Between shadows and memory, one woman’s diary elucidates relationships come and gone, those who helped shape who she is from the inside out. Turning the rain into something beautiful, the opening petals of a rose now blooming.
Veteran poet Braeden Michaels crafts his seventh collection of poetry into a mold of vision. Like pages from a twisted fairy tale, he narrates using his unique poetic style and perspective, first dissecting emotion before reconstructing and reimagining each one.
(1st Verse) I was born with symptoms of a transparent disease midday convulsions, cynical eyes, buckling at the knees I am stuck with satirical and catatonic eyes, I carry a tapestry of black and scarlet goodbyes, I hear my ghosts playing in a symphony singing my riddles I reside in the flames of the sunset with my anguish crying in the middle
CHORUS: I am the color gray gripping on to my rage I have a sister that screams that seems to never age I have a brother that reads my eulogy from a blank page I am infatuated with the rattle in a cage
(2nd Verse) I was born with my lungs full of wide eyed devastation morning sickness, sarcastic limbs, with my eyesight feeling irritation I am a bottle of endless and crude pills I can feel saliva dripping down my disorder seeking a thrill I can hear my villains playing the violins as I lay out my confessions I reside in the orchestra of my darkness clenching on to my obsessions
CHORUS: I am the color gray gripping on to my rage I have a sister that screams that seems to never age I have a brother that reads my eulogy from a blank page I am infatuated with the rattle in a cage
Bridge: Recklessness is my illness and medicine God laughs at my horrific skeleton I hold hands with Satan’s storytellers I sleep under a rose sky beside the bottom dwellers
CHORUS: I am the color gray gripping on to my rage I have a sister that screams that seems to never age I have a brother that reads my eulogy from a blank page I am infatuated with the rattle in a cage
CHORUS: I am the color gray gripping on to my rage I have a sister that screams that seems to never age I have a brother that reads my eulogy from a blank page I am infatuated with the rattle in a cage
(1st Verse) Once upon a midnight breeze I inhaled mourning and choked on my tragedies and I begin to stare into the raven’s lungs I began to speak with animosity on my tongue and I begin to allow the poison seep in my skin I am the one who carries truth laced in sin
CHORUS: I woke up to the sound of the blackout’s rattle crawling between insomnia and my battles my ears are bleeding from my punctured eardrum crawling between my stolen lies and the bullets of my gun
(2nd Verse) I exhaled bitterness and coughed up illusions and I begin to dance with my spots of my confusion I began to shout with sorrow dripping from my lips and I begin to allow the ignorance give me a lethal kiss I began to shed the light and my heart turned to stone I am the one who walks with fear and brittle bones
CHORUS: I woke up to the sound of the blackout’s rattle crawling between insomnia and my battles my ears are bleeding from my punctured eardrum crawling between my stolen lies and the bullets of my gun
Bridge: Once upon a thousand lies truth disappears as followers wave goodbye The paint on the face begins to dry as everything alive begins to die
CHORUS: I woke up to the sound of the blackout’s rattle crawling between insomnia and my battles my ears are bleeding from my punctured eardrum crawling between my stolen lies and the bullets of my gun
CHORUS: I woke up to the sound of the blackout’s rattle crawling between insomnia and my battles my ears are bleeding from my punctured eardrum crawling between my stolen lies and the bullets of my gun
Don’t pull the trigger, get on your knees Look up to God and believe
I’ve stolen a bottle of valium and borrowed the razors edge from my awakening nightmare. I’ve stolen kisses from the fox in the evergreens and borrowed someone else’s heart. I’ve stolen credit cards with a different name and borrowed carelessness from the devil himself. I’ve stolen the answers from a book I’ve never read and borrowed peace from a saint. I’m just exhausted from being me.
When I’m me, people walk away. No one cares what I say. I couldn’t pay someone to listen and my emptiness knows what I am missing. I continue to sit here in the bone chilling dark, with the outline of a pitch black heart. When I’m me, I can’t see.
