"brainchild" poems
They put red tape over lifes speaker.
All that is real is now lost.
They try to supress you,
Replace all you are with lies.
They want to make you all one being.
They fear the rise of a greater power.
They fear freedom and individuality fore it is the birthplace for rebellion.
The brainchild of longevity.
They hollow out your mind,
Make you numb inside.
So raise your voice,
Burn the tape.
Life is calling,
Shout out in reply!
Jul 17, 2011
Jul 17, 2011 at 8:19 PM UTC
He envisions the Machine as a large locomotive
Of a deep, tainted, black metal chugging down and infinite track
The eternally glowing red hot coals pushing the pistons
A giant crimson cowcatcher is fixed at the front
Scraping up followers; forcing them into the vehicle
Manipulating Its passengers to smash their heads into the Machine
Welding their minds into Its mysterious black metal walls
Stained with the blood of many who have tried to resist
Ultimately wounded, maimed, outcaste from society
Forever marked, branded by the scars of their attempt
When the Machine has used you and-or your mind to Its purose
It shoves you into Its furnace—keeping the pistons turning
The Machine cannot be stopped—always picking up followers
Forcing you into It; becoming one with the Machine
As He looks into the engine room, there is no conductor
A runaway locomotive chugging down the track with no end
Its only goal: gathering as many passengers as possible
Society, Washington, the Media built the machine
Their brainchild, but have long since become a part of It
Their minds welded the deepest—becoming the foundation of Its walls
Long ago abandoning their carcasses to fuel their mighty creation
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 5:16 PM UTC
~
*Bergamot morning
the astronauts are sleeping
and she dreams like a mannequin
ceiling stars abound
like hummingbirds in celestial flight
about the nectar of
young bodies, young machines
we drew a map together
from burst to bloom
from fever to neckline
from scale to mirror
pretty scar, a thing of awe
when the curious girl
realized she was under glass
raining in time lapse
she traversed me ad rem
with might and main
I didn't have the heart
to wake us from
her brainchild's motif*
~
Jun 8, 2023
Jun 8, 2023 at 2:07 PM UTC
In the depth of our existence, the ‘real us’ dwells,
which often remains untouched, ofttimes unspelled.
Don’t empower the peeps to impose their thoughts,
Be the brainchild of your conviction and you’d be sought.
Books that ****** ideas and structure our notion,
Make us go astray from our real aspiration.
Don’t let the world dilute your soul;
You are a born sierra, not a trivial knoll!
-Elina Dawoodani
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 1:28 PM UTC
I dream of the day that you comeback and join me...
Then I wake up and know that can't be true.
Even miracles can't bring you back again,
And the weight of achieving our dream now rests on my.
So despite how bad things get and how the might sputter,
I keep pushing ever forward because that is what we knew.
This was our brainchild before it went astray,
So to stay true to your memory, this is the path I follow,
And whatever ups and downs it may bring,
This is what I have to do, I have to do for you.
I can't let this go like so many other things in my life,
Because if I let this go, then so do I let you.
I can't give you that sort of disrespect.
I have your memory and I will honor it.
You may not be here to push forward with me, but
I will dedicate my gift in the pursuit of our music,
And if that ends up as naught, I give my drive and perseverance,
My stubbornness and ability to overcome the world inside,
To push and power through to see our dream come true.
So though you may not be here and working towards our goal,
You are a major driving force behind the momentum,
Burnt into every fiber and deep in the ink,
Embedded in every stitch and every step in the act
As I walk the road to see this dream come through.
Mar 8, 2012
Mar 8, 2012 at 7:05 PM UTC
How long shall they
**** our prophets,
While we stand aside
In hopelessness and look?
Silah., oh sihah oh Silah?
Oh Allah, said the Muslim.
Why lord, asked the Christian,
Shallom said the Jew!
A few of whom knows
What's wrong with the truth.
Wisdom is better than silver
And gold but the jew chooses gold.
This is not antisemitism,
This is the brainchild of capitalism
and the Occidental colonization
Of our minds lands and cultures.
Bob said prophetic things and he
sang revolutionary songs that
resonates to this very day.
We see the zion train every day
but it delivers nothing to us.
It comes empty but leaves
With tons of our resources.
But we ain't got much to say.
