"remaking" poems
Trip over the high density of our constant lies
We're all out to break and hurt the non-elite
Words and phrases they never meant a thing but to lure you in
This facade of love that we send soldiers like cattle
Down an assembly line to build and protect
A fake America, burning towers tumbling down
Bellowing the sweet sorrows of victims
Whose screams we replay the audio over and over
To divert you from seeing the real culprit
We are sick minded human beings with the thirst for enemies
We'll kiss everyone we meet on the cheek
And continue to fake what we tell you we'll be
We prefer a stabbing to the back
Never a full frontal attack
And we have puppets
We'll always find someone to replace the current like the forty four before
The people's memories will fade and burn like corpses caused by the Enola Gay
We''ll drop a bomb to wipe out everything mankind has worked for
Because in the end we do not need peasants
We have everything and everyone else has absolutely nothing
And 99% will lay to waste and ruin in the ruins we leave to burn
We'll pity so we can mislead to false hope
Send small portions of rations to schedule feeding underlings
Flouride in the drinking water to better control
Corruption in the oval office classified, uncovered, never shared
Always kept underwraps, never revealed just a hoax.
Lips to ears do the whispers carry.
A promise for a better tomorrow but a date will never be set for peace
So we keep telling you that it only gets better
And we'll think apologies fix everything
Truth is we meant nothing in the first place
Because we'll keep remaking mistakes that we apologize for
Misery is our job
Eating and breathing and surviving on the pain of lower humans
Like clothed animals rampaging through a corrupt society
So we'll let the people let their guard down for a quick second and us, vultures
Will devour them quick in that moment
To find you are empty inside,
We've starved you of what you've needed
Because all along, and everything we've ever done
we never realized once you've all revolted
this 1% would surely fall to pieces.
Oct 4, 2011
Oct 4, 2011 at 12:59 AM UTC
*One must admit the soul searches
high and wide for others to see
as sorrow weeps, small happiness creeps
remorse is afloat, in our silk coat
emptiness appears, silence leers
fading shadow, is falling far below
Begging forgiveness, with lots of emptiness, it seems............
Cemented dreams, gone to extremes
Song of despair, not knowing who cares
Tears grabbing, hands jabbing
Wisps of cries, light up the sky....
Soul searches but disappearing
cries please help,
Holding lifeless, so breathless
Sobs of redemption, seize upon preemption
Full fledged devastation, marks no exemption
Temptress aching, no remaking......
Soul Searching Indeed!*
Debbie Brooks 2014
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 10:22 AM UTC
I eyed you from across the room,
Tim was yak-yakking about some drop D heavy metal band
he was drumming in,
But I was tired of socializing,
I had only come to drink,
yet I was overtaken by you.
I'd seen you prettier, livelier.
You looked so blue
decked all in red,
in your worn out fuck-me-shoes.
I think my mouth was still agape,
when your gaze turned my way.
We both were locked.
Getting headsick from the smoke,
waiting for the flame to catch up.
You'd never seen me so unkept.
I hadn't shaved in a couple months,
my hair was to my shoulders, and
my body was drowing in wrinkled,
secondhand, early 2000s high fashion.
I walked over. Leaving Tim talking about
fusing dubstep with his metal ****
You were working at a bank,
making three bucks more than minimum.
You changed your major.
Your relations got too public,
so you're shooting for journalism.
Haha me too, or something like that,
is what I said.
Your smile became parasitic to my clumsy words.
You said we should hang out for old time's sake.
"I won't take no for an answer."
"I'm too sober for this."
I walked off, grabbed the flask from Tim,
spent the night strolling under streetlights,
and hoping to have a revelation.
But all I had was a dwindling buzz,
and a divine gravity pulling me
away from remaking the same
mistakes.
Dec 8, 2010
Dec 8, 2010 at 12:33 PM UTC
Metamorphosis from the start of the day,
January’s promises,
had so much to say.
The beginning of the cycle,
to the end of the new.
The remnant of the spring morning dew
moves summer breeze
into leaves of a green hue,
and the Heartache of July.
The sun rose and set with You,
until it rained
and the skies once again turned a somber shade of familiar blue.
Metamorphosis of the self,
turning like a snake.
Shedding the skin of heartache and
remaking myself, again.
Metamorphosis I bloom and break,
I wither and wake
through the hardships of the year,
taking a new found shape
of me-
The moon wanes and waxes,
while the heart mends and sax’s
continue to play sweet melodies from the month of May,
and we are reminded of the day
that breaks and dawns.
