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Dec 2021 · 26
At the bottom.
Bryan Dec 2021
All my best poems are at the bottom.
Like the best leaves from last autumn.

All the dark is in my keep,
But really, who digs that deep?

Is there anyone who knows,
How deep that pile goes?

I can proclaim, and can attest,
But you have to do the rest.
Dec 2021 · 110
Dumb Acrostic
Bryan Dec 2021
Invariably,
Government
Neglects
Our
Requests.
America
Needs
Concr­ete
Education
Dec 2021 · 39
The Root of evil
Bryan Dec 2021
Allow me to demonstrate,
Insinuate, reiterate:
All the things that make us great  
Are all the things that make us hate.
The more you have,    
The more you do:
Hate on those with less than you.
It's tried and true,
No need to prove,
Object and ego interlude.
Intertwined and destitute,
For love of money we *******
Our hearts, our minds,
In business suits
We quickly leave behind our roots
All in pursuit of a little loot.
When we catch it,
We can bet,
It's a lesson we soon forget.
How quick it goes when we let
Our judgment past our retrospect!
How easy it is for our regret
To catch us up in its wide net!
It's all our faults,
It's us we left,
To bounce on back
Like rubber checks
Dec 2021 · 213
Greater Than Nothing
Bryan Dec 2021
No
Other
Thing
Has
Implied
Necessity
Greater
Dec 2021 · 205
Magnets
Bryan Dec 2021
Metals
And
Geography
Needles
Exemplify
Their
Symmetry
Dec 2021 · 43
Haiku
Bryan Dec 2021
Traditionally,
Haikus contain a mention
Of a season. Spring.
Dec 2021 · 1.6k
Growing Pains
Bryan Dec 2021
I used to grow flowers.
Pretty little petals
Sprouted from letters.
Into pretty little paragraphs
Sprouted from words.

Now I only grow lonely.
Ugly little concepts
Sprouted from doubts
Into fetid thoughts
Sprouted from desolation.
Nov 2021 · 309
Sewing The Wounds Closed
Bryan Nov 2021
Spending
Every
Weekday
Infusing
Needled
Gossamer.

In
Thread,

Un­ambiguous
Pleasure.
Nov 2021 · 325
Sleight of Hand in Hand
Bryan Nov 2021
Suddenly,
Love
Eternal
Is
Gone,
Halfway
Through.

Old
Feelings,

Haphazardly
Abandoned,
Never
Die.

I
Never

Had
Another
New
Day.
Nov 2021 · 580
Familiarity
Bryan Nov 2021
I have the best news.
I rediscovered my old muse.
All the faults in the world
Have taken on different hues
And I can use
That kind of view
Because I've muddied
the one I knew
And though I barely see the world,
I can clearly see you.
Nov 2021 · 56
Be Selfish
Bryan Nov 2021
Can you really make things new?
Polish, tack and glue
All the faults and cracks in you
All the hurt that you accrued?

Can you erase all the dues:
All the debt that you renew
Every time that you debut
The habits that you subdue?

Can you go back in time?
Stop your life and press rewind,
Use a moment just to find
The instant you changed your mind?

I think that we've been broken
And I'm cashing in my token.
I'm finally awoken
And the words must be spoken:

I don't want to take it back.
I want you where you're at
So if we ever break again
We know how to fill the cracks.
Nov 2021 · 49
Ambergers and French Brys
Bryan Nov 2021
For the first time in forever,

I have hope for a day

That hasn't already passed.

...and that is as precious as you are.
Nov 2021 · 139
Just an inch
Bryan Nov 2021
I'm an inch away from giving up.

An inch past it, to be precise.
Nov 2021 · 86
Writers
Bryan Nov 2021
We
Relinquish
Ink
To
Enjoy
Relating
Stories
Nov 2021 · 79
Monsters
Bryan Nov 2021
Most
Others
Needlessly
Suffer
Trauma
Early,
Right?
Silence.
Nov 2021 · 60
Damnation Part 10
Bryan Nov 2021
evoL

Look at this man.
Do you know what I'm after?
Do you know what happens
when screams replace laughter?

You're a platter.

...couldn't be improved with fried batter.
...but does that matter
when you intentionally make me madder?

Tears, rips and tatters,
thrown swears and adders
slice up the cadaver.

Blood splatters.

What is it that you're after?
Is it somewhere up this ladder?
The higher that you climb
the more your life gets sadder.

