I prefer to write
when the world sleeps - it's such a
lovely waste of time

2:38 AM
1/6/19

Poetry is the direct cause of death of boredom.
Spoken words exist to excite the human soul
and to crown artistry with the nectar of wisdom 
Poetry has more decibels than the Superbowl.

Poetry is the Ganga of the human soul.
It induces a beautiful feeling that stupefies
and leaves the mind dazed like a drunken fowl,
yet it delivers results that really satisfies.

Poetry flows from the fountain of Wakanda
and permeates the arid soil of Timbuktu.
Poetry is the vault to the treasures of Zamunda,
where Mammy Wata guards the Kane of Mobutu.

Poetry is the language used at the creation.
When earth was young and everything was dark,
The great arbiter called out light and put things in motion.
He used spoken words to tell Noah to build the ark.

Poetry is life and life is in coexistance with poetry.
Before ancient Africa and the pyramid of Egypt,
Poetry was cooked and stored in God's pantry.
Ready for use in the Garden of Eden's script.

  

  
#IvanBrookspoetry ©️
#Bassapoet✍️
5.24.2019

Yellow journal
Aged in fondness
Worn by the weight  of powerful words
Forgotten upon the shelf
Neglected despite your cheery shade
An artist leaves a piece of themselves within their art
A fateful discovery
Thats exactly what you are
Beaten up, broken,
torn weathered-
By years of dry land and drought of inspiration
Made alive by Christ
And awake in its pages
Your cover is worn
Your pictures dilapidate
But once you open up
Magic careens
Unveiled under your dusty pages is joy
Romance
Poetic trances
Art of divine nature
That is exactly what you are
Worn yet beautiful
Aged and reminiscent
Evoking fond warmth
You are the yellow journal
Beloved yellow journal

goddess
nurturer of all things 
mother of creation 
we are born from the mother 
she nourishes with her breast 
bestows love and creative mystery 
oh simple mortal man, 
a competitive brute 
he is nothing without a goddess 
the gods spoil us with the feminine
the beautiful women of this earth 
man is lost without them

Dreams swelter into far off lands
Crushed or frozen
Alive or broken
Dreams liquify upon these brazen hands
Almost missing grasp caught by their last strand

Expression of the mind
Written on the page,
Painted on the canvas,
Molded with the clay.
Thoughts into reality.
Images to life.
Projected by the brush.
Inscribed in actuality.
The artist is a maker
Creator and inventor.

Intrinsically introverted,
   inherently coping with the pressure to understand- distraught or in
       thought?
Multiple factors racing
  call them thoughts,
    become one, but which one?
One will grow symphonies to hurry sunshine under moonlight,
   the other grow vivid distortions of a reality visible only to dreams
Buy low, sell high
   observe potential and sign off on its rights
Sound choices bounded by the stigma placed on creativity,
   choose the other- create the destructive blossoming of blue flowers
        deviant and bold
Fallacies are the true illusions,
   keep on with the mind you feed

Let's carve
beautiful arbors
Then set them
ablaze
And watch them
burn to the ground

Let's build
intricate machines
Then break them
apart
And count all
their little pieces

Let's write
clever rhymes
Then erase them
away
And stare at
the blank page

Let's paint
mystic scenes
Then water them
awash
And then feel
the wet blur

They said my lines were weak
So I learned not to speak
     I decided not to speak

Now the lines are stuck in my mind
Driving me insane
Stay in your lane

I'm a girl who loves to dance
Yet too afraid to give it a chance
Utterly bored with myself
Wishing to purely connect

Aching for
the courage
the tools
the words
To get out of this rut

All my ideas swirl into gray lines
That fill my mind
And fuel the emptiness
That keeps me from feeling alive
Left only with a penchant for pleasing

I just laugh it off
Then cry dry tears at night
Where did I go?
Can you see me?
I'm lost in the monotony
Can you save me?
Can I save me?