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Ivan Brooks Sr Jan 2018
The world's gone mad but my mind is made up.
Time to let ya'll into the darkroom of my mind,
A place where I'm the referee of a poetic world cup.
This is where I am creative even though I'm blind
Don't get me wrong I am not leaving from town.
No more radio or TV saturated with all the sad news,
I have got enough breaking news of my very own...
Breaking to me each and every moment as it brews.
Come and meet the hard drive of my creative doom,
That contains my beautiful and liberated mind.
Welcome to my one bright side I call my darkroom,
It's a place that's so special, I reckon it's one of a kind.

You have to know that I always act blind but I see.
In my mind, I can walk stack naked and levitate.
My mind is where I remain totally black and free.
Come join me set my poetic dial and help me activate,
The code that will outshine any power on this earth.
My mind is where I live and where nobody has access,
Here I can run a poetic marathon without taking a breath,
Call it my playground and intellectual fortress.

My mind is deep, a place of absolute calm and refuge,
Somewhere I will always see as the final frontier.
It is dangerous and toxic like a nuclear centrifuge.
In there, I am all alert and vigilant like a soldier.
My mind is a darkroom where I give birth to new ideas.
It is a vessel and place in which I do magic with letters.
It is my holy land of thoughts, my own creative Judea,
Where each idea is sacred and light as bird feathers.

Welcome to the epicenter of my creative mind.
This is where I turn letters into spoken words
A front line of creativity where no one leaves behind.
Come and see where all words become useful swords.
My mind produces powerful words like some light beams...
Courageous and powerful words for extra motivation.
Spoken Words that will light up people's faded dreams.
Now you know that up in my mind are no limitation,
There exists an enormous capacity of time and space.
Welcome one, welcome all to the darkroom of my mind
Take a seat and be calm, be quiet this is my place
For this here is my personal creative post of command.



www.poemhunter.com/IvanBrookssr
#Vanguard-poetry23
#IvanBrookspoetry
twitter @ivanclappers
@Bassapoet
My mind is the final frontier..the bright side I call my darkroom where I process loose letters into spoken words.
Jude kyrie Jul 2016
England 1942

The war was endless she thought it would be over in six weeks when it was declared.
now three years later she found herself in this airfield crowded with young fighter pilots flying Spitfires and the bomber crews flying the stalwart Lancaster bombers.

She was twenty eight now getting to that  age of being called a spinster of the parish. The young airmen were interested in her but really only for one thing.
She worked in the photography department of the RAF and developed pictures taken by the recon airmen of France and Germany and Holland .
Recently an American had joined her in the darkroom.
He was a big man and  had a crooked smile and big hands he lay on the belly of the bomber plane taking pictures he laughed and said he never fired a gun in his life.
And that he had no beef with Germans he just fired his camera at them.
He liked to develop his own pictures and they worked alongside each other in the darkroom all though the war.
She got used to his crooked smile and big hands. He got used to her being there.
The war finally ended and he went back to the States. Where he opened a small photography store and built a darkroom with his own hands.
When it was finished he returned to England on a ***** steamer to save money. He knocked on the ladies door that had worked with him in the darkroom.
She answered and he asked her for her hand in marraige.
She accepted his proposal and they sailed back to new York.
When she explored the photography shop she found the darkroom.
On it was pinned a note in his nice neat handwriting.
It said I fell in love with you in the dark my love.
But I want you spend the rest of of your life following the light with me.
She was to be my grandma and he was my grandfather.

My father was born a year later
he had a crooked smile and big hands with a love of photography.
His specaility light and shadow.
I was born much later and did not share the family love of photography and was let off by God with only a crooked smile no big hands.
Instead I used to get into trouble at school for writing poems in the margins of my exercise books.
Grandma passed away a little while ago
i was given the task of clearing her personal items from the house.
In her memory box I found the note
in Grandfathers hand that he pinned on the door
of his darkroom so long ago.
It moved me to write this story.

So Go follow the light Grandma
Look for a big man
with a crooked smile and big hands
Hes waiting for you.
Jude kyrie Nov 2015
A long long time ago
Before digital took over the planet.
My grandfather was  an airman in WW2.
He never dropped a single bomb
or even fired a weapon in that war..
He was a bit of a pacifist
live and let live was his way.
Instead he aimed camera lenses
at the Germans snapping their country
on his belly lay on the planes belly.

At the airbase in the UK he printed his photographs.
enough to cover an airfield.
He met an English lady in the darkroom.
They printed their photographs together
mixing fixer and developer.
She got used to his crooked smile and big hands
He got used to her being there.
When the war ended he returned to the states
and opened a camera and photography shop.
He built a darkroom by hand
when it was finished he went back to England
on a cargo ship
and found the lady from in the darkroom.
he asked her to marry him
and she accepted.
when they returned to New York
he showed her the darkroom he built for them.
On the door was a note
held by a thumbtack
It said I fell in love with you
in the dark
but I want you to follow the light
with me for the rest of our lives.

A year later my dad was born
with a crooked smile and big hands
and also his love of photography.
He had the eye for
color and shadow and light.
After I was born I did not follow the
love of photography.
But would get into trouble at school
for writing poems in the margins
of my work books.
I found grandmas note that was
pinned on the darkroom door
she passed a way a few weeks ago.
And I was moved to tell this story.
Follow the light Grandma love.
look for a big man with a crooked smile
and big hands hes waiting for you.
Jude kyrie Aug 2015
The man with a crooked smile and big hands


A long long time ago
Before digital took over the planet.
My grandfather was  an airman in WW2.
He never dropped a single bomb
or even fired a weapon in that war..
He was a bit of a pacifist
live and let live was his way.
Instead he aimed camera lenses
at the Germans snapping their country
on his belly lay on the planes belly.