We see the smogs from the
Burning coals from its exhaust,
We hear the tots of the soul train
as it comes our way. we see
nothing but gushes of blood as
It seeps into the soil the Dutchmen
Stood on to decapitate the sons
and daughters of Congo.
Courtesy of King Leopold of Belgium.
Bob was right, A thousand years
Of history will not be wiped away!
#IvanBrookspoetry © #Bassapoet
Aug 22, 2019
Aug 22, 2019 at 4:23 PM UTC
beautiful
beginnings
beget
buoyant
bubbles -
becoming
bold,
better
beliefs
bask
brightly
beneath
brilliant
brainstorms
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
25.01.2013
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 11:07 AM UTC
the absence of a proper muse
incessantly plagues her
with an illness that can’t be cured
diagnosis: terminally blasé
side effects may include
being consistently reality-addled
and subsequently bitter.
the eraser wears down well before the lead.
words aren’t meeting each other in bars
and taking each other home
for one-night stands and cigarettes.
words are passing each other in hallways
and avoiding eye contact.
as a desperate effort
she’ll make herself write poetry
even though inevitably
she will loathe the result—
a loveless excuse for thought
and a brainchild praying to be aborted.
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 11:49 AM UTC
These Monsters try to get me
not before i get myself, i lock myself in this empty room
hoping for this ***** carpet to **** me through this false foundation,
**** me up right between my sheets.
I open my eyes just before my alarm beeps,
a step ahead of the time- all the time
I can see you back there two steps behind,
laggin behind the seconds- just like the big hand on the clock.
Like im moving ahead of everyone else-head of the curve,
as the Doctors like to call it-as im trying to explain my increasing condition.
Son this is straight ludic-ration, It might be a part of your toonish-addiction.
Boilin' up this sketches and pencils, Bottlin' these un-inked rations.
I could use these another day i think to myself conspicuously,
wondering if anybody overheard my thoughts
writing down my exact words-
to someday use them against me in this trial,
with the judge,
jury im pleading against denial
Sittin' there with my crooked grin, my vanishing eyes, and my grittin teeth.
The judge has it out for me i can tell,
by the way he made me stand up and sit down,
i cant take much more of this questioning-
My mind wandering loosely now, maybe its what they wanted
tryin to get all my thoughts, those greedy ********
My ideas, my brainchild's- there all worthless they'll see.
Nothing but a conspiracy against me,
But what they really dont know-there's a bomb under my seat.
Apr 2, 2010
Apr 2, 2010 at 9:10 AM UTC
Once again while on the path of words you tread,
The 'Angel?' Saga
I hope you find it convenient to read.
I seek your opinion to develop myself
Please cooperate
Just as you have read the 7 poems, them you re-read.
Tell me which part you love the most,
It I shall write
On paper and in a handwriting so beautiful.
I'm addicted to my brainchild poem,
And I remember
What wind - what land - what sea.
14 years after that accident,
I finally succeed
To establish myself as a professional.
Poetry played a crucial part,
In redefining me
And my mental acumen.
So, I want to celebrate my success
By expressing my love for poetry
And the respect for my fellow poets.
Apr 25, 2024
Apr 25, 2024 at 6:48 AM UTC
Progeny of grey sloppy sponge
And hard, dense cranial matter
Sons of electrical pulses and impulses
Daughters of ideas and concepts, half formed
The words and phrases spat out onto pages
The pictures and doodles creeping out
From behind your eyes
The mess behind your all-and-nothing
Viewing optical orbs
Art and trash, poems and junk
These are your brainchildren
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 11:04 AM UTC
you're the kind of girl
they write sad indie songs about.
a grandly woven rug, full of color and zeal
held together with cheap scotch tape
and promises written in thick smoke by the most crafty of tongues.
dangerous girl-
though just as much to herself as to the rest of the world.
you're the kind of girl who thinks of herself
as a character in an offbeat film:
starkly humorous, deeply tortured,
a promising independent piece that doesn't quite have its identity yet.
maybe such a film is the brainchild
of a few washed up art students
some of which got together with cheap whiskey
and enough ambition to keep the world turning
for a little while longer
so they could breath life into you, starchild.
their lonely, brilliant minds fused into one
equally brilliant
equally lonely
teenage deadbeat
who's trying
but only just enough
to make herself feel something.
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 10:44 PM UTC
I was "hands are tied" denied
by a Bloatfly with two eyes,
four wings, six feet, and no *****
A gene splicing brainchild
high on the benzene manslaughter
fuming up from the shores below.