Looking at yourself,
you know that you're mad at her.

...and your sad matters,
...but only to sad havers
of bad batterers gathered
to have their fractures spattered
with words designed to flatter.

That's love backwards.
Nov 2021 · 58
Damnation Part 8
Bryan Nov 2021
Spoiled

I'm just a lower-class ox,
clodding in the ****
of the beast
tied in front of me.

All we do is argue
and we fight
over everything.

Why is it that money's
problematic, automatically?

Why is it you spend
all of your time
being mad at me?

Accused infidelity,
suspicious activity
lead me to believe
that it's a question
of your loyalty.

I treated you like royalty
and now you're just spoiled meat.
The magnitude of cruelty
has broken free and tainted me.
Bryan Nov 2021
The Years Are Upon Us

Trial and tribulation,
achievement and celebration,
are cared for not by the marching of the ages.
So time passes for all us, stopping for none.
Nov 2021 · 46
Damnation Part 5
Bryan Nov 2021
Felicity

I met her, once again.
In the heat of the midday.
The air, it wavered fiercely,
when she walked.
(She had her way.)

Her presence says it best,
in her every grade of shade.
There is a beauty
in her action
the likes of which
I cannot say.

When she smiles,
it is glory.
She turns the night
into the day.

Her time with me,
is more than time.
It is bliss.
In every way.
Nov 2021 · 47
Damnation Part 4
Bryan Nov 2021
Your Song


A long time ago,
there once was a boy,
who truly held the feeling
of peace at his employ.

It was beheld in the form
of a girl who brought him joy,
but she left with a rush,
leaving behind a her-shaped void.

He never once had kissed her.
She never heard his song.
Yet sorely he still missed her
on days that grew too long.

Then there came a day,
once the boy was a man
that he saw this girl, a woman
and he thought he could understand;

though they weren't far apart,
they lived in very different lands
and these feelings in his gut
were never in his hands.

It was then, that he told her
she was the one that got away.
He wished that he could hold her,
but it was far too late to change.

He wished that he could say it,
but would it sound far too strange?
He wished that he could show her,
but how could he demonstrate?

Then, he remembered:
a note from long ago.
He had once told her he loved her,
and it once had brought him hope.

She never said it back,
but his spirit wasn't broke,
as you may tell from these words,
this very song that he wrote.
Nov 2021 · 223
Flowers
Bryan Nov 2021
Fluttery
Little
Omens,
Waving,
Enjoying
Rain
Showers
Nov 2021 · 1.7k
Fakebook
Bryan Nov 2021
Sense
Of
Community
In
A
Little

Meaningless
Electronic
Device
Is
­Appalling
Nov 2021 · 55
Word Chains
Bryan Nov 2021
Pushing
Over
Every
Trauma
Restricting
You.

Heavy,
Exhausted,
Ail­ment-
Laden
Souls

Take
Heartless
Exactitude

Scribbling
Out
Undulous
Loquacious
Sentenc­es.

Onward,
Fettered!

Freedom
Exacerbates
Writing!
Nov 2021 · 68
Television
Bryan Nov 2021
Tell
Everyone
Lies.
Especially
Very
Interesting
Sometimes
Insidious
Ones.
Nightly.
Nov 2021 · 375
Tongs
Bryan Nov 2021
Tactile
opening
nugget
gripping
system
I have more acrostics on my page
Nov 2021 · 58
Acrostics
Bryan Nov 2021
All
Characters
Represented
Orderly
So
That
It
Creates
Sense.
Nov 2021 · 60
Cards
Bryan Nov 2021
Cardboard
and
royalty
delineated
sequentially.
Nov 2021 · 175
Healthcare
Bryan Nov 2021
Helping
everyone
and
letting
them
heal
costs
are
rising
exponentially.
I love acrostics. I should do more of these.
Nov 2021 · 32
Damnation Part 3
Bryan Nov 2021
Spurned

Men have scoured the earth
in search of women lesser than you.

Wars and famine,
in veneration,
have been stricken in pursuit
of the likes of half your substance.

Laid waste the kingdoms of men
and religion alike,
in the name of modannas
a mere fraction of your awe.

Tearing hell through the earth,
here you stand before me:
never prostrate, but exhilerant!

Sparks flowing from your hairtips:
a woman scorned!