At the airbase in the UK he printed his photographs.
enough to cover an airfield.
He met an English lady in the darkroom.
They printed their photographs together
mixing fixer and developer.
She got used to his crooked smile and big hands
He got used to her being there.
When the war ended he returned to the states
and opened a camera and photography shop.
He built a darkroom by hand
when it was finished he went back to England
on a cargo ship
and found the lady from in the darkroom.
he asked her to marry him
and she accepted.
when they returned to New York
he showed her the darkroom he built for them.
On the door was a note
held by a thumbtack
It said I fell in love with you
in the dark
but I want you to follow the light
with me for the rest of our lives.

A year later my dad was born
with a crooked smile and big hands
and also his love of photography.
He had the eye for
color and shadow and light.
After I was born I did not follow the
love of photography.
But would get into trouble at school
for writing poems in the margins
of my work books.
I found grandmas note that was
pinned on the darkroom door.
She had it in the things
I had clear from her room.
she passed a way a few weeks ago.
And I was moved to tell this story.
Follow the light Grandma love.
look for a big man with crooked smile
and big hands hes waiting for you.
Jude kyrie Oct 2015
A long long time ago
Before digital took over the planet.
My grandfather was  an airman in WW2.
He never dropped a single bomb
or even fired a weapon in that war..
He was a bit of a pacifist
live and let live was his way.
Instead he aimed camera lenses
at the Germans snapping their country
on his belly lay on the planes belly.

At the airbase in the UK he printed his photographs.
enough to cover an airfield.
He met an English lady in the darkroom.
They printed their photographs together
mixing fixer and developer.
She got used to his crooked smile and big hands
He got used to her being there.
When the war ended he returned to the states
and opened a camera and photography shop.
He built a darkroom by hand
when it was finished he went back to England
on a cargo ship
and found the lady from in the darkroom.
he asked her to marry him
and she accepted.
when they returned to New York
he showed her the darkroom he built for them.
On the door was a note
held by a thumbtack
It said I fell in love with you
in the dark
but I want you to follow the light
with me for the rest of our lives.

A year later my dad was born
with a crooked smile and big hands
and also his love of photography.
He had the eye for
color and shadow and light.
After I was born I did not follow the
love of photography.
But would get into trouble at school
for writing poems in the margins
of my work books.
I found grandmas note that was
pinned on the darkroom door
she passed a way a few weeks ago.
And I was moved to tell this story.
Follow the light Grandma love.
look for a big man with a crooked smile
and big hands hes waiting for you.
Z Aug 2018
Too many thoughts, too many feelings, too many faces

Yea, what’s the feeling of success?
Achieved so many things, but all I feel is regret,
I feel alone inside my head what don’t you get?
Wake up every morning like it’s still my set,
Reminisce on where I come from so I don’t forget,
Been to rehab a dozen times, they called me a vet,
You thought you knew me, I haven’t opened the curtains yet

Alcohol destroyed all my relationships
Forgot most of my life - except for the video clips,
Poisoned my brain to forget the pain, on the daily I feel insane
I’m above the ground though I can’t complain, god relieve this pain
I feel like I drank the blood of Cain,

Every day is a surprise, my brain tells me I’m so wise,
But he’s a master in disguise, while I’m the one who cries,
He’s the one who lies,
To me in my own voice watching my demise,
When he’s in in control anything flies,
It scares me, I built a fortress to disguise,
This out of control mind, I want to cut the ties
A Broad perception, in a beautiful world, through these eyes,

Try to express my feelings, no one can understand
**** it no one can, this experience is mine god had it planned
Just hope I can grow up to be the man,
The one he created to do whatever he can,
Yea, whatever he wants, his drive his will he can make a stand,
A visionary, Socrates his thoughts are grand,

Who do I trust, who I am or who I want to be,
It’s confusing with a devil living inside of me,
Loving spouse, family man what I try to be,
This bipolar got a hold of me,
Blindfolding me I can’t see,
Please doctor doctor set my mind free,
I thought I knew everything with my degree,
The lessons I learned from the things I failed to see,

Mommy and daddy got divorced when I was a kid,
I think I was 8, I can’t remember, who am I to kid,
My first blackout in life, daddy’s about to lose his wife,
So much anger, “he’s” telling me to find the knife,
Take it to the artery just a little slice,
Life’s not as nice, as people make it seem,
No one hears me scream, from the pain,
Inside this brain, some days I feel insane,
110 on the freeway trying to stay in my lane,
Drunk driving no I’m not sane,
Getting high to alleviate the pain

One day I can be the man, goals, driven, and full of will,
The next be full of sadness, regret, life stands still,
I can remember anger that drove me to ****,
You don’t know how I feel,
People probably thought I made a deal,
With the devil to have all this skill,
I write all these thoughts, hoping there’s a heart to fill,

Hope someone can relate,
I hope my pain makes you elate,
My perceptions not up for debate,
Here is my life there’s no room to understate,
The reality of my life and the things on my plate,
Strive to be in a mentally stable state,
Sometimes life’s not so great,
My minds locked in a crate, and he is the key holder of my fate,

My life feels like an afterthought,
Stepdad thought love was something that could be bought,
Used to get in trouble every time I got caught,
Only if they knew the realism of what I did, or maybe they ought
Not to know, but for the sake of the flow, I’m going to let go,
Put on a show so they finally understand what they missed long ago,

Let’s start as a little boy, all the love you showed was a decoy,
For the truth that mommy and daddy were ready to destroy,
Split us up, brown moving boxes was it all momma’s ploy?
I still don’t know the truth, I don’t want to ask or annoy

They say they fell out of love, how can you fall out of love,
Unless you gave up? Don’t you realize who’s above,
Poor American white family, three kids and divorced, man the stereo type fits like a glove,
Never got physically, but always received a verbal shove,
Psychologically I wish I could dispose of,
This garbage that’s left behind, in this mind how am I supposed to give away free love,


One day at a time, one fight, I’m going to give it all my might,
Serenity prayer please give me the light,
To accept my life and guide me right,
Some days things are out of sight,
God comfort me so I feel alright,
I’m shrouded in darkness, call me the dark knight,
Noble I’m my cause, daily life’s a plight,

