life isn't a poem;
you don't choose to
stop
or start or
pick up where you left.
we do not hold the remote
or the pen
or the rope.
we hold on and we travel
with the wind.

I shed tears of ink
For the voiceless.
I am the only link
To the hopeless.

For the poor I scribble
In love and solidarity,
to highlight the struggle
and do an anthem of poverty.

For the poor and marginalized,
I speak power to the validity,
I bring awareness for those victimized
to quench the thirst of brutality.

I can flow like a mighty fountain
In the face of mistreatments.
I crawl valleys and climb a mountain
In times of impediments.

I can leak useful information
In the cause of injustice.
I can write a memo for a demonstration
On behalf of disgruntled masses.

I am the defibrillator of broken hearts
and the hope of the downtrodden.
I can write love poems and draw arts
Just to motivate and embolden.

I have signed many peace treaties,
and declarations of independence.
I have been used to get properties
And I have been used for vengeance.

I am the weapon of choice for intellectuals
and the shield of protection against violence.
I am the stamp of instant rebuttals
and the glitch of terrestrial intelligence.


#IvanBrookspoetry ©  #Bassapoet
8-22-2019

I want to write my own story
But sadly I only hold a poet's pen
Not the pen of destiny

A pen,
a notebook
and idleness

- the three requisites for the manufacture of poetry.

Everything
That comes out my pen
My brain
And my wrists
Unsatisfying
Just simply
Not enough
It hard
To feel proud
When its nothing
But trash

The Clock strikes three days until Madness.
An itch of a Tick and every Toc.

The Question of old simmers in the Mind.
A Deviant is only half the Answer.

The Cursed Weapon is drawn at the Ready.
Words offer no Reason or Resolve.

The Golden Feather succumbs to the Crimson.
Yielding all Truth to die as Fiction.

I try to defy my mental block,
I scrape my head,
becoming harsher on myself
as I force emotions to be penned
into words.
But all what comes is
incoherent, inadequate,
dots and strokes.

The words are fleeting,
they've lost their meaning.
Out of synch,
out of thought,
out of ink.

Writer's block,
is where I sink.