The body yawns
from the weight of the year.
Yet still, the metamorphosis blooms and births
a new beacon of light,
preparing herself for the thirty-first night
and the turn of the calendar, again.
Dec 18, 2022
Dec 18, 2022 at 9:49 PM UTC
In my defense ,
I'm not building this fence...
trying to keep you out ,
I'm walkin around ,
The same patch of ground ,
Retracing my steps ,
To cypher the sound ,
Remaking the mess ,
While Making the rounds ,
Hoping to hear
A familiar pound
Walking around the same patch of ground
hoping for sound ,
And reason.
Walking around this familiar ground
Hoping For change and treason
May 17, 2012
May 17, 2012 at 11:22 PM UTC
Our life puts the "Sh..." back in
"Chicago."
This pulse could race, slow to a dull thud or stop and curdle like the residents of a container of milk who've been left out, and still you will never love me.
Gobs of waiter phlegm we never detect in our bowls of soup and teapots beg our forgiveness and howl for our affection, and are invisible.
But where is the crime in not loving
when we are not loved?
How could there be a crime in not loving,
when we are loved poorly?
Loved so poorly we cannot afford
to ask ourselves where is the crime,
thus implying innocence.
We put the "mice" back in
"monogamous."
tip-toeing, silent but for mere squeaks, nearly inaudible whispers,
furtive looks, and how we run away, screaming,
or, like mice and Chicagoans all, we freeze.
Aquiver with fear, iced up in the Polar Vortex, hands raised in the policeman's spotlight.
But where is the crime in not loving
when you are not loved, or loved poorly?
Loved so poorly we cannot afford to stand up straight,
We scurry close to building walls,
trying not to be seen or see each other as we curse our fate.
Where is the crime in not loving those whom we hate?
There is no crime, but still, not loving is the heart of all crime.
To feel so deeply unloved we wish to destroy ... you name it.
Blot out, ruin and erase them; our enemies, our families, lovers, and even the world herself.
Jab a knife into her verdant hide and twist until black blood flows.
Gouge out mountaintops seeking iron for our towers.
Remaking her grace to build our graveyard.
These vibrant phosphorescent tombstones, overpopulated pillars of mutual isolation reach up into the clouds.
Announcing to the universe, we trumpet a loneliness as profound as it is absurd and ugly.
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 6:48 PM UTC
when that hopefully ecofriendly R.I.P becomes my final home
whether bios urn
or spirit seed
or any trendy tree from corpse to copse,
from dust to leaves
or better than
a crematorial commode --for fresher air and fuel for brighter flames
transplanted into other selves
redressed in mushroom spore-suit
seeded with the genes of generations hence and past,
piercing veils to fruit above again,
a mycophile to the last--
i will have lived with growth in mind,
that firm amorphous
ground opining green
to kindly live and die in kind
foment another view,
encompass monumental evanesce
supernal tablets branching neo-dolmen ethernexusnets beyond the r00ts
barking technoshaman psychic rings about a fiberoptic rosey,
perhaps a sappier refrain for finer silica domains
to sing along and echo Dryads doting long ago,
in threaded tones the make-remaking fold
of earthenborn rekindled kin of stars
decided to invent to cater otherworldly themes
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 11:13 PM UTC
I was the better half to the whole, he said
To our friends, it's the polite and preppy thing after we wed
And when it came to and end
That slice down the middle was pain
And I limped off, half empty
Waiting to be filled again
Eight years later
some romance, a few letters
A lot of work, remaking my life
Can't tell you there's been no strife
OK, there's been plenty, it's been a struggle
And often, I'm in a muddle
But I noticed something yesterday,
That makes me want to shout out and say:
I am a whole person rising
maybe not complete yet
But I'd put money on it, I'd bet
That I'll finish the job one day
Yesterday
Walking in my old 'hood
Down on the Santa Cruz Boardwalk
On the beach, trudging through sand
Listening to the melody of a day as I can
People having fun,
Their work is done
And I felt fine
I wasn't about to pine
for someone's witheld love
or untimely absence
I felt good, not sitting on a fence
watching a world go by
of whole people, living high
I was one of them I swear
Listening and breathing and really there
We listened to "Modern English"
Remember that band?
And people started dancing in the sand
When they played their hit from 1983
And I remember it, mercy me
I was feeling good, perched on a bench in the crowd
Sipping a foamy Boardwalk beer, eating fried artichokes, the band was loud
And I felt complete like a total ecosystem
Fully functional, and happy, just one of the crowd and with them.
