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kate mckay Sep 2014
neglecting leads to Brocken adults
Brocken child hood a troubled teen
I don't wont no more counselling sessions
I wont a new life one were
I didn't get dads fists  in my face and ribs or stomach
I don't get bullied
were I never started self harm to cope
I don't have a fear of guys who look a little like him
were im not so broken
or so hurt
abuse is casting a shadow the length of a life time
Alan McClure Dec 2010
The strange thing is,
it wasn't there on the day.
I'm sure of it.
Ben MacDui, April, 1993:
cloudless, blue, glorious.
Three boys out from the city,
out from the flat grey sprawl,
shouting and laughing
into the giant empty sky.
We were there by the grace of two kind men,
teachers,
who knew of greater things
than the classroom had to offer.

But now,
looking back,
the cloud has descended.
For every three of my footsteps,
one chilling, giant crunch rings out
in restless pursuit.
Shadows are cast across clouds
that simply were not there
and an unconditioned joy cowers
beneath the brocken spectre,
the Big Grey Man that followed
unseen, unguessed, and uninvited.
- From Also Available Free
an0nym0us Sep 2018
In the darkness, I see a small light
In the heart of the light is a mirror
I gazed in the mirror, something isn't right
What I saw is the reflection of all my errors.

My eyes are blank, made my tears less
My lips are dry and can never impress
And my hair is a total mess
Like how my life fell into a great mess.

I felt great grudge
I gave the glass a big punch,
I stared at my hand that bleeds
Felt extreme guilt for my past dids.

I'm so full of flaws,
I deserve to be under death's claws
I keep being judge by man's laws,
I have no right to face my foes.

I picked up a piece of a brocken glass
I saw a piece of my past
Slowly, the light vanished in the darkness
My hand fell down and losses my grip, emotionless.
*sigh*
kate mckay Jan 2015
I don't believe nothing every promises that has ever been mad to me
                      EVERY
LAST      
                   ONE
GETS
                              BROCKEN
Mark Motherland Nov 2018
I was being stalked by something large and threatening
foot falls behind me but there was no-one there
an uninvited guest to me he is beckoning
shimmering rings, rainbow his head in the air
I know Bigfoot looms large in swathes of shifting grey.
I'm above the clouds stood with my back to the sun
the dark figure motions to his trembling prey
"oh circular glory, to you I'm outrun
sat cowering beneath the Brocken Spectre
the circle was broken and the Grey Man walked free
was he a Troll or some Mountain Protector?
Oh! Hideous encounter, the Grey Man was me!
When you are stood with your back  to the sun, your shadow is cast into the mist. The halo is caused by an optical illusion called a 'glory' where diffracted light is reflected back at you. It has a greater effect when you are above the clouds. 'Brocken' is named after a mountain kn Germany that is renowned for this phenomina.
A Shuli  Nov 2018
Let Me Draw
A Shuli Nov 2018
Let me draw,
If I had the hand of a merciful God I would draw the first deep wrinkle on the forehead of every newborn babe.
But that would be the hand of a careless God, for all the wisdom gained
Is merely a Brocken Spectre.

So let there be a history discarded of pain
And tattoos sown by the hand of a farmer onto the delicate skin of this pigeon.
Keep him, feed him,
He will remember you to me.   Let him fly home when you think of me,

And his wings will bring me back.
©️2018
Lorsque l'on est monté jusqu'au nid des aiglons,

Et que l'on voit, sous soi, les plus fiers mamelons

Se fondre et s'effacer au flanc de la montagne,

Et, comme un lac, bleuir tout au fond la campagne,

On s'aperçoit enfin qu'on grimperait mille ans,

Tant que la chair tiendrait à vos talons sanglants,

Sans approcher du ciel qui toujours se recule,

Et qu'on n'est, après tout, qu'un Titan ridicule.

On n'est plus dans le monde, on n'est pas dans les cieux,

Et des fantômes vains dansent devant vos yeux.

Le silence est profond ; la chanson de la terre

Ne vient pas jusqu'à vous, et la voix du tonnerre

Qui roule sous vos pieds, semble le bâillement

Du Brocken, ennuyé de son désœuvrement.

Votre cri, sans trouver d'écho qui le répète,

S'éteint subitement sous la voûte muette ;

C'est un calme sinistre, on n'entend pas encore

Les violes d'amour et les cithares d'or,

Car le ciel est bien haut et l'échelle est petite ;

Votre guide, effrayé, redescend et vous quitte,

Et, roulant une larme au fond de son œil bleu,

La dernière des fleurs vous jette son adieu.

La neige cependant descend silencieuse,

Et, sous ses fils d'argent, la lune soucieuse

Apparaît à côté d'un soleil sans rayons ;

Le ciel est tout rayé de ses pâles sillons,

Et la mort, dans ses doigts, tordant ce fil qui tombe,

Vous tisse un blanc linceul pour votre froide tombe.
Sorrow find me,
Sparrow bind me,
For love once sought now leaves me Brocken,
For love once sought has left words unspoken.
Oh how my heart bleeds,
After your unforgivable relentless deeds,
don't say goodbye,
don't watch me cry,
day by day a little bit of me is gone,
day by day I become undone,

Forgotten words,
Brocken promises,
Sweet lies,
long gone ties,
No longer is it you and I,
Just me,
On my own,
Left to cry.