He was snooping through a kaleidoscope
Excavating my frontal lobe when he noticed
the furious drone of an active anthill catacomb.
Next thing you know Jealousy's backbiting nag
is setting it's sites on his uninviting neck,
going in for a quick pulse check.
Ready for war, no need for cures attitude
he grabbed a scalpel and evened the score.
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 7:44 AM UTC
I've dropped a weight
A larger anchor than fate
When I tell myself I can't escape
Bound by my brain’s mistakes
The future is a starless sky
Here in my tripwire mind
When you come to deliver me
Remind me to respect your loyalty
I might forget and wind up, silent
With no consciousness left to care
Left to care about your warm touch
Left to care when you pick me up
I’m scared, if you can’t be there
in the middle of the mayhem
the results of my tripwire mind
fading away at the worst of times
When you come to pick me up
Your touch will be the way to the
Heavens above, the Heavens above
When I think I’ve had enough
Never enough of your loyalty
in your love, your love
The loyalty in your love
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 9:41 PM UTC
I imagine myself, one of them, some of them.
I break down the shield that keeps me
in the shallow water.
That open vast expanse of you and I
that flows on forever
sliding in and out of boundaries,
of consciousness.
Life beats down upon me, as a hail storm
might beat upon the concrete
its cracks imbedded with the spark of life.
That brown and green of
Soil and its brainchild.
I am so alone and so together;
so very different than what life has become:
reliving and reliving
my experiences.
May 13, 2011
May 13, 2011 at 8:42 AM UTC
My words cannot be professional
actors in a play that I direct,
as child actors are not legally
permitted to work seven
days a week, and such
a production would need
at least that much
rehearsal time.
My words are not yet grown.
They appear at counterpoint
to my thoughts, single notes opposite
the hundred-piece orchestra of my emotions,
bashfully attempting to express the essence
of an eight-part harmony in a simple progression
of notes flowing, one to the next, each
tremulous, uncertain, both
hopeful and despairing.
They are the child trying to finger-paint the Mona Lisa
with the clumsy hands of a toddler -
they do not even have the skill to hold the paintbrush.
I nudge those children paralyzed by stage fright
out from behind the curtains,
up to the center of the stage
where under your gaze, your eyes
as you fill the seats, they
will attempt to act out
Shakespeare in the stumbling
cadence of second graders, to dance
the choreography meant
for a prima ballerina with their inept,
faltering steps, and I will love them for it.
I will love them for their endeavor
to convey to you, my audience
filling the seats of this theater, the design
I had created within my mind.
I will love them for their missteps, the dissonant
notes that were not in the sheet music, the colorful
fingerprints they leave all over the kitchen table.
They have not performed my intended purpose, yet
they have made me happy just the same.
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 1:57 PM UTC
e're since dawn of civilization
being borne aloft in aerospace did excite
hence, Icarus myth popularized notion
to take winged flight
against principle of Physics
soared limitless height
away from temporal light
witnessed awesome might
into infinite night
realization to soar right
heavenly vault in spectacular sight
brainchild of genius minds left legacy
obeisance acknowledged
this hundred plus-year anniversary
aero planes success got off the ground
pardon comment appearing trite
Century21 elapsed since machines
attempt to remain aloft, where man made invention
glittered silvery white
beauty, grace and poetry in motion
excise Luddite trace despite
countless fatal crashes tragedy of loved ones
in fiery plight,
where corporeal ethereal, and groundswell right
lee invisible essences dwell and hover some place
maybe occupying a netherworld
with fellow at last count (seven) nymphs up
and at least one bubbly sprite
returning to Earth delivering
whipped miracles coolie and
Help ping prevent futures fiery disasters
many skeptic (like me)
ascribe phenomena to angelic intervention despite
such mirage, postage sized visage
Impossible to dispute quite
cuz soundcloud shields spectral savior air tight,
whence as mortal dusky Eve
twill firmly reveals if adherence valid
sans, via after death thar iz an in vite.