Jul 14, 2012
Jul 14, 2012 at 2:38 PM UTC
Everything is pure imagination,
colors pulled from the mind’s
massive palette,
as new dimensions reveal themselves
in swirling abstractions
of curling rainbow action.
The colors she sees internally
are multi layered and 3d,
rapidly releasing childlike energy
and remaking her inner existence
into a safe fantasy,
as she takes that imagery
and makes it her waking reality.
She takes the power to paint and reshape
a poorly formed life of pain
into a playground of
crimson, purple, yellow,
pink, and blue
for everyone to view.
Everything fades to background noise,
and there is only art unfurling,
as the unconscious writes its own story,
as time moves at its own pace,
letting awe and intense focus
color her sweet cherubic face.
Nov 21, 2023
Nov 21, 2023 at 12:40 PM UTC
It is Lady Winter's
time to shine
Swirls of snowflakes
covering the world
Remaking it
into a Winter Wonder Land
Icicles glisten
sparkling like
Diamonds in the sky
That hushed
Reverence
that envelops
my world
Showing me the
beauty of Silence
in this Winter Wonder Land
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 8:28 AM UTC
long after these thousand days of
passing years, the eyes will feel a
sparking, I will remember you,
my dear old friends, reviewing
the where, the when, which will
flush, outing the whys
from my
memories
more than the poetic liturgy composed,
but what felled me to my knees,
yearning,
for the soup of love and passion,
pain+no gain, euphorias rising at the
trenching lows of depths
newly explored, hope returning after a
long time abandonment, the
excruciating ecstasy
of creating, the killing tedium of
months of no inspiration but the
glint of a possible tomorrow
but you knot all this,
so come to tell you,
long after the poem
encased in yellowing
emerald unwrapping
aging megabytes, more
than any old poem itself,
I wil remember what you
wrote in return, with insight
all we are, we are an interaction
a petrified yet living petri dish of
creatures re/anew,
r e n e w e d, and I am
young again
and the tears of yore no more,
fresh flowering droplets of
a longer than believable age,
factuals of the sweet,
you will move once
more, remaking me
your lover devotee
and I wil stumble;
the woman enquirer
am I ok, whimsy
respond never,
never ever better
my darling
and I lift a tissue
to erase the evidence
of my happy melancholic
existence, and start another
conversation with you, but no!
one of us long gone, name
erased, poems left behind,
orphaned children, them
and me left alone while
I will be remembered,
by remembering you,
our second of union
as it
reverberates, our amour
reunion is a wetting,
giving forth a burst,
a fluid sac,
again
Sep 20, 2024
Sep 20, 2024 at 7:51 AM UTC
I write word after word after word
Backspace backspace backspace
Not good enough.
Needs to be
Better.
Isn't that how it always is,
Though?
Wanting to be better
And better
And better than that.
Nothing is good enough,
Right?
You rewrite and rewrite
And change your clothes
And change your clothes again.
You make a cup of tea,
But there's too much honey,
So you drink it and make it again,
This time there's not enough.
I swear the only reason I stay hydrated
Is because I keep remaking these cups of tea.
And I go and change my clothes,
And I rewrite and rephrase that sentence
And then that scene
And then this stanza,
And then I change my clothes again
All in hopes
To be better
Than before.
When will I be good enough
For myself?
Enough that I am even
Good enough for you?
Too casual, change into something cute.
Too cute, change into something ****
Ugh, why bother?
The fear of never being good enough
Eating away at my brain,
And my brain screams and cries
Striving at perfection
That I'll never
Achieve.
Dec 7, 2016
Dec 7, 2016 at 1:15 PM UTC
to get away from annoying & cloying fans; Dylan took a flight down to Jamaica, where he met up w/ Bob Marley who was entertaining Hendrix
taking a break from touring; Hendrix bringing acid, & learning about Rastafarianism;
they're soon joined by John Lennon
& Ringo & set up in the studio, proceeding to sit around smoking herb
& playing music; making **** up, remaking their classics even
better & playing obscure blues tune;
heading out into daylight after days of this;
Dylan & Marley looking over & seeing no one in the booth,
realize they forgot to bring in a engineer & no one bothered
to turn on the tape recorder;
I heard this at an High Times party; take it for what it's worth..