As a teenager I survived off my drive,
Then there was the day I didn’t want to be alive,
Locked those feelings deep in the archive,
Padlocked in the deep parts of the brain so they don’t thrive,
Questioning the purpose of life when I was five,
Asked about space and God, curiosity already took a dive,
Most people and me don’t really jive,
One instinct on my mind is to survive,
Mania kicking in putting me in overdrive,
Found out when I was twenty-five,
I’m mentally ill, my life took a nose dive,
Time to wake up and revive,
It’s time to deprive,
The addiction and the **** I do to connive,
God im going to work on my life until arrive,
To the kingdom, hopefully I live to see thirty-five,

Todays a new day, no telling what I might do,
Try to hold my family together, backbone and the glue,
Just accept my view, everything’s not about you,
Been self-reflecting, I’m having a break through,
This story is contagious, call it reality flu,
Knocked on deaths door, Alcohol blood volume .492,

What was I thinking? Pores stinking, breath wreaking,
Family and friends shrieking, at all my drinking,
Woke up surrounded by the medical team,
Asked me if I was suicidal, I said what do you mean?
I’m a genius, with a good job, had one since fourteen,
Worked hard my whole life, why am I here confused as hell - creating a scene,
Needle in my arm, threatening to restrain me,
God please set me free, right now you’re the only one that can help me,
Ready to fight the doctors and nurses, now they’re going to petition me,

When I opened up my eyes,
Seen my momma with tears in her eyes,
Most painful look I’ve ever seen on her face,
Now I feel like a huge disgrace, wish she knew gods grace,
My hearts racing at a fast pace, anxiety took over freaking out in this place,
The realest hug ive ever felt was from momma while I was in that room,
Time to clean up my life, time to clear my mind and get out of the back room,
Where my thoughts are locked, time to forgive and bury the in their own tomb,
Most think they know me, and its dangerous to assume,
Most my life you seen me in my costume, hiding behind the monster of doom,
Spent so many hours in my bedroom, drinking so much leaving behind an ethanol fume,
Days later it’s still hanging around, how the poison turns everything into a darkroom.

12 days locked in the psych ward, hopefully I can move my life forward,
Dr. says I had an episode of major depression, I forgot to tell them about my secret obsession,
These words are the closest thing I have to a confession,
When I die take my brain for a case study dissection,
Don’t let my evil said lead you to mis-direction,
When im aware I can make the correction,
What an elusive lie, chasing perfection,
Life is about love and a real connection,
God im tired, give me a symbol give me direction,

Therapy sessions for years, did nothing to help these tears,
Still react with impulsion and anger, watch out for the danger,
the biggest fear ive ever had was the fear of myself,
and the things I was capable of to destroy myself or secure the wealth.
So many secrets it’s a masquerade, im hidden behind my stealth,
The lies created to maintain this alter-ego destroying my mental health,

My biggest pains in life are when I had it all and left it all,
My depression after mania was the biggest fall,
I felt like I was the king of the world, king of the jungle; hear my call,
My ego inflated from my achievements, made me feel tall,
Daddys dream was his oldest boy would play college ball,
Just like the song boys of fall,

Daddys dream wasn’t mine to live,
But that wont stop me from giving all I can give,
Im sorry for the night I was drunk and we got combative,
I shut that night out its not something I want to relive,
Please daddy forgive, now you’re so corroborative.

Now momma I know we do not speak,
The real issue is we don’t want to feel weak,
Why are we so strong, the ones who cant take critique,
Maybe we are so unique, and live life with such technique,
The type of thoughts people think are antique,
Their arguments bleak, our common point is its our mind we speak,

Im ready for the conversation, a common destination,
Where we live in harmony, and actions don’t lead to causation,
I hope my dictation, and the acceptance of your creation,
Allows you to accept me and the ground I call my foundation,
Rebuild our family, together we can create a formation,
Our time and love the only donation, mix em together titration,
It’s a ruination of the family, its everything I wanted it to be,

Ive struggled with every relationship,
With anyone I let close I seem to lose myself and flip the script,
Those evil days I hide in my mind, security equipped and encrypt,
I feel like im writing a manuscript, a story of a man who slipped,
On the struggles of life, and opportunities that have been stripped,

Went to college on a full ride, paid for room and board seen the debt and just about cried,
350 a month to the government talk about a life hurdle that broke my stride,
Since graduation I noticed im the new dr. jekyl and mr hyde,
Success in my life was implied, mental health hit me on my broadside,
Missed my grad school opportunity, I should have applied,
Had love going for me, turned into a landslide,
All I want to do is have a good job and be able to provide,
Im not the only one suffering this epidemic is worldwide,
I just want to sit by the lake side, retire and reside,
Somewhere peaceful where a simple life is implied,
The only downside, is the demon inside me that takes me on the regular for a joyride.

Worked 80 hours a week, drinking a fifth a day,
Most people don’t even know what to say,
To me it was just another day,
Its about to get nasty watch out for the word play,
Life not black and white live in the grey,
Area, mass hysteria, my mind runs astray,
Enough liquor in my blood to make me sway,
One wrong move may be my doomsday,
I write about my life like a final exam essay,
Giving it my all no halfway,
Yea, im making headway, opening the doorway,
For all to enter; serve up my experience like a fine dining entrée,
Living check to check, cant wait for payday,
Maybe someday, ill be on the golden walkway,
To the kingdom of god then ill be okay,
Impulses so strong its hard not to obey,
The other side of me that’s so hard to portray,
When hes manic I get risqué,
Let me paint a picture, get your tickets to the screenplay.

They say its not what you go through, but what you became of it,
My lifes not a stereotype, those stipulations don’t fit,
I seem to get back up after every hit, I couldn’t write this skit,
Im trying to use my ****, my mind feels split, I cant take this ****,
I just want to quit, go to therapy to learn skills and what to omit,
From my life, its hard ill have to admit,
Elementary school I realized I was a misfit,
Dreams in the stars, illuminated and moonlit,
Building a legacy without a permit,
Try to live life so im not a hypocrite.

