A poem's process
take a large heaping
helping
of
pain
balance
and
measure
like counting precious treasure
then in the
mix
add some
madness tricked
maybe a pinch
of
love
sometimes
add faith from above
a drop of blood
a tear or two
bake in your mind
and
simmer in your heart
it's
a poem's start

I somehow enjoy the pain
Of countless needle ******
Like I love to watch the rain
As it falls on my window and sticks
The outcome worth the process
So much more than I can express

A black ball point pen.
A crumpled pad.
Words rolled from
A hand of birth
Like a pair of die,
Aware of why,
And what and such and such.

I have adrenaline cheeks,
They rush and blush.
Dukkha's bulging bullet eyes
Are at times too much to duck duck
Goose mother comes to
To try my luck for a dollar buck.

In disappointment hear me holler "****!"
Followed by "god ******!"
If Chuck is stuck,
Why won't he cram it?
I must be Chuck,
Because I don't understand it.

Originally written 1/14/11
Revised 10/20/14

(c) 2014 Brandon Antonio Smith

I will never understand artists.

They move, beholden to the dictates of an unseen master, in ways that I can't fathom.

They produce works which I could not create, do so for a cost that I wouldn't pay, and roll with highs that I can't imagine.

All in all, I know they are different. That's easy to say now, but much harder to say when you are with an artist.

Artists are attractive. Free, confident, focused, and talented: what's not to love? If an artist takes you as their muse, you become part of the process, which at first seems amazing.

You get to be part of the creation of something bigger than yourself! Then, you realize that you are the emotional equivalent of a paintbrush for the artist; a disposable tool. That makes the whole thing seem less amazing.

Artists are devoted to their art, that's what makes them special. It's also what makes you less than special to them. You can be around when it helps the process, but make no mistake, when it doesn't help the process, you are out.

Commitment to an artist is nothing in comparison to craft. They have to produce; it's their life. So, really, I can't blame them (ok, I really mean that I can't blame her) for not behaving normally.

They never said they were normal. Why did I expect otherwise?

the fabric of reality
rests on the idea that
everything is nothing
and nothing is
what I've been
yearning for

interstellar or interstitial
irregular and irradiant

never too late
always significant
sometimes terrifying

just say yes

Process and Purge
a radical transformation
is upon us
open your Heart and
your Mind will follow

one day this body
will be a corpse
and that doesn't
frighten me
in the slightest

ordinary anxieties
lose their authority
and I am Alive
at last

This is to the girl
Whose voice shook me
When I heard you sing Somewhere Beyond the Sea
As if you literally took my breath away
As if I was drowning
This is to the girl
Whose laugh was contagious
And It lifted my spirit
I was desperate to find a good joke
Because I craved the sounds of your chuckles

The way you spoke
When you advised me to do the right thing
It was the combination of your words
Mixed with your confidence
And how you believed in me that convinced me

This is to the girl
Whose voice I've heard
But face I've never looked at
As if you were a stranger
But I've known you longer than I realized

When you whispered, "Goodbye,"
My heart shattered
And the damage was irreparable
I had no choice
But to clean up the pieces and throw them away

First, I claim my land and choose my artillery for
Paper and for pen.
Before going into battle, my men are prepped with
The message and plot.
On my claimed land I lay bricks and marble of
Rhythm and theme.
Now, my land is ready to hold life in
Imagery and in style.
Finally, I build a fortress there in the reader’s own mind.

©Copyright 2014 Written and Edited by Racquel Davis