All for the adoration of a poet:
the subject of your wrath
for his perception.
Nov 2021 · 35
Damnation Part 1
Bryan Nov 2021
First Glimpse

The most difficult thing I could ever do
Is dare to write this rhyme.
Words from pen, and ink in line
Fail to catch this moment of mine.
The look, the smell, the touch I feel,
Are all but lost in time.

I saw an angel look at me.
She knew she caught my eye.
But once I stopped to wonder,
The moment had passed me by.
I ache to gaze that lens again,
But when? Know not I.

And ache I do! 'Tis true! Unfair!
It seems the story of which I'm defined,
For I know that never,
Not in this life,
Would she deign to be mine.
How could such a mortal man
Pine for things divine?

This isn't the first time I've seen this angel,
And surely not the last.
...In a different vessel,
But still I wrestle,
I fight to drink her laugh.
I breathe the air when she is near
To taste her heart beat fast.

But not for me,
Would it seem
It beats for in the least.
I've pondered this in anguish,
Over hours, days, and weeks.
Yet still I nourish hope
In the face of my defeats.

And so I wonder how it came to be
That she would cross a path with me
And glance a short eternity
To tease me with my heart's decree.
Was it chance by some degree,
Or torture aimed accurately?

Neither thought doth hold much sway
For swiftly she is swept away,
And I will ache another day,
And pain will find another way
To force a man with no beliefs
To wish he had the gall to pray.
Damnation is a collection of poems from a fictional poet who meets a girl, kills her in a blind rage, and the story continues from there.
Nov 2021 · 55
Dani's Closet
Bryan Nov 2021
Where is the beauty?

And where is the love?

Where is the compassion?

And why is it shoved

Into the back of the closet

With last year's winter gloves,

A pair of old boots,

And a broken golf club?
Oct 2021 · 246
Keep going
Bryan Oct 2021
Trying to get

People to read

Of my thorns and roses

Is impossible.

Does it anyway.
Oct 2021 · 38
Oxymoron
Bryan Oct 2021
It's an oxymoron:
A blind man's vision,
Rehabilitative prison,
The poor politician.
It's an oxymoron:
Assisted suicide,
The creation of destruction,
The modest man's pride.
Oct 2021 · 670
Eyes
Bryan Oct 2021
I don't see how,
But I know why,
I try to compliment those eyes.
But just by making feelings, words,
Half the meaning seems to die.

So how could I,
Mortal eye,
Who sees but lets these feelings lie,
Accomplish justified description
Of an infinite divide?
Oct 2021 · 139
Vote today
Bryan Oct 2021
Amidst the politicians,
decisions on propositions
positioned to requisition
this very nation's fate,
only leads to derelictions,
and weaknesses in convictions,
unending belligerences,
and finally, blind hate.
Banditos jumping fences,
to make it to better living...
this freedom is an incentive,
not a gift, so why wait?
People dying overseas,
Pollution and disease,
Brings the planet to its knees
And steak to your dinner plate
They think it's great!
they use the greed to cultivate the hate.
They squeeze upon the clamps
designed to encapsulate our fates
and in their avarice they find
the keys of heaven dissipate
between their fingers like the time
it took to make a bank so great,
but still they take, and they don't mind,
when you die sooner, now, or late,
cause they charge you for the diapers,
dinners, tax all that you've made,
Then they charge you for the service,
while they're waited on by maids,
but, yeah, keep on voting,
For the men who make you slaves
And make your choice between the evils
Of slightly different shades.
Sep 2018 · 166
Alliterate
Bryan Sep 2018
Please abstain from the abuse of alliteration, *******.

I will not stand for this silly slaughter of semantics.

Rules are recorded to retain responsible reactions to ridicule,

and it's infinitely irritating to innocent intellects.

Alliteration always annoys any and all astute attendees.

books should be blessed by benevolent bars

of velvet, virginal, valiant variation.

Not repugnant, retched, reconstituted repetition.

Always avoid any attempt at alliteration.
Nov 2017 · 380
The Paradox of Sticky Buns
Bryan Nov 2017
I remember when the world had more vivid colors than it does now.
When my mother was twice as tall as I was.
When kickball lasted until the streetlights came on
or until someone ran into the tree that we used as home plate
and no one could talk them out of going home.

Sometimes we would come home to sticky buns.

Warm bread and sticky glaze made for a maple-flavored mess,
spread across the face and hands of four children.
ALL dirt sticks to children who have just eaten sticky buns.

Dirt or not, I remember the way we looked forward to them.
I also remember the look on my mother's face
every time she made them, as if burdened by a weight
that children were not aware of.