Shocked by the responses to voice and gods word,
You can say in high school I was a nerd,
Football MVP and valedictorian man that’s absurd,
Wanna know my secret, ask me the password,
Stand on my own, not a part of the heard,
Forgive me for all my problems and troubles that have occurred.

The darkest secret you don’t know,
Is that im not motivated by the dough,
It’s the times where Im feeling high and low,
Sometimes it feels like time is slow,
The biggest crush to my ego,
Was when I had a 20-gauge ready to pull the trigger and blow,
Racking the shells, playing with the ammo,
The rest of my life I was about to forego,
I wanted to let go, because I wanna know
I write to share my story of experience, strength and hope.
In Recovery mentally and Recovering from substance abuse
Jude kyrie Jan 2016
A long long time ago way
before digital took over the planet.
My grandfather was an airman in WW2.
He never dropped a single bomb
or even fired a weapon in that war..
He was a bit of a pacifist
live and let live was his way.
Instead he aimed camera lenses
at the Germans snapping their country
on his belly lay on the planes belly.

At the american airbase
in the UK he printed his photographs.
enough to cover an airfield.
He met an English lady in the darkroom.
They printed their photographs together
mixing fixer and developer.
working alongside each other
in the dark.
She got used to his crooked smile and big hands
He got used to her being there.

When the war ended he returned to the states
and opened a camera and photography shop.
He built a darkroom by hand
when it was finished he went back to England
on a cargo ship.
And found the lady from in the darkroom.
he asked her to marry him
and she accepted.

when they returned to New York
he showed her the darkroom he built for them.
On the door was a note in his handwriting
held by a thumbtack
It said I fell in love with you
in the dark.
But I want you to follow the light
with me for the rest of our lives.

A year later my dad was born
with a crooked smile and big hands.
And also his love of photography.
He had the eye for
color and shadow and light.
After I was born I did not follow the
love of photography.
But would get into trouble at school
for writing poems in the margins
of my work books.

I cleared out grandmas house the other day.
I found grandmas note that was
pinned on the darkroom door
she kept it in her souvenir box..
she had passed a way a few weeks ago.
And I was moved to tell this story.

So follow the light Grandma love.
look for a big man with a crooked smile
and big hands hes waiting for you.
I miss you Darlin
Jude
Jude kyrie Feb 2016
The man with a crooked smile and big hands

A long long time ago way
before digital took over the planet.
My grandfather was an airman in WW2.
He never dropped a single bomb
or even fired a weapon in that war..
He was a bit of a pacifist
live and let live was his way.
Instead he aimed camera lenses
at the Germans snapping their country
on his belly lay on the planes belly.

At the american airbase
in the UK he printed his photographs.
enough to cover an airfield.
He met an English lady in the darkroom.
They printed their photographs together
mixing fixer and developer.
working alongside each other
in the dark.
She got used to his crooked smile and big hands
He got used to her being there.

When the war ended he returned to the states
and opened a camera and photography shop.
He built a darkroom by hand
when it was finished he went back to England
on a cargo ship.
And found the lady from in the darkroom.
he asked her to marry him
and she accepted.

when they returned to New York
he showed her the darkroom he built for them.
On the door was a note in his handwriting
held by a thumbtack
It said I fell in love with you
in the dark.
But I want you to follow the light
with me for the rest of our lives.

A year later my dad was born
with a crooked smile and big hands.
And also his love of photography.
He had the eye for
color and shadow and light.
After I was born I did not follow the
love of photography.
But would get into trouble at school
for writing poems in the margins
of my work books.

I cleared out grandmas house the other day.
I found grandmas note that was
pinned on the darkroom door
she kept it in her souvenir box..
she had passed a way a few weeks ago.
And I was moved to tell this story.

So follow the light Grandma love.
look for a big man with a crooked smile
and big hands hes waiting for you.


I miss you Darling
love
Jude
GreenTea Jun 2012
I made myself a darkroom
and hid myself in it
Working with the chemicals
that harmed me
developing what I pictured
as beauty

coming out of of my darkroom
holding the image with my excited hands
set it down
then
I waited
and waited
till someone would pass by
see what I saw as beautiful
then
only to hear
"what the hell is that?'
Jude kyrie Jul 2018
The big man with a crooked smile and big hands
By
jude kyrie

A long long time ago
Way before digital took over the planet.
My grandfather was  an airman in WW2.

He never dropped a single bomb
or even fired a weapon in that war..or any war.
In fact he was a bit of a pacifist.
live and let live was his way.

The only trigger he ever pulled
Was on his beloved camera.
Instead  he aimed camera lenses
at the Germans snapping their country
From the air
Lay upon his belly and on the planes belly.

Back at the American airbase
Deep in the quaint  UK country village.
he printed his photographs.
enough to cover an airfield.
He always had a faint odor
of fixer and developer chemicals.

He met an English lady in the darkroom.
They printed their photographs together
mixing the fixer and developer.
She got used to his crooked smile and big hands
He got used to her being there.

When the war ended he returned to the states
and opened a camera and photography shop.
He built a big darkroom by his own hands.
when it was finished he went back to England
on a cargo ship to save money.

He found the lady from in the darkroom.
he asked her to marry him.
Kneeling on one knee at her cottage doorway.
Holding a small bunch of flowers
that looked even tinier in his huge hand.
and she accepted his proposal and married him.
At the old stone church in her village.

when they returned to New York
he showed her the darkroom he built for them.
On the door was a note
held by a thumbtack
It said I fell in love with you
in the dark.
but I want you to follow the light
with me for the rest of our lives.

A year later my dad was born
with a crooked smile and big hands
and also his love of photography.
He had the eye for
color and shadow and light.

