dark times.
looking up into the sky after rain as the sun peeks through the clouds
i forgot how many times i’d smile and whisper his name. sometimes
i wake up in the middle of the night, short of breath. feels as though
he’s standing over me.

  here in this room, i can not sleep at times and i can not find peace
and in this room is just me, but he feels as though it's just him.
praying to see him in my dreams, but closing my eyes he’d
never make it there. he’d make it through reality somehow.
has anyone ever told you that someone's spirit is alive after they
die? in my sleep i lean other to kiss him on his cheek and i’d
ask for a hug. he’s not too comfortable with me yet. so I'll  wait.
Prompt: A thing to show an angel
Please do not copy this piece.
You may use as an influence, but that is different from copying.
Neajah Brown Mar 2016
Where are we sent from? If not from earth we are
coming, then why leave? We are leaving the breeze
behind that blows pollen through air. Wishing never to
leave in darkness. Knowing that our lives are built around
drab shadows. Lift us by light and surround us by glory, Lord.
We beg of you to leave us clothed. I know we are not proud
of our weakened bodies. Afraid of our skin touching. How
do we create black and white, when Grey is the color of
our insides?

Grey is our sky. When the sun is hidden, we can not
breathe. We must be held in warmth. Our joints must
be broken if refusing to rise. Limbs will become numb.
We’d embrace each other and our bodies over bodies.
Lord, wrap your breath around our nakedness and put on
your brights. Watch us squeal and try to bend. We will
face our awakening above all things.
Please don't feel free to copy

— The End —