Hello Poetry is a poetry community that raises money by advertising to passing readers like yourself.

If you're into poetry and meeting other poets, join us to remove ads and share your poetry. It's totally free.
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 referee of a poetic world cup
This where I am creative even though I'm blind
Don't get me wrong I am not leaving from town
No more radio orTV saturated with very 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
This where I feign affection to know who is kind .

You have to know that I always act blind but I see
In my mind I can walk stack ***** 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 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
A vessel and place in which I gather loose 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 loose letters into spoken words
A front line of creativity where no one leaves behind
Come and see where all words becomes useful swords .
My mind produce 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 .

follow....comment

www.poemhunter.com/IvanBrookssr
#Vanguard-poetry23
#IvanBrookspoetry
twitter @ivanclappers
My mind is the final frontier..the bright side I call my darkroom where I process loose letters into spoken words..
B Oct 10
When people stress me out, I imagine a front porch....

Imagine you're 80 and senile. You can't barely pick yourself up and all you've got are your stories, your wrinkled skin and a lot of liver spots.

You are sitting on a front porch enjoying a cup of tea. The kind old people like. The kind your 20 year old self wouldn't even dare taste.

You are sitting with an old, old friend. A friend you can't barely remember how you met but surely, its someone who never left your side since.

Hours of laughter pass followed by countless trips down hazy memory lanes. At times, one would even dose off in the middle of a conversation, but you both didn't mind.

And just before the sun fully set, you thank your friend for stopping by. Then, you smile and tell yourself how lovely that day was.

When people stress me out, I imagine a front porch....

And if you can't see a person with you on your imaginary front porch, carry on with other things. Shrug the ***** off. Power through. Be the bigger person.

Know that your peace of mind is priceless. Choose it all the time and you'll live a happier life, for sure.
For the friends I'll grow old with.
Michael Sep 3
In a crowded room filled with high society, and
In the facade of decadence, plays the Back Street Symphony
Winos falling asleep covered in yesterdays news
A lone saxaphone player, playing the blues
Neon signs and desinger lines are giving him his cues
He says "I've paid my dues"
I've got front row tickets to mainstreet
Walkin' by, don't know who you'll meet
A freak show on every corner
A broken heart walks on as a mourner
In a darkened alley you can hear him pray
Searching for a Savior with some words and a brown bag
Can anyone spare some change for me?
There goes the prom queen, is it a dream?
**** is open twenty-four hours a day
I have front row tickets to main street
Watching the devils' choir earn their keep
There tearing down the walls in LA
There's a ****** on display, on main street
This poem in an excerpt from my book "One of the Guise" Written back in the 90's. I remember sitting on a window ledge watching this person sitting on a bench watching the activities going on on mainstreet. That was the inspiration. Copyright 1998
Terry Collett Jul 29
Almost non stop
the big guns blast,
said Robert,
the empty shells
cast aside
as the new shells
are loaded.

My ears ring
with the loud noise;
my clothes cling to me
with sweat and dust
and that smell that shells
leave behind.

No-man's land
holds the dead and dying,
I hear their calls
in the occasional silence
of the guns;
smell the bodies
of the dead
carried on the wind.

I think of home:
of my father's
recent demise,
my mother's grief
far far away;
the streets and homefires,
that bed
where once I lay.

I light a cigarette
and inhale
and try to forget.
Ww1, grandfather, big guns, 1917
Hot chocolate no longer tastes like chocolate

Tea gets me as drunk as wine

I get about as high on cannabis as I would rosemerry or thyme

The clocks in my house have stopped ticking

Though I never stop to check

There's a litter of stray kittens, outside my door, on the front step

Although time has stopped passing
And the gods have fallen asleep

I still find myself laughing
That I've wept to much to weep
Ive had a few people wonder.
Its limbo
mira Nov 8
winter
the wreath’s rustle interrupts my sleep. in my dreamy shiver there is lucidity. between my toes there is carpet; I can feel its green, sense its virginal cool as I shuffle across the hall. I have the urge to scream, to tear the milk-matted blanket muffling my fervid anticipation. I hear you, then: the creak of the door, the friction of skin and silk, the sapped wail of youth’s wasted power. starlight pierces the linen curtains and casts my shadow ten feet tall, two feet tall, not at all. I crawl into bed and feel your breathing but it is not you. you are the unbroken hum of the furnace.

spring
the sugared smell of candy fruit depresses my throat and ***** threatens. my eyes search the window for a stranger but only rain knocks; my clothes are still wet, dripping one, two, three on each step. they dry more quickly than the boards creak; more quickly than I can find the storm drain, my translucent skin sloughing off at your touch. you are the static of broken vhs, the rattle of the closet mirror door as it slams, the easing cries through a premature mouth. I scream again, only to feel you in my ears as cotton, in my limbs as rigor. you whisper my name and I turn like a dog.

summer
dandelion seeds litter the dew-fresh yard. sing louder, you say, and I run faster. the wet heat is psychoactive. I trip and fall and you are the grass; you are the mud, the leaves, the water, the worms. you are the earth who protects my knees, careful to keep pristine my blue-jean jumper, careful to capture every moment of fleeting touch. oak leaves sway above. as intently as I gaze at it, the sun gazes at me and my doe eyes well. maybe there is something in them. maybe there is something in them with your crystal reflection, an eskimo kiss to speak what I cannot.

fall
afternoon sun rules my body and becomes blistering, unbearable; I stir, pressing against the heat, pressing your fingers into my skin, seeking to relieve the thrill. steam curls from my eyelashes as they squint to see you through the illuminated dust. it accumulates. you are the sudden cognizance of the windburn on my cheeks, lingering october air sharp behind my eyes, forcing tears I cannot help but to explain incorrectly. you are their singed, sweet-hot puddles in my hair. you are the residue they leave long after your sublime touch made them invisible.
four different people
A little box
Without a key
You hold an air
Of mystery
To sit and glare
Right up there
Flashing red in front of me

I am the one who fills it
And I fill it with myself
No one would guess what's in you
Sitting up atop my shelf

I have thought of your discovery
The pros
And all the cons
But looking at my history
All candidates are wrong

So I suppose you'll stay a secret
I'll keep you to myself
Painted red,
Flashing dread
Little box on my shelf
Please forget you saw this
lX0st 19h
Can’t you hear me?
My tongue hurls your name
Into the wind
Moving east
Urging storm’s brewing
Rising with the chill
Of eery lake
Carrying my echoes
Through clouds of haze
Damp desperation
Voice, strained, releases
Surges of rain
And sleet. Pooling,
Pleading at your feet
Drown in my essence
Watch as it breathes
Watch as it weaves
Through the valleys and summits
Of your goosebumps
In intricate lattice
Ice lace tourniquet
Asphyxiating sadness
From sore hands. Solitude
From weary eyes. Silence
From blackened lungs
Darker than the thundering sky
Reverberating anthems
Of my unfulfilled soul
And my direful need
To be made whole
By you
Next page