Feb 25, 2018
Feb 25, 2018 at 6:42 PM UTC
A rattling machine gun aborts it's brainchild
Throughout my vacancy cerebral cortex mausoleum;
I'm just a jar of butterflies sitting on a log cabin stove
Burning
Churning a purging urchin out of turbulent ordeals;
Good thoughts hang along with trench coats
So it seems I'm jaded;
Catered to crushed normalcy
I despise my dormancy till my retinas are faded;
Seep into the cerulean belt
that watched over every soul dead;
Morph into a cloud
then graduate to a thunderhead;
Pouring my tears to a headache cacophony
Everyone is alerted;
So when I'm a surfacing tropical depression
I'm a ominous weapon
Here to annihilate the surfers;
Everyone is a brick in the wall
Covering the light of enlightenment;
I heard someone fell from that wall
And I'm that ******* that piloted it;
Drunken kamikaze;
With homage enough to honor honesty;
So I'm just here armor free;
Numbing the trauma center to give air to all
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 4:33 PM UTC
Question:
But without these words, the thought would not be complete.
Words are enough to achieve a certain feat.
Verses bring life to complex emotions from stone.
But some emotions are better expressed by words alone.
Answer:
Words may be a brainchild of the senses,
a cousin of shrouded feelings,
a distant lover of hopeful wishes.
But it would always remain in papyrus,
in coffee-stained napkins,
in the whisper of the breeze.
What are compound syllables without action,
without justified reason,
without the process for progress.
Jul 8, 2018
Jul 8, 2018 at 9:31 AM UTC
sometimes, when I seem to be staring at you
... I'm not.
if you see me **** and look a little embarrassed
it's because I'm back from wherever I've been
lately, I've been spending quite a bit of time there, instead of here.
"Which gives me furiously to think.."
is where I've been actually where I'm supposed to be
and this is where I'm not?
sometimes I strain to hear your footsteps,
echoing silently on the cracked walls of my broken heart,
causing tremors under the waters of a teary sea
a tsunami on the shores of a soul that doesn't belong to me
if love grows stronger through trials,
then the structures that hide in
caverns of my mind
are the work
or the brainchild of a sociopath with a broken smile
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 3:33 PM UTC
Why do we keep putting ourselves down
Believing in our own lies?
How creative are we to fool ourselves with our own words
Trusting them as realities.
Following my own set of rules to destruction,
Craving for validation and people to our own happiness,
When happiness is just a state of mind not a result.
The culprit, the brainchild, the source, "thoughts".
Barriers and walls are broken
Beliefs are bent,
The mind goes to the hole of confusion,
When we realize there were no walls to begin with.
All and all being created,
Imaginatively, concretely,
Each measure of the brick
So true and so false.
Tricks and games
Manipulation and lies
All has a reason
And all with an end.
But embedded in it,
Lies a piece of wisdom
A wise reaction to the actions
An answer to our very "thoughts".
This short span of creation called "life"
Why do we tend to lead it with worry?
To inadequacy and lack of trust,
While all we have to do was just to love ourselves.
Love ourselves so much till we love every single being.
Appreciate each incapabilities as our unique traits,
Each failures as our own personalities,
Every mistakes as our biggest prizes won.
As in these lies our biggest trust to ourselves,
To the construction of our own personalities,
To the acceptance we so crave for
And also, to love and be loved.
May 25, 2019
May 25, 2019 at 10:30 AM UTC
Mirror, Mirror in the Heavens!
A demeanour equable to viridity,
The nascence of a lamb.
The supposed handsel from the welkin!
Mirror, Mirror in the Heavens!
A swaying of a quixotic mind,
The dance from the societal crwth;
The derogation of the lamb via gibes.
Mirror, Mirror in the Heavens!
A continual lampoon –
The spawn of a chapfallen eagle.
The brainchild of a timorous creature.
Mirror, Mirror in the Heavens!
A diagnosis of a bird in incommunicado with flight;
A late palpation, albeit.
The societal routine…
Jun 30, 2020
Jun 30, 2020 at 1:39 PM UTC
a sexless
alien sat on a
cliff, kicking its
feet carelessly.
inhaling the songs
of birds--exhaling
their flight.
then munched on
a bag of diamonds.
which it materialized
to make brilliant
a brainchild.
forthcoming faster
than prophesy.
Jan 28, 2019
Jan 28, 2019 at 2:13 PM UTC
Unplanned brainchild,
I did not think you into being.
You created yourself-
a zygote, immaculately conceived
by an unholy being,
multiplying yourself--
mitosis of my nightmares.
Dec 15, 2019
Dec 15, 2019 at 7:30 PM UTC