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 4:54 PM UTC
i kind of hate poetry, like,
i'm sick of flowery words to avoid straight-up honesty
i'm sick of the deception and the depression
and the predictable rhyme schemes.
i mean, there's that kind of poetry
and that's the kind that i kind of hate.
a lot.
i'm a poet, okay? i'm a poet who likes
flower words with flowery lines
used only to cover up lies about
how much dinner i ate last night
and sometimes i have to admit
that i do kinda dig talking in rhymes.
but i'm really sick of that kind of poetry.
i kind of hate it.
give me poems that speak past their words,
give me poems that fill the air,
give me poems that breath and decompose.
give me girls with dark marbled skin whose voices break out of the cages they're trapped in.
give me boys in high heels.
give me revolution and remaking.
give me poetry.
give me songs.
i'm sick of the romantic stuff.
give me poems pieced together with discontent,
give me poems picked apart by nervous hands,
give me poems that will shatter all former concepts of reality,
give me poems that declare platonic love to an old best friend.
give me poems that have meaning.
real, tangible meaning.
i'm sick of looking at perfectly-formatted pages
that have to use set-up and textual ranges in order to be considered proper poetry.
i'm sick of verses with well-measured lines,
because those are the ones that i can't whisper to myself at night because
i ramble the poems.
i ramble the words.
give me poems that i can fill a room with.
i kind of forgot my first line, but that's alright
see, i don't know where exactly i'm going with this but
that's just how it is.
so give me poems that aren't pre-conceived,
give me poems that aren't thought out for the sake of their beauty.
give me poems that will hurt me.
give me poems that will hit me.
give me poems that will **** me.
i kind of hate poetry,
but not all kinds of it.
just the kinds of poems
that don't seem to notice
their true ability,
cause i like the kind of poems
that have the power
to change a society
(or at least someone's mind about something).
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 3:31 PM UTC
who shall I be
at the end of transformation
this painstakingly
beautiful
miracle of remaking
the wisp that morphs
to modify perception
deceptive
reflection
that masks the truth
she must die
for the butterfly
to emerge
with wings that are exquisitely my own
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 12:17 AM UTC
*Sorrow weeps, small happiness creeps
Remorse afloat, in my silk coat
Emptiness appears, silence leers
Fading shadow, far below
Begging forgiveness, lots of emptiness............
Cemented dreams, gone to extremes
Song of despair, not knowing I care
Tears grabbing, hands jabbing
Wisps of cries, light up the sky..............
Eyes pleading, heart bleeding
Passion is no more, try to ignore
Breath held, try to expel
Life is gone, not so brawn............
Holding lifeless, so breathless
Sobs of redemption, seize upon preemption
Full fledged devastation, marks no exemption
Temptress aching, no remaking.......
Oh Disillusion Me....*
Debbie Brooks 2014 @copywrite..
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 6:00 PM UTC
Men with rambling fever
Are born not bred
Their diagnoses are terminal
No cure but to go
And they sell their souls to the devil
For a train to hitch a ride on
And they'll die along the highway
While their women stay home
Remaking beds
That have never been slept in
I slept in this morning
Even though I didn't need to
I stretched my limbs
Out into the ocean
Trying to stay afloat alone in my bed
And through my spyglass
I still couldn't find the edge of it
No body of land to stand solidly on
I concluded that beds must be round
Orbiting microcosms floating through apartments
I got up and didn't tuck the sheets in
I got up and didn't make it
I didn't make it through college
Because as soon as I got settled
Into my air mattress
I un-made it
Everything called my name
I tried to ignore the voices
I tried to avoid them
But the mattress deflated quickly
The sails inflated cleaner than a cloudy day
The maps on my wall needed navigating
I had too much exploring to do
I've read about explorers
Men who made their fortunes
Hunting gold and looting temples
Never returning home
Because the beds they left, they had already met
Men who mapped the oceans
And gave their names to continents
Practically for free
I will freely admit that I'm like them
Unable to stop myself
From risking it all
For a chance at nothing at all
Unable to stay in one place
For long enough
To make my bed and lie in it
I will freely admit that rambling fever
is not ladylike
I will freely admit I'm an
Unsettled woman
I will freely admit
I shed lives and beds with purpose
I shed lives and beds like skin
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 5:52 PM UTC
a poet's heart
is a thing of ink
pigmented with equal parts
hubris and anxiety
rage and hope
passion
and tears
narcissists filled with self loathing
composed of shouts inarticulate
and whispers of intricate craft
our thoughts and words rushing
through us
barely legible
defining our days
with explosions of fathomless obscurity
or flashes of visceral clarity
our nights consumed
in communion with paradise
while teasing secrets from the abyss
couplets and quatrains
providing us the space
to live
or to die
running breathless in free verse
we grasp at perpetuity
yet find ourselves doomed
to ephemeron
like the sky
we are rewritten each day
yet as the sky remains the sky
so do we remain
what we are
pages
in a book we can barely read
remaking and trimming
editing ourselves
to fit within the margins
of our paper souls
May 23, 2025
May 23, 2025 at 11:07 PM UTC
The mind - it is nothing.