After I was born I did not follow the
love of photography.
But would get into trouble at school
for writing poems in the margins
of my work books.

I received a late phone call the other day
Grandma  passed away peacefully in her sleep.
She left her small apartment to me.

As I sorted through her belongings
I found the  note that grandpa
pinned on the darkroom door
When she married him.
And I was moved to tell this story.

Follow the light once more Grandma love.
look for a big man with a crooked smile
and big hands he's waiting for you.
Beauty is seldom on the outside.
Jude
Patty Baier Jun 2014
My memory is just a darkroom, where every picture ever taken by eye sight:
Waits.
Develops.
They accumulate in Black and white,
Positive and negative.
My mind the developer, my thoughts the water, removing the excess silver halide.
What remains is a picture, a memory taken from this very life
They hang from thin lines fastened by close pins so delicate and so fine
To dry,
To develop
And remain to live in the safelight within my mind.
But you see that light has left,
Now every picture is
Too over exposed,
Too vague
And too undefined.
I’ve had too much drink, so much smoke.  
A stop bath of the wrong kind.
Too much green and blue light.
You see, my darkroom is too bright
Now the pictures that hung from the close pin lines of life
dilute,
shrivel
And fade.
Now,
What remains is a picture-less memory, and no clear recollection or reflection.
No darkroom for every photograph ever taken by eyesight,
No pictures of black and white.
There is just one final question…
Who am I?
Scarlet London Dec 2012
as the gray scale pictures appeared
i saw you bring yourself near
and the blackness so well hid your face
even with the red lights filling the space
you were in the back corner i was across the way
making masterpieces after every mundane day
with my hair in a braid clipped up on my head
and your hands in your pockets when you scared me to death
all those photos of yours, like the trigger of a gun
i held my arms wide and smiled with the sun

now you wont even hold my blank canvas eyes
and yours smile to me on the stairs every time
but you wont say a word nor make a sound
you won't even blink while my soul hits the ground
i guess all the chemicals made me insane
and my dream didn't help, you pressed to my face
in a blue plaid shirt, i see you across the room
i guess i was the only one to feel the fumes
but somehow i know that's not true

there were the days of just you and i
and the world around us-where are the lights?
i remember awaiting my pride to take form
and trying too hard and feeling so torn
and holding so tightly to the print you made
for no real reason besides the look you gave
showing off to you for no purpose at all
i know it meant nothing, just a cushioned fall

now you wont even hold my blank canvas eyes
you know yours strung me in a web of lies
you walk away when my skeleton comes around
do you see this smile? it's sinking to the ground
i guess all the negatives inverted my view
and this nightmare rewired the image of you
in a blue plaid shirt, you wore it yesterday
i guess i was the only one to see it that way
but somehow i wanted it to fade

how could you look in my eyes
and know about the scars i despise
how could you see into my heart
when i never saw you coming from the start
how could you sever that broken touch
without even asking me what i want

but today you looked into these blank canvas eyes
and yours, hidden by glass, were the first to shine
and you quoted a movie and laughed with me
and pulled me towards you, my smile you didn't see
i guess your arms are strong as the walls
the hidden room that was home to it all
in a blue plaid shirt, i see you across the room
but i still won't admit that i felt those fumes
even though you know the sad truth
David W Jones Oct 2013
The lights keep flickering;
darkness reaching out between
the flashes of daydreams.
Memories damaged by perceptions,
left alone in this empty room.
Em Glass Dec 2013
Absentminded speech.
You had taken the scissors from the basket
in the darkroom, they were just
still in your hands, the ones
not covered in rust.

It was absentminded, that part
is important. Just absentminded,
like the way you'd play
with her hair or pretend not
to care,
like the way you'd talk with
your hands even when the
darkness spoke louder. The way
you'd nudge me, a "don't move"
elbow, to let me know you'd
dropped your film and I shouldn't
step for fear of stepping on it
like the shadows did.

I absentmindedly twirled a pen,
and you absentmindedly looked
down again and again,
scissors open, scissors closed,
running your fingers over
the little ***** between the blades
as I ran my fingers
over a little ink drawing I'd made.

You absentmindedly followed
my eyes with your own, and then
threw absentminded to the smoke,
up and out the window and gone,
and the smooth blade up and down
your arm.
It wasn't sharp. It couldn't even
cut the film. That's how you'd
dropped it in the first place.

Still watching my eyes, my dawning worry.
Oh, you. Ignorance reduced me
to child and pity before your
knowing eyes, but what do.
You know me, I know you.

A deliberate story now (absentminded
can't be filtered out of the smoke anymore),
of a girl you used to know.
Something to do with little screws
in every pocket of every
long-sleeved shirt she owned.
They had to be from something cheaper,
you mused. Mindedly.
Scissors don't come in bulk.
Little screws. Not razors, not knives.
Little screws.
You thought out loud, but it wasn't
thought. It was speech. It was
words you already knew.
Where'd they all come from?
You asked questions to give me
the answers.

I reached out for those ****
bright green plastic scissors
that wouldn't cut a piece
of film in a darkroom, because
fear gives light great powers.
You smiled at the anxiety in my
eyes. You chose then to stumble
upon the answer. (It wasn't scissors.)
To relieve me, you meant.You
meant to share without telling,
to lighten my head and dissipate
the ignorance like your
absentminded smoke.
You knew a girl...

But when you put knowledge
in this mind it gets picked up
and circled around and around,
centripetal acceleration, exponentially
flying, so fast, so high, what do I
do with it there. I build it up.
It tears me down.

I scanned your wrists for months.
I watched you pull your wallet out
of your pocket, checking the floor for
little screws.

You knew, ******. You knew
your wrists would stay smooth
as a scissor blade, smooth as
darkness. You gave me the story
deliberately, but you gave me the
answer absentmindedly.

You didn't mean to.
You gave me the worry,
you gave me the thought.

