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Shelton Brown Poem
Write here heart and soul,
Use words, why won't they listen?
Write here, change the world.
Copyright © Shelton Brown | Year Posted 2012
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Shelton Brown Poem
Why is it that beauty dies young?
The forest fire claims the young oak.
If only she could see herself as he,
If only she could feel her beauty.
Her one true love, the arts,
Stories told with the dip of a brush.
But in her mind,
Jawline fractures, cuts and bruises,
Stencil her face ugly; she has been robbed
He saw her as the leaves,
All shapes and colors of emotion,
Bound to a tree, strong everyday,
At the top of the hill.
She saw herself as soil,
That which lay beneath our feet;
Dirty and unworthy.
All he wanted was to enlighten her to her reflection,
Show her the fairness that resonated as the pigment in her skin.
She could not see through the veil; Travesties of her father,
His words intangible as the wind,
She denied him; Oxygen to the flame.
Now this tree stands alone, burning.
She would never know the soil she saw so unworthy,
It was fertile, allowing life to take form.
All he wanted was for her to understand her beauty,
To show her her image.
But his words remain intangible as the wind;
And soil holds no reflection.
Copyright © Shelton Brown | Year Posted 2012
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Shelton Brown Poem
Voices Reign,
Tall
Short
Skinny
Fat
Ugly
Unwanted,
She stands alone.
In a mirror,
She sees beauty.
Here and now,
She doesn't imagine the coke-bottle waist only attainable by purchase of the latest Barbie.
She sees beauty.
Colors like the sun and the moon,
The vast oceans to the unfathomable skies.
Here in the mirror, she sees beauty.
Until she opens her eyes,
And voices reign.
Copyright © Shelton Brown | Year Posted 2012
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Shelton Brown Poem
Constricted thoughts,
Mind clouded in smoke.
In this cloud I see wonders and tragedies of the world,
It tells stories, all the while it was meant for me to escape the reality of it all.
Wrap yourself in the cloak,
Forget this world, watch as hearts curl.
Long ago I stopped seeking out life's pearls.
Depression holds its grip,
I am captain of this sinking ship.
We've smoked our lungs black,
Time is tick, tick, ticking.
Ambiguity is inevitably the key to our destruction,
We grovel before the feet of corruption.
Inhale the problem, exhale solution,
Our world has entered a state of manic depressive delusions.
This turmoil is unending,
Whirling, twirling, swirling.
Our pain is universal,
This economic asthma attack comes hand-in-hand with a cancerous cyst,
Making our dreams hopelessly skew off track.
I was just doing as I am taught,
Inhale slow, forget the lies we bought,
Give up, this cancer will diminish us until our bones crack,
The potential for a promised land will never come back,
Our future is looking ominous, unforgiving, black.
Copyright © Shelton Brown | Year Posted 2012
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Shelton Brown Poem
We never enter the basement.
It is a place of horrors, fears, and sorrows.
Our basement is a black door surrounded by the fogs of mystery, chilled with neglect.
I've seen it once, this basement of ours.
I felt its chill, at first what I saw was unknown. It was another world, a new land, unlike anything I'd ever seen.
This basement of ours was dark, it was a place where the black sun hung high, it has a warm hypothermic kiss to the surface of the skin. I saw ravens flying, riding on the wings of burnt and unopened love letters, frames of a talented and widely loved young wolf gone omega.
Here in this world I feel the weight of silence. It rains silence, blanketing what was once golden. It fills my nose with every breath. A I sift through this place, wipe away the residue of silence and time, I see frozen moments, temporary forevers. I see pictures, what this land might have been.
I've seen many things in this basement. But in this moment that seemed to last forever, I found quite a find. I found a find that intrigued me down to the deepest recess of my mind.
It was on the outskirts of this wasteland. Covered in silence, it lay beneath dancing weavers weaving silk bed traps. What I found was a product of the twisted oak, carved with the legacies of the natives, the light in a dark world.