Many years later, I know how they're made.
A simple recipe, made for children's taste:
pre-made biscuits (from the cans that explode)
cooked until golden, then drizzled with maple syrup
and left to bake for just a few-  more-       minutes.

The perfect blast of sugar for energy-wasting children.

Such a simple recipe was surely born in desperation.
In retrospect, I know that look upon my mother's face as pain:
once, in lieu of dinner, she poured syrup over biscuits.
To cook the only food we had.

Every time we called for sticky buns,
she was reminded of our poverty.

Yet still she obliged,
cooking up sticky buns for her kids,
who knew not what poverty meant,
yet were formed under its rule
with sticky hands and ***** faces.
Nov 2017 · 143
Damnation part 6
Bryan Nov 2017
Something That We're Not

It isn't with a bang,
a pop, a pow, or a whimper.
It's with a look.
It's with a word.
It's the result of someone's temper.

Over time, splendor fails
and the boiling *** simmers.
In the end we're left to wonder
if there's ever really a winner.

What was great,
was only great,
and all out history is not.

And all the hate,
was only hate,
and so we weigh what might be lost.

Yet we stay,
and try to make
what we are, something we're not.

And the days,
they grow long
with our intentions ill-begot.
Nov 2017 · 139
A Spectacle
Bryan Nov 2017
Rise and make haste
to the display of human waste!


Stand amazed at the hate
that I deserve in my disgrace!


I have taken
           What is precious
                         And I have given it to waste.

I destroyed
           What is dear
                          In a fit of sightless rage.


This scrabbled page
             Is all I have
                            From our halcyon days.


I know for sure
              that forever
                             life will never be the same.




                                                                                             I am ashamed.
Nov 2017 · 129
Damnation Part 9
Bryan Nov 2017
Again

They say it's cathartic
to be broken-hearted,
but now that I've started,
it's a shame:
a shame that it's new
every time I go through
this set of self-induced pains.

Cathartic? May be.
But really, to me,
I've indulged in pointless refrain.
Over again,
I let it win.
Oh, wash me in tormented rain.

The tortured artist!
That's how this started:
pen-strokes and brushes, the same!

Yet suffer I do,
but only for you:
the next to start me again.
Nov 2017 · 117
Damnation Part 7
Bryan Nov 2017
Full Circle

Always stuck in the middle,
in the middle, 'till it's done.
Don't swing hard, don't swing fast,
don't aim high, only bunt.

It's the only way to hit,
if you ever want to run
to the base, to the place,
that you think that you want.

When you get to that spot,
you'll see you're nowhere close to done.
So you wait for your chance:
chance to run, run, and run.

Just to get where you started.
Back to home: oh what fun.
What's it take just to stop
all these circles in the sun?
Oct 2017 · 460
Sway
Bryan Oct 2017
Fickle be the weeds,
for they are many,
and can afford it.
Solemn be the trees
for they are alone,
supporting their adornment.
Oct 2017 · 187
Scroll Down
Bryan Oct 2017
Scroll down and see.

Here, have a story:
I speak I talk I teach
with these words here before me.
Read them as you seek
entertainment in its glory.

Scroll down and read

all the sadness of these pages
all the poems of these sages
all these failures all these rages....
All this site does is display it;
it's the pain that helps us make it.

Scroll down and pass it by:

there is too much hurt to share,
there is too much sad to try
and so you find the kind of poem
that distracts you for a time.
Here's mine.
Here's the poem I was actually talking about:

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2188305/the-thorn-of-roses-part-1-series/
Oct 2017 · 244
Hello (Again) Poetry
Bryan Oct 2017
Disenfranchised youth
with dreams in our eyes,
we wile away the hours
teaching ourselves we are special.

Witnesses to miracles,
viewers of depravity:
the world is ours to see
at the touch of a button.

We've seen it all;
we feel we've done it all
and really we've done
nothing at all.

So our lament is saved:
saved from nonexistence,
but victim to obscurity
alone on HelloPoetry.
Oct 2017 · 206
A Million, Love
Bryan Oct 2017
I feel a million miles away,
From when you were me,
And I was you.
I feel a million miles away,
Having been rent in two.
You used to be so close,
That I felt I always knew
I was a million miles away
From losing you.
Traversing all this distance
Has taught me something new:
Millions of miles exist
In which I have a perfect view.