You didn't tell me where to find
a ******* screwdriver.
TJ Struska Mar 2020
Denver blows my ring
In the dull doldrums.
In the darkroom
I kick a dead horse
Like a dark dream.
I see you dark one
Disappearing in the negative,
Hollow orbs for eyes.
You swim in the solution,
Your stop bath smells as vinegar, And everything smells of roses this side up.
Its a long nihilistic trip.
Down the dark wire
I draw my darkroom
As a black feather
In a dark dream.
I guess I'm a horror buff.
Our darker visions make for good poetry-well at least I hope.
blankpoems Oct 2013
Before you get lost in the unfinished maps of her veins
the ones like yours, but not stitched up too many times to count on the ticks of a clock,
make sure that she trusts you enough to tell the truth.
Make sure that she loves you enough to know how you lie.
Remember that every single time you open your mouth, she's wishing
you're saying I love you.
Remember that on Fridays she doesn't want to cook.
And she sure doesn't want you to cook anything that was slaughtered.
Remember that she prefers cheap whiskey over champagne.
And when you're opening your ribcage to show her how fast your heart beats
when she grabs your wrists, make sure the butterflies are set free.
Make sure they find the window.
Make sure they find a home.
Remember that every living creature is just that, living.
Remember that they have a heartbeat.
And when you stop breathing when you see her with her hair down,
when you're thinking about starting a religion about girls with flowers for eyes,
tell her she's beautiful.
Tell her she's so full of the future.
Get her a telescope so you can show her the moon when it's bigger than both your thumbs.
Take her skiing while it's Summer in Australia even though you curse the snow as if it
were born out of wedlock.
Let her know she's not the first but she's definitely the only, and you're so scared of dying.
You never know what you have until it's locked firmly in your grasp as if to not let it run away.
You might lose a lot of blood but you'll never lose your way home.
I don't want to hear the dial tone.
I want to hear your voice, I want to hear you scream.  Tell me to leave.
Tell me that I am the only road that leads you to a purpose.
That in a world of blindness I am so technicolour.
Even though I can't promise you that, I can give you my words, thrusted from my lungs
like wildfire.
Searching for the way out.
Talk to me about religion, please please convince me that there is something out there other than
rotting in the ground for all of eternity.
Bible scripture doesn't whisper of your lips like my pillows do.
I never really thought about pillow talk until they started speaking me to sleep.
I find myself found by the curvature of your spine, of the shadows that take up residence on your shoulders like they have lived there all along.
I want to kiss away every bit of pain that has ever stopped you from smiling at strangers
and let you know that I'm coming home and I will always find your hands.
Let your ribs shake when your heart has had enough.
Let them shake.
Let the rain come through your window while you're sitting there in your makeshift darkroom.
You are the only thing I know about consistency.
And before I get lost in the unfinished maps of your veins,
I will be making sure they lead to me.
Barton D Smock Jul 2012
in your
sleep that
makes you
blush.
Kastoori Barua May 2016
The scarf that you took off with a graceful flourish,
From your warm throat, and covered my head
On one beautiful, wintry afternoon long ago;
That memory intensifies and weighs me down,
Like photographs that develop in the darkroom
But are never shown the broad daylight.

My head now stays uncovered with snow;
I wear your scarf on my shoulders.
Betokening my will to carry
The burden of the emptiness,
You left behind with your departure.
Mrs Timetable Apr 2020
Grainy images
From the
Darkroom of
Your psyche
Develop quickly
Fade slowly
Reflecting
Illuminations
Simon Clark Aug 2012
I can dance,
I can act,
I can sing,
I am a clown.

Watch me dance and fall down,
Laugh at me,
Laugh with me,
I don't care for I am a clown.

Want to hear a joke?
Knock, knock and what do you get...?
An open door, a busy tent,
The ringmaster cracks his whip and on I run with the animals,
In time to the beat I tap my feet,
I am a clown.

I can cry,
I can feel,
I can laugh,
I am a clown.

Watch me sweep the spotlight,
Applaud when I'm done,
Applaud but not in awe,
I am a clown.

Am I the only person who doesn't get the gag?
Am I the only puppet person?
Pull my strings and I'll do what you want me to,
I am a clown,
But I don't feel the laughter that you do,
It's hard to laugh - so on with the make-up - a front.

Oh, to climb the ladder and do the trapeze,
Or walk the high wire,
But no!  I am a clown,
Respect?
"Sorry you're a clown."

I gave up,
I gave in,
Gave my all,
But I am a clown.

Don't bother to watch the tears,
Disregard the sad clown,
Disregard the talent of farce,
"You're a clown, you don't feel."

The darkroom is where I belong,
On a photo to bring joy, to make people laugh,
I make you laugh - I can command you,
But I know that when you go home,
Your lips won't mention me except to condescend,
It's an art! I trained at RADA you know.

So home I go,
Alone,
To a place where I can cry,
Into the arms of my wife,
See my children run to me,
The ones who know me,
That's what it's all been for,
Now I truly am a smiling clown,
It's not so bad as a clown at home.
Written in 2005
Liam Dec 2013
fragments of life
scattered on the photoshop floor
discarded moments
deleted before fully developed

urgency depicted as living for today
overexposing the instantaneous
cropping a disjointed existence
from the bitmap of impatience

why the aversion to time's darkroom
where future's blur slowly comes into focus
giving clarity to the contiguous
splicing realization from potential

cut to ending...

a panoramic view of destiny's horizon
where paths converge but never vanish
Dani Lenorà May 2017

when I start to write the words just launch then blast off, when my mouth close my thoughts countdown, my anxiety slows down and my soul breaksdown.
Jeff Chen Jul 2013
I know this landscape is nonexistent
The wind flows out of the sky
Making pitter-patter of rain
In the drumming woods

My kid plays a violin
Snow melts on the distant hill
The rose weeps on the arid land

In the darkroom, the stars faded,
Wars on the screen never cease
My kid plays a violin
Brakes the silvery string

Look!blood has oozed from the wall.
Carlo C Gomez Apr 2023
~
if you're feeling sinister tonight, come inside the darkroom. picture yourself pouring over mental images of a demure young botanist, loitering around the trapdoor of nostalgia, kissing someone new for the first time.

now imagine she is conscious and clustered in titillating blur, her smile beachy and airborne, with only the slightest suggestion that something troublesome is lurking underneath.

can you see her double exposure? totally tranquil, she poses with an arsenal of poisonous plants, as if she’s already slipped their venom into your tea.

