insomniac

ghosts sit by the door
lurking between the wood planks
with them a scent of gardenia
silver orbs hang in the dark
eclipsed by the street light
i speak to them in my mind
they retort that i am a sinner
groaning their disappointment
weeping then leaving
as the night waltzes on
my eyes strain to seek the stars
between the TV antennas on apartment roofs
meat and bone stars twinkle instead
providing my neighbors with a comfort
the witching hour around the corner comes
my eyes turned downward
ignoring a call from the highway
bent on taking me out to a life
i ran away from

tough skin

like a tree in the dead of city
tough skin is what i need
to think about myself
as standing tall and without bend
tickling the sky with my leaves
tough skin is what i speak
through the chirps of tawny birds
and the billions of bugs’ marching feet
along the branches of my trunk

mbrazfield (c) 2022

there are

there are new cracks on the pavement caused by time strain and cheap materials there are old expressions on faces caused by time strain and indifference there are old buildings with new structural injuries caused by burning crack pipes violence and human defecation there are new leaders with bad intentions fueled by greed narcissism and ignorance