In the present forever lost in the seemingly better past,
for love once sought now torn apart,
for love once sought has left me with a broken heart...
Siyabulela  May 2011
Calf-love
Siyabulela May 2011
Breathless in the winters ewe,valentines the adolescent passion, smiless like a drought world,tears creating up a dam,heart breakers proccess,pronounce and procceed daily a day to remember,swimming, slimming tear fall.calf love will never take you down,it reaches your beautiful inside,traps and translate  you'r kindnes into a devil evil's bin.smash your mind into darknes,calf love is a herd of brocken hearts,dissapointments,it inherite trust and close of honnesty but when u once own it,you will never re think,than to re use.sense the heat of frictional emotional force,calf love bunks,sticks and turn,lean above lime light and its ectacy,charge and interchange nor interacts the internal lies,calf love is a misery of ones soul
"AND did you really walk," said I,
"On such a wretched night?
I always fancied Ghosts could fly -
If not exactly in the sky,
Yet at a fairish height."

"It's very well," said he, "for Kings
To soar above the earth:
But Phantoms often find that wings -
Like many other pleasant things -
Cost more than they are worth.

"Spectres of course are rich, and so
Can buy them from the Elves:
But WE prefer to keep below -
They're stupid company, you know,
For any but themselves:

"For, though they claim to be exempt
From pride, they treat a Phantom
As something quite beneath contempt -
Just as no Turkey ever dreamt
Of noticing a Bantam."

"They seem too proud," said I, "to go
To houses such as mine.
Pray, how did they contrive to know
So quickly that 'the place was low,'
And that I 'kept bad wine'?"

"Inspector Kobold came to you - "
The little Ghost began.
Here I broke in - "Inspector who?
Inspecting Ghosts is something new!
Explain yourself, my man!"

"His name is Kobold," said my guest:
"One of the Spectre order:
You'll very often see him dressed
In a yellow gown, a crimson vest,
And a night-cap with a border.

"He tried the Brocken business first,
But caught a sort of chill ;
So came to England to be nursed,
And here it took the form of THIRST,
Which he complains of still.

"Port-wine, he says, when rich and sound,
Warms his old bones like nectar:
And as the inns, where it is found,
Are his especial hunting-ground,
We call him the INN-SPECTRE."

I bore it - bore it like a man -
This agonizing witticism!
And nothing could be sweeter than
My temper, till the Ghost began
Some most provoking criticism.

"Cooks need not be indulged in waste;
Yet still you'd better teach them
Dishes should have SOME SORT of taste.
Pray, why are all the cruets placed
Where nobody can reach them?

"That man of yours will never earn
His living as a waiter!
Is that queer THING supposed to burn?
(It's far too dismal a concern
To call a Moderator).

"The duck was tender, but the peas
Were very much too old:
And just remember, if you please,
The NEXT time you have toasted cheese,
Don't let them send it cold.

"You'd find the bread improved, I think,
By getting better flour:
And have you anything to drink
That looks a LITTLE less like ink,
And isn't QUITE so sour?"

Then, peering round with curious eyes,
He muttered "Goodness gracious!"
And so went on to criticise -
"Your room's an inconvenient size:
It's neither snug nor spacious.

"That narrow window, I expect,
Serves but to let the dusk in - "
"But please," said I, "to recollect
'Twas fashioned by an architect
Who pinned his faith on Ruskin!"

"I don't care who he was, Sir, or
On whom he pinned his faith!
Constructed by whatever law,
So poor a job I never saw,
As I'm a living Wraith!

"What a re-markable cigar!
How much are they a dozen?"
I growled "No matter what they are!
You're getting as familiar
As if you were my cousin!

"Now that's a thing I WILL NOT STAND,
And so I tell you flat."
"Aha," said he, "we're getting grand!"
(Taking a bottle in his hand)
"I'll soon arrange for THAT!"

And here he took a careful aim,
And gaily cried "Here goes!"
I tried to dodge it as it came,
But somehow caught it, all the same,
Exactly on my nose.

And I remember nothing more
That I can clearly fix,
Till I was sitting on the floor,
Repeating "Two and five are four,
But FIVE AND TWO are six."

What really passed I never learned,
Nor guessed: I only know
That, when at last my sense returned,
The lamp, neglected, dimly burned -
The fire was getting low -

Through driving mists I seemed to see
A Thing that smirked and smiled:
And found that he was giving me
A lesson in Biography,
As if I were a child.
Brocken shadows decide to linger
just a little longer.
The 12 am tears stain my face like bleach on a linen shirt
Dates with the dark are common
and the tsunamis of the past come to crash the world I' d so gracefully built
The brocken violin playing a sad song, the only one I know.
The ivy crawling up the old walls of the cage that keep me away from the outside world,the world I so miss to see.
The youthful one sings in the halls, her voice echoing and her delicate frame dancing before a single candle light. Yet when she turns, her face is seen crumbling, like the wall paper of the room.
No key will unlock the door that so blatantly is in front of me. I have tried to knock it down but my mortal blows are no match for the chains of this moster.
The stench of lonliness is overbearing. When will I smell the taste of freedom?
When will I walk the earthly ground?
When will I kiss the cheeks of life?
For the Gods only know, how trapped I am here.
I am inside a room
It is so wonderful
Seated on a complaining bed
"Kiki kaka kiki kaka"
The bed is complaining
On it is a three inch mattress
It is shrinked to one inch
Before me is a table
Full of complaining books
Others lack hard cover
Others pages were used as tissue
Others pages were used  as insulators
On top of one is a Brocken pig pen
It ran short of ink
And it is complaining
Working under unfavourable conditions
To my left is a stove
"Chululululu"
The rice it a sufuria are complaining
The gas is smelling
At the furthest corner is a radio
Complaining, shortage of power
........................................
Life cannot be such promising
Seated alone and talking with apparatus within
I am spending today
To renovate them all
That next time
They praise not complain !
Just imagine
This image
Did you saw?

— The End —