~
Antony Glaser Jul 2022
In the darkroom
I scramble for my header,
a kingdom for scissors.
Sprocket enmesh  header
and gyrate with deft turns
to  the end of the spiral
cutting with a final twirl.
Let the darkness be illuminated,
by passing it to the teacher's hand;
that lost coordinated sensation
now can't find my tank.
Searching Aug 2010
While passing quiet morning moments,
A breakfast feels abandoned on the bed,
And bright window light illuminates drafts,
Like dreams strewn 'cross a darkroom, and shadows
Of negatives, overexposed in cold tones,
Fluttering like flashes of thought  in my head.
I sit hardly trapped as much as captivated
By a life lead in dread of realizing potential
Like a great actor afflicted by stage fright,
If the proud eagle were afraid to take flight,
And though power comes with such telling insight,
I sit hardly trapped as much as captivated,
Sighing in  surrender, paralyzed by my Light.
Copyright © 2010 Searching. All Rights Reserved.
Seranaea Jones Jul 2021
-


as a kid
i felt along
the walls of a
perceived dark
confinement for
escape

imagining that creatures
were taking swipes at me
with their claws and tentacles

knowing —full well— that
discovery of a light switch
would end this game of
nightmares


YEARS—


my illusion of exploration
has been reduced to ashes
from decades of rapid
illumination

just as well, i cannot afford
to trip my way through
the darkness anymore

still

some nights i will turn the
lights off and imagine myself
searching cautiously along
pitch black wooden panels

thinking next time i might
miss the switch &
instead

discover artifacts from
a lost childhood...



s jones
2021


.
over the last decade
my torch has gotten
swapped out for a
candle

and it is increasingly
windy everywhere—

scary...
Joseph S C Pope Mar 2013
Nostalgic hypochondriac,
psychopathic goddess--we pray to your weekends.

                     Sunday night industries hold lunch breaks,
starting with a red bear,
                        a crude blue-eyed, red bear
            by the hands of a child.
                             Soft steps. Physical form.
                   Its eyes suddenly gleam
                   as it moves,
                                 red colors run
                                                           forming waving arms that swim into river canals.
   Dripping rain forming acid that eats away at the sides of the darkroom. Winding staircase
trees rooted and spiraled like broken porcupine barbs existing off the wall. Each leaf made
of copper, tips of yellow
                    floating just as drops from the beginning,
                                            expanding to the form
                                                            ­               of hot air balloons.
                        
                       Some of them supernova'd
            --momentarily spreading themselves thin
                                                     --layers of butter coating this world.
                each puddle of lard echoes with the voice
                                and memory of silver-eyed Alice
                and her children.

                                                      ­                 Irises of cut granite,
                                                        ­                        wine-stained pupils,
                                                         ­  she breaths like Jesus on the cross

                                   --inhales of his bear pelt.
Terry Collett Aug 2013
Aubrey took in the dame
in the red dress, her hams
moving under the tight cloth,
her ringed fingers showing

as she moved her hands, the
pointed dugs like small noses
pressed against the redness.
He took in her hair, noticed

the colour, the waves, the  
highlights. He sipped coffee.
Cappuccino, white froth on
his upper lip, wiped off with

the back of his hand. She
stood window shopping;
stood moving her legs, her
hams in **** motion still.

He leaned back. He eased
against the chair. She had
stooped forward. Her eyes
price gauging, hands behind

her back, holding a hand
bag, rings showing. He
settled on her neckline.
A necklace, silver, a cross

without a Christ. She turned
and gazed up the shopping
mall. She sighed. He watched.
Sipped coffee. The waitress

who brought it walked with
a wiggle. Tiny backside, tight,
she thin as if some Modigliani
dame. She walked by holding

an empty tray. Wiggled, head
level. The dame in the red dress
turned and faced him. Their
eyes met; green on brown;

hers on his. She looked away
taking nothing of him. He
drank in her eyes and mouth;
lingered in his darkroom mind.

He sipped again. She folded
her arms, handbag hanging,
eyeing her small gold watch.
Aubrey took in her legs,

the hairlessness, the silk
smooth suntanned legs.
Younger he may have
drooled; now he just

gazed and gazed. She
looked up the long mall.
He sat up and downed
his coffee. Her Romeo,

if such, arrived. They
embraced; he swung
her around. Excitement,
bright eyes, smiles.

They walked off. Aubrey
watched her go, not
unhappy or ill, he'd had
his sight and had his fill.
A L Davies Jun 2011
you are [in total]
six syllables.
in order:
long ā
short ă
long ē
short ĭ
short ē
short ă
of course that is not all
you are.
you are
rainy runner
darkroom pining from schooldays bygone.
paint-splattered psych major.
without disdain of stiff gin & tonics.
not one to shy away
from my david byrne dancing.
****/sleek/sweaty saunamate.
someone to:
call me sweetie like a
grandmother would.
drink a beer in bed with--
glad as the darkness pushes us warmly together.
this is a poem that is, apparently, as much about a really neat girl as it is about phonics.
it also looks like a candlestick.
Barton D Smock Aug 2012
collected
by absence
his body
a truant hobby
pursued
by career

my father
built himself
a darkroom
where he’d often
retire
to adjust
the variances
of a single
delay

to pace
as perfectly
as the many

visitors
he was wont
to follow
with a great
and private
affection
Casey Hamilton Apr 2015
What is love? Is it a catchy song or an
Overused word or maybe just a dream deferred,
A withered word,
A lonely blackbird just pecking at the eyes of the undeserving.