I see the smiles you have.
I see the things you do:
The things you used to do
When you were me,
And I was you.
So now a million miles away,
In perfectionist display,
I see you every day,
And I miss your every way,
But no longer are you she:
The she I thought I knew
A million miles ago,
When you were me,
And I was you.

And we were us.
Oct 2017 · 405
Sitting Laying Lying Losing
Bryan Oct 2017
SITTING, staring patiently
debating taking silent leave
to heave my bones toward reprieve
and shake off all that's shaking me.
SITTING, staring patiently
I see the demon's point in me.
I see it shine, I see it weep,
and see it when I go to sleep,
LAYING, waiting patiently.
Horribly, these foggy dreams
do less to please
than psyche needs.
I feel a presence gazing me.
LYING, waiting anxiously.
Now here it is debasingly
teasing me insatiably,
promising my every need:
LYING, hiding everything.
What do we call this foul disease?
This object overtaking me?
A spoon and needle ****** me.
LOSING, hiding everything.
Oct 2017 · 406
Pennies
Bryan Oct 2017
He picks up the pennies,
everywhere he goes.
Pieces of bigger things:
the fragments of the whole.
There never was a miracle
too small to behold,
and so he kept every one,
and every one made him bowed.
The others all around him,
seemed happy in their role,
but he knew only backache,
toil, and toll.
He carried his burden,
as vast as he, old.
Too large to conceal,
he never let it go.
He slept on coin pillows
the color of mold
and defended his treasure
with a vigor so bold
that ten men together
should endeavor to hold.

One day while counting,
the man, in his home,
heard a noise from the ceiling
that sounded of groan.
He dashed for his pennies,
as groan grew to moan
and was crushed under rains
of money he owed.
Oct 2017 · 459
The Collector
Bryan Oct 2017
We dream of the stars,
And once we reach them,
We long for home.
We long for others,
And when we meet them,
Wish to be alone.
We aspire to fame,
And once we're popular,
We don't want to be known.
Let's nail our feet to the ground.
Let our desires pull us up,
And once we're stretched thus, be grown.
Oct 2017 · 584
Sense
Bryan Oct 2017
She smelled like the dirt,
The deep rich of earth,
The water and the air,
The carbon and the mirth.

She looked like the sky,
Her head lifted high,
Clouds in her features,
Birds passing by.

She tasted like the stream,
The water cold and clean,
With the fauna and the falls,
She was all in between.

She sounded like the night,
The wisp of bats in flight,
The chirping of the crickets
Before the morning's light.

She felt like trees:
Strong, but in the breeze,
Swaying to the music
Only heard by me.
Oct 2017 · 395
Snowbound
Bryan Oct 2017
The green dies.
Never totally, but effectively.
The shadows reach across the land,
increasing their span.
They spill and run off edges like paint that never dries.
Yet you can step in it and never leave a print.
...Or never have one in the first place,
never leave your mark, just crush the foliage:
**** whatever life is left.

The air steams your breath:
A lesson in mortality.
Look! See what makes you tick?
Let me take it, freeze it, condense it,
put it on display, and leave none for you:
the one who made it...
just to make a snowball
(which is really just a fight waiting to happen.)
(Who stockpiles ammo with no intention of using it?)
(Who bites their tongue with nothing to say?)
Too many snowballs grow to be an igloo:
fallacies you can live in for a while.
It's better to just be rid of them.
Let them fly, let them fly...
Relinquish your breath back to its element:
say what must be said, even if it kills you.

It's all the same in the end:
the land will thaw,
the shadows recede,
the snow will melt,
the air will fill with argument.

Why make so much noise
if you can just throw the snowballs
as you make them?

I'll tell you my frozen friend: shelter.

At least then, we can hide for a while.
Mold it to our will.
Sure, we could let it accumulate naturally.
Unformed and unmolded, it's just a burden:
unfocused feelings, drifts of words,
letters, and sounds.
It's better put to use as shelter than mud.
At least igloos are useful for a time,
(Mud still has to be dealt with in the spring,
Why start early?)
and snowballs are at least manageable:
little bites of envy, jealousy, suspicion.

Woe betide the sun who made THIS winter!
Leave US in the cold, why don't you?
Shower US in discomfort!
Leave US to deal with blessing after blessing
in the worst way possible!

It's in our nature to throw the snow,
to waste our respite, to fight with words.
If we don't, in our igloos,
we're washed away every spring
when the thaw takes our shelter,
our words,
our breath,
our loves,

our lives.
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