today was hard

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mbrazfield (c) 2023

today was hard
he broke the
fire sprinkler and
a flood washed
three floors down
today was hard
she woke from
elusive slumber with
hot wires slithering
through her brain
convulsions and saliva
at our feet
today was hard
he almost struck
her through the
chest where her
already shattered heart
bleeds beyond belief
today was hard
her poisoned tongue
on point ready
to kill both
of their fragile
egos in one
accusation of deviance
today was hard
there was nothing
resolved so tomorrow
we grow more
tired of this
insufferable calculated demise
today was hard

Reflections & Revelations has PUBLISHED!!

/ mbrazfieldm / 5 Comments

Original image by Majid Rangraz as featured on Unsplash After many months of diligent work, the moment has finally arrived! The paperback version is available on Amazon.com NOW!! If you’re interested in getting a copy, please CLICK THIS LINK! It may take a little time to populate on the foreign Amazon sites, but be patient; […]

Reflections & Revelations has PUBLISHED!!

an appointment

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all he wants is mother
cool hair dark shades
crip color representative
who can never go back
eyes black soul pale
little child lost
on his neck and throat
over his hands and arms
details of alternative
birth certificate needled
in prison ink
the grimace a schizophrenic pull
dear boy who smiles for me
and cheeks contort
to hide the tears
of anger and pain
a story unraveled

blackbird

/ mbrazfieldm / 2 Comments

missing from my mind the blackbird looms
hoping to haunt my thoughts
but i’m beyond elusive
you must not take a step i whisper
or i’ll denounce you
expose you to the
wind
missing from my mind the blackbird looms
hoping to haunt my thoughts
and i withdraw my smile from him and send kisses to the gulls instead
the innocents and the vagabonds
and the coroner’s men
know the secret
in
my head
missing from my mind the blackbird looms
hoping to haunt my thoughts
but i’m beyond elusive
my lips pursed
fly up lest you drown
me up
in your desire to comfort
my pain
you want them to cry for me at the
Weingart
missing from my mind the blackbird looms
hoping to haunt my thoughts
and i’ve become so jaded inviting him
in the fire of the midday sun
and the eyes of the gods are away from me
i wish him so long
and happy he
aint
so he flies from me
with a quiet beak
out of my mind i cemented his
cry
and we wake apart in loneliness as such
without the
printed chants
bitter poisoned dreams
the ones where mercy sinks
and i wonder
do we

mbrazfield (c) 2023

poem inspired by Bukowski’s The Bluebird for NaPoWriMo 2023

R.I.P RS

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may you continue to weave together our fragile souls with the whispers of the angels that through your fingers flow in the eternal

LA words

/ mbrazfieldm / 4 Comments

to me i write a poem
skipping the puddles in my canvas shoes
red they are street named Chucks
to me this life i’ve witnessed most of all
their pain  our pain my pain
drown we do in hopes that rot like afflicted blossoms
there are the rainbows in the gutters of the street
blessings aplenty there are in the depth of her misery
and butterflies kiss a starving stomach’s lining
to me i write a poem
a ribbon around my thumb
a raw thought in a muted mind
that wanders through a path
underneath the alley where the windows are boarded up
and we name it progress
the corner where i turn
there are no vision quests
Braves are gone perhaps just a celluloid memory
today i write a poem
tomorrow i won’t know
existence here is very subtle
determine in the concrete night
that for the now i stand in moonlight
and midwife the sound of my words

mbrazfield (c) 2023

belonging to the angel

/ mbrazfieldm / 1 Comment

is it possible to love you
when your love feels like a hot railroad track
is it possible to walk with you
when your paths break my back
is it possible to hold your hand
when my beggar’s grip repels you
is it possible to look into the mystique of your eyes
when your face is my nightmare
is it possible to honor you
when you revel in being thee harlot
is it possible that you birthed me
only to orphan me

mbrazfield (c) 2023

Grand Central Sunday

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hollow cheeks 1 buck a week not numb enough dead to it most the streets don’t cross we all get crushed beneath the guilt too deep to drill the Holy Host where is the Father your sons are lost and ghosts are paraded across a TV desert we’re separated those old those botoxed young buds in springtime I owe starlight inside s narrow tunnel wasteland we lay