The Weeping Poet

A writer is depressed.

His words are depression.

His art is his life.

His metaphors mask sorrow.

Wordplay hides his cries.

The audience applauds.

He flips his frown,

but only on the surface.

One mask, two faces.

He cries in black ink.

His cries are silent,

but his words are loud.

The weeping poet;

Hiding behind his art.

©2017 Taihair Brown

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Walk This World Alone

i-am-not-afraid-to-walk-this-world-alone-1

I am not afraid to walk this world alone.

A man with no place to call his home.

I am not afraid to walk this world alone.

The soundtrack, a soft and lonely saxophone. .

I am not afraid to walk this world alone—

to explore what, to me, is the unknown.

I’m am not afraid to walk this world alone,

when everyone else has left me on my own.

 

©Taihair Brown 2017

depression

Darkness is more than the absence of light.

It’s a feeling of emptiness in oneself.

Words get caught in your throat,

leaving you unable to communicate the pain.

 

Darkness doesn’t come from the closing of eyes.

It’s not your inability to see that is lacking,

but what the world doesn’t see within you—

That invisible pain without an outward appearance.

 

Darkness is not the mere absence of windows

and there is no way to peer into someone’s soul.

No one can see the internal struggle you face.

All they see is the smile that masks that pain.

 

Darkness is not an appearance that one can see.

What your eyes do not witness can hurt worse—

Worse than any physical wound inflicted upon you.

Depression; the silent killer of the mind, body and soul.

Copyright © 2017 Taihair Brown

Bouquet of the Heart

hearts

Find myself working for your love.

Giving this from my very soul.

To you, this gift will find its mark—

A love bouquet made of the heart.

 

For you, I would give up the world.

For you, I’d slay any dragon.

What I have in this very cart—

A love bouquet made of the heart.

 

Just to say I’d do anything,

I’d go to the biggest extremes.

This gift, please do not tear apart—

A love bouquet made of the heart.

Happy To Be Here

alive

I took my last breath, grasping for air.

Waking in a cold sweat, crying.

A recurring nightmare that returned—

One I thought I was long done with.

 

I try to run, but my legs wont work.

I try and scream, but my mouth…

My thoughts escape my mental,

replaced with fear and terror.

 

Death stalks me when I’m not awake.

They tell me that God has my back.

But I feel like I walk with the devil.

Yet my grandmother calls me an Angel.

 

If Angels once walked heaven,

before being cast out to hell—

Does that mean I am a forsaken son?

That would explain so many lows.

 

That knife that pierced through my flesh

when death came for me while I was awake.

A lonely bus stop mattress that left me cold

and my only company being the night sky.

 

When my health failed and stole love—

Or really, love left me to cry alone.

Death peaked in on me again,

reminding me that he was just a call away.

 

If they say that the devil loses,

then I must be the King of Hell.

More losses than a Cleveland team

and left with no more tears to share.

 

But I think of friends who didn’t make it.

Friend’s missing bothers, fathers and mothers.

A dear friend who died alone,

taking away the celebration of Christmas.

 

How can I bring in the holidays with her gone?

Walk down the street with his bloodstain?

Comfort them and convince them to live,

when the reason they’re alive is no longer here?

 

I remember every word they ever told me.

The strength that they gave me.

The prayers they gave, even if I don’t pray.

The ones who never gave up on me.

 

Knowing that life is just too short.

Though the ups and down,

through the sorrow and tears,

I am truly just happy to be here.

More than words

hide in poetry

If I were to recite what sits on my brain at night,
your soul would be blinded by my creative light.
Honorable, pledging allegiance to my pen and pad.
I can express myself when mad or shed tears when sad—
Metaphorically, to hide any pain that maybe resting inside;
eating me alive cause part of me has died with my pride.
Now all that is left is a never healing injury and misery
and nothing to look forward to as better days are now history.
I put it all into words and maybe rhyme it with birds,
so then maybe the pain would also fly away afterwards.
To you, what is a simple free poem done without a style,
is my life that lacks smiles or anything to look to, worthwhile.

Copyright © 2016 Taihair Brown

My Addiction

If my eyes could speak, there would be one truth—

That I’ve been completely hooked by your elegance

and I’ve been left struggling on your line.

They’d be asking you to not throw me back.

 

I’ve been taken by the complete thought of you.

You are something that I need—

The cause of my addiction,

and I’m not afraid to say that I like it.

If my eyes could speak, there would be one truth—

I’ve been captivated by your song

And there’s no way my eyes could lie to you.

No matter what words come out of my mouth,

my eyes show just how strung out I’ve become.

 

Copyright © 2016 Taihair Brown