Love’s hatred of me is unnerving.

I suppose self esteem wasn’t my strongest suit,
A beer gut in college, acne to boot,
And with this realization, heartbreak followed sooth,
And my self-image came out all blurry.
Someone left the darkroom in a hurry.
Compliments don’t make sense,
And that’s just my two cents,
But who really wants to hear that?

I’m filled with useless information because my
Only best friend was a screen.
The internet is hot on the scene.
Tumblr kids felt my pain,
But it wasn’t the same.
If cats weren’t so funny, I’d be dead.

Is it really true? I don’t want to admit it.
The truth sets you free, but I don’t think it did it.
The truth that I face kept me down in this place,
Down into a room full of cider.
Desperation climbs higher and higher.
You’re a butterfly, and I’m a spider.
Say you love me?
Nobody likes liars.

I suppose I’m just sore ‘cause I got lucky for a week
And then, like always, my body was swept
Under the rug.

I take life as it comes,
I roll with the punches,
But the punches are getting to be too strong to bear
And I’m sick of depression’s tight grip on my hair.

You don't get to choose if you get hurt in this world,
But you do have some say in who hurts you.
JWolfeB Dec 2014
I found myself in the hollow
Painting pictures of you
With no color and all the memory
A film with audio cut
Silently grab my hands
Trusting knives for fingertips
Show me how how to feel again
Painting this backdrop
Of the darkroom we hide in
Brian O'blivion Nov 2013
guiding
blank page muses
and muses riding *******
horses with iron honey legs
they combust in liquid
and finger themselves
in darkroom thighs
fluorescent ***
in the eaves of heaven
i wanna drip off your fingers
and
onto your belly
and
rollerskate into
your ****
and
tattoo your
lips shut
with sewn butterflies to the skyfields
the
skygrass
and
skykisses
and
name myself after your
blank spaces
and the forest fire days
of august new years

no one talks about you anymore
but i still
wonder the
way the salt
wonders about the tears
and the dark about
the midnight
if that really was
you
a valley out of the winding
sheets
and into the golden haired
hands of a long ago love
well practiced with incision
She rises out of bed at midnight
She's got long black hair with some touches of white

She has long fingernails
With some black nail polish made from snails

She starts to dress putting on a long black dress
******* boots with a black scarf to top it off she's expecting a guest

She lives in the forest
Where no one has ever been unless their summoned or needing a spell word has it she's very experienced

She goes into her den
Grabbing a bucket and a net like she has done time and time again

Grabbing her torch setting the end on fire Ready to go explore and get what was required

She opens her crookedly door
Into the darkness she goes with her black cat in tow

She's hunting for her supplies
She's got her list two frogs,crow's feet, one rat heart, a lizard tail and one monkey  ******* which was a surprise

She gathers her findings
Stuffs them in her bag filled with linings

Heading home she uses her broom
She has an appointment tonight so she heads to the darkroom

She gets home and begins her brew
I slowly and unsure I knock on her door this seems so taboo

Come on in little beauty
Do you have it she snarls  I'm just so wary

I do I replied a lock of my hair
Including a small jar of my bright red blood with one tear

She took the items from me
Come sit down so we can get started so you can be free

I watched in silence
As she mixed everything in a ******* *** I was in reliance

She grabs my hand and puts the other on my forehead
You have a lot in there I can't promise we'll get them all it's so dredging

She started chanting as she stirred the potion
Let these demons out, let these demons out I feel like there's gonna be an execution

I was frightened
But they had to go to the island

Now drink this, I did as told
Now repeat after me she was in control

Release these demons from me
Take them away to burn in hell take all the debris and leave me the master key

Never to come back release my soul
For you have lived with me by entering through the keyhole

I started screaming,shaking,my eyes rolled up into my head
I was starting to seize up my body felt like fire I could feel the undead

I felt the demons inside me fighting for their survival
They started to rival

Release these demons at once she yelled
All of a sudden I could feel the demons obeying her commands the demons started to dispel

Finally it was over I don't remember it at all
But the witch said we didn't get them all due to the big brawl

You have very strong demons still inside you
This is all I can do you may have to give the devil his due

The witch just made this god awful  eeeheheehe
I knew at that point I was ******* do you disagree

I ran as fast as I could to get out of the forest
Glad she got rid of some of the demons but the rest still daunting me forever and are the strongest
Written by: Denise Huddleston
Gene Jun 2013
Somewhere within the silence of sound...
Somewhere within the distance of eternity...
Somewhere beyond the borders of the next universe...
lies a darksome note.

A darksome note laced with supernatural black ice.
A note hidden in a darkroom.
A sacred cryptex gaurded by ancient entities...
the same ancient entities that witnessed the inception of illumination.

We are all doomed.

*Gene
© June 2013 E. Little
Em Glass Sep 2018
The skin on my fingertips is cracking.
I washed all the dishes by hand.
I dried them and stacked them
and put them away.
I walk on the wall between honest and kind.
I wait for the film to unwind,
or become exposed.
The darkroom is where I first
taught my heart to close.
To add the sulfate and turn on the bulb
so the picture wouldn't change,
the way turning on the light
doesn't knock over the first domino.
How your arms rise from your sides
when you skip, a bird taking flight.
How you lie on your stomach
to photograph a seagull.
How do you love two people?
When I close one part,
the cracks form somewhere else.
I walk on the wall between honest and kind.
It is seven feet tall.
I throw an arm out to either side for balance
but it reminds me of you,
so I fall to the right.
precarious
Loreena Lynn May 2014
I.
You told me you still had
Those roles of film,
Undeveloped.
The ones that you took of me
In the summer.

II.
I wonder
If you will ever see me again
As I used to be.

III.
I wish you had a darkroom
For my soul;
For all you've ever seen
Have been scratched
Negatives.

IV.
I miss looking at your features
Through viewfinders.

V.**
You were the whole world
Inside a tiny glass frame.

— The End —