Only just a coded gram.
Dots and lines and circles.
See you use it.
See THE CIRCLES AND LINES.
See the web laid out on the web of no web.
Head aches.
Back aches.
Belly aches.
We were never here.
No one will ever know.
Who will ever see?
None will never hear. Why?
Why should I keep doing and caring.
like matter is a thing for real?
This ... It's over.
It is the remaking of the world.
We are all amazed. Who wants to see
this drama unfold?
Who thought of a juicy story?
I am the story.
I live the dream.
If it is real it will endure.
Sep 10, 2021
Sep 10, 2021 at 3:43 PM UTC
My poetry is broken
No words spoken
I want to write
I'll keep on hoping
Need some inspiration
To peak my imagination
I want to be real no imitation
Emotions I'm taking
Constantly remaking
Mix it all up time for baking
Tasty and yummy for the mental tummy
As a fool I'm true..mama didn't raise a dummy
I usually can go all night till my pen starts smoking
Hang a sign in my mind "My Poetry is Broken."
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 8:32 PM UTC
She wanted to travel
Unravel the world
Like famous explorers
Who's wandering was all the will to ask
If there was anything beyond the horizon
That they could see.
Now shes everywhere -
Frozen stare, pigtails and grey red uniform,
Tie needling south with the straightness of a compass
And shes lost.
Where is she?
Everywhere anyone turns
Trapped in the undergrowth
Where cans and cat **** go to pasture
Her wrinkled smile
Is caked onto the branches
Paper machet - ed and as brittle
As an old map.
She breaks apart like bread crumbs
That will never lead her home.
Have you seen her?
Not tumble weeding her news
Across the m2
Or pinned to a lamppost
Weeping her ink into the missing
like a watercolour.
Have you spied her?
Not tied with weak ribbon
to brown stalks who's little
Notes speak of hope
And other things, like Angel's and innocence,
The innocence shes frozen in.
Can you find her?
Not hopefully
Flying her flag of the forgotten
On the tv
Budget crew
Remaking her last seen
With shaking cameras
And discount queens of the smaller screen
Hoping for Hollywood.
Is there a tangible
Left to her name
Thrown as it has been across
State lines, and small places
That only the locals know.
She has Columbus - ed the globe
And she only left home
Walked down her drive
And disappeared.
May 20, 2021
May 20, 2021 at 5:39 AM UTC
Running away seem so inevitably
The same old drive by and exits
Its sad to see you're remaking history
Tripping by fears and of misfits
Im sorry,
no longer can i take you for a ride.
As the path I'm heading spares no retreat
Im living to breathe on my selfless pride
As this life isnt always helloween,
We can't be knocking doors asking for
Trick or treat
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 7:22 AM UTC
I am,
Sorrow that weeps,
A little bit happiness that creeps
Remorse afloat, in my silk coat
Emptiness that appears, as silence leers
Fading a shadow, far below
Begging forgiveness, lots of emptiness~
I am
Cemented dreams, gone to extremes
Song of despair, not knowing I care
Tears grabbing, hands jabbing
Wisps of cries, light up in the sky~
I am
Eyes pleading, heart bleeding
Passion that is no more, trying to ignore
Breath held, trying to expel
Life is gone, not so brawn~
I am
Holding lifeless, so breathless
Sobs of redemption, seize upon preemption
Full fledged devastation, marks no exemption
Temptress aching, no remaking~
The Disillusion Is Me~
Debbie Brooks @ 2016
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 10:48 PM UTC
The fluttering of her mind began to take hold again,
this time not allowing the medicine to do what it was meant to.
His voice finally abandoned her head
and the sound of his name
no longer
made her heart creep up into her throat.
Each day began fresh
leaving behind the waves that yesterday left.
In turn this left him nowhere near the picture frame.
Her eyes were glazed,
letting the world claim her.
She was no longer his…
So who was she?
The thought of remaking herself to be
her own being,
and not merely just
one who lives in the shadow
of whom she loved
seemed to be forever daunting.
She asked God if he could do it for her.
He slammed the door in her face
after taking notice of
her soft pathetic plea.
For it was not his job
to recreate her.
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 9:03 PM UTC