It was a chair, a rocking chair. A chair placed by the window yet untouched by the sun. A chair I'd heard stories about, a chair that had lived a long life, raising small children now grown. Yet her sweet whispering allure called to me.
On it I read stories of the seasons, from the blazing summer sun, to the frozen winter nights. It had curves as the hills in Italy, depicting the wild horses that roam. This land of silence and pain now turned loud, deafening with the questions and thoughts racing through my mind.
Where was it made? How did it get here? When did its journey end? Why was it forsaken? But most of all, What was this place? This land I found now stuck in time. This land full of things now covered in silence, wrapped in pain and mystery.
I hear footsteps, up in the world above. They call out to me, time has come rushing back. This wasteland will return to silence. I never forgot that place, now grown, my children will soon discover that land. They will journey for the answer to what lies below. I found the answer. This place, this is the place of lost sons, broken dreams, and bad memories.
Copyright © Shelton Brown | Year Posted 2012
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Shelton Brown Poem
Stranded in the dark,
Blindly we all seek out light,
Some never realize,
That being lost is so close,
To finally being found.
Copyright © Shelton Brown | Year Posted 2012
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Shelton Brown Poem
These walls are blinding,
Holding no reflection,
Revealing no tone, shade, or hue.
Swallowing all life and personality within.
These walls are weighted with sadness and neglect.
Wonders and horrors of the world barred off.
Alone she sits, needle at bedside.
Along with the spark in her eyes this four-cornered room has long since gone dark.
Her sun once brightened her world,
Illuminating the four-cornered abyss.
But alas, the night always comes for the day's bright sky.
Alone he sits, at her bedside,
He's lost her again hasn't he?
Day breaks, the sun is rising,
A little boy calls for his mother to come home.
Copyright © Shelton Brown | Year Posted 2012
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Shelton Brown Poem
She paints the sky with white and blue,
With a stroke of her hand, a paradise for two.
She paints the sky, where our love reigns true.
But now she paints the sky with shifting clouds, dark colors, shades, and hues.
What has happened here, in our paradise, just me and you?
The sun has set, in this idealistic world, now bleeding down the canvas, lost and untrue.
She has raped my sky, with lines, foreign colors, and haikus.
She riddles me lies, promising if my heart stays true,
The sun will rise again, in this monstrosity, built in the minds of we two.
Next time she strokes the brush, I expect bright colors, shades, and hues.
But this time something unexpected happens,
This time,
She paints the sky,
Monsoon.
Copyright © Shelton Brown | Year Posted 2012
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Shelton Brown Poem
Love is patient.
Love is kind.
The perfect way,
To destroy your mind.
At first it's bright and warm,
like a million fireflies,
I lay now in the embers,
Everyone of them died.
I've never felt this way,
never thought I'd sing.
Not after that day you threw my grandma's ring.
You really did give that thing quite a sling.
But I freed my soul,
Set fire to our love,
I ended it quick,
I shot the dove.
I really must go,
It's been quite the trip.
I need thirteen stitches,
You busted my forehead and lip.
As soon as these come off me,
Doc cuts that last stitch,
The last you'll ever see of me,
A middle finger, mouthing the word b-----.
Copyright © Shelton Brown | Year Posted 2012
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Shelton Brown Poem
She says "I do more than you."
And while that may be true, true, true.
Does it really matter? The things that we do?
Tell me, would our love be the same?
Something worth a picture frame?
The things that we say won't matter,
When said with a heavy heart,
Please don't think I enjoy saying these words,
They're really quite tart.
I know this wasn't what you wanted,
Again I've disappointed you,
Do you long for what we once had?
Or do you wish to start anew?
It seems I mess things up,
Time through and time through,
But what I really need to know, o
Does your heart really see me?
Or is this simply wishful thinking?
When I riddle these words,
I feel free as a bird.
I try to communicate,
But when I riddle you,
You hesitate to riddle back,
Time through and time through.
I guess I've said what I can,
I'm not here for debate,
Though I should probably do something,
Before your love twists to hate.
Copyright © Shelton Brown | Year Posted 2012
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