I’ve stolen a sparkling personality from an angel I desired and borrowed humor from a treasured jester. I’ve stolen money from my tight fisted friends and borrowed character from rambling strangers. I’ve stolen beauty from the broken and borrowed ugliness from the exclusive. I’ve stolen the truth from a lawmaker and borrowed lies from the divine. I’m just exhausted of being me.
When I’m me, people laugh in my face. It’s clear that everyone can take my place. I couldn’t pay someone to wipe away my tears as I am drowning in my fears. I continue to sit here in my ocean of loneliness, with every aspect of my existence is a mess.
Growth is powerful. Often times you can’t see how much you have grown until you look back at who you were or what you have decided to let go. I have been writing for decades and have kept it a secret. Why? The reasons why I write are endless. It’s therapeutic, mentally stimulating, challenging, a place where I can voice my opinions, and today I believe others can find others or themselves in my poetry. It can be a place of self discovery and reflection.
Generally speaking, the perspective of a poet by society is someone who is broken, emotionally sensitive, and their voice is better articulated through words on paper than being spoken. To clarify this, written words are better used to express themselves emotionally. I can relate to this part. I am an emotional person and often times I cry because I have no words at times. Today I write with more of bigger purpose. I want to show the world that you people are not broken, they are just misunderstood. They are not surrounded by the right people.
At the end of my first marriage, I took it upon myself to attend therapy. I knew there were some things about me I needed to fix. I am a work in progress, in fact we all are a work in progress and under construction. Two of the things in my marriage that I needed to work on was speaking up for myself and taking control of certain aspects of my life. I was married to a woman who was overbearing, domineering and controlling. She was also an alcoholic. On my end, I wasn’t mature enough to walk away and sought out attention in the wrong way ways. I hid my writing at this time. Therapy gave me guidance and direction.
One of the things that I learned in therapy is that my growth was limited due to my surroundings. My father is quite judgmental and critical. Once I remarried and moved away, my confidence in myself flourished. I saw that I needed to move away. I will never tell my father that because I know that would hurt his feelings. I appreciate all that he is given me and the love that he knows how to give. He doesn’t just seem to care how to present sensitive topics, and how you present them often times is more important than what you say. As I get older, I’m trying to be aware of how I present subjects as well. There is a time to be straight forward, direct and there is a time to communicate with compassion.
In the end, I have grown to try to see the world and life through others eyes. I am not dead set on being right and if I am wrong, I will own up to it. I write poetry from the clouds with eagle eyes and try to embrace humanity. I see humanity without labels. There is a long list of individuals who want the world to change and I stand in a small line where I want to change the world. Everything is perspective and perspective is everything.
I found the most reckless line in your diary. “I know you can’t remember, all I can feel are the tears of September.” l was mesmerized by the details of the most piercing moments until I realized I was the subject. I was perplexed and the inner light began to fade. I found a line that shredded my heart into pieces.”You are the avalanche I could not see, you won’t be awake when I leave.” I glanced through the suffering and the realization is settling that you see me as a self absorbed monster.
You drank lukewarm coffee with a ballad crying in your head, rearranging the lyrics, forgetting all the things I said. You replaced conversation with an awkward silence and grand expectations. Perhaps you and I sat on quicksand, never making a solid foundation. You wanted me to crawl inside your mind, sit indian style, and look for your missing smile. You never mentioned, you craved endless attention and you didn’t get what you deserved. If I didn’t love you, can you tell me why I’m so hurt.
I found your latest entry in your book of fiction. “I know you forgot about my horrendous childhood, feeling lost and misunderstood.” I was fascinated with your chilling imagination with minutia painted with your fingertips. I was bewildered and the answers began to become in focus. I found a line that cracked the outer shell of my soul. “You are the villain in this horrific tale, because of you I have failed.” I am done tasting this bitter and water down concoction.
You drank lukewarm coffee with complaints, criticism, and tirades surrounding your silent skeleton. You are the playwright, weeping dramatist, and the author of colorful exaggerations. You are the puzzle, desiring me to put you together, believing in the everlasting, wishing for forever. You are numb from the waist down, with your feet barely touching the ground. You blame me for that earth shattering tragedy. I will love you until the end of time despite the fact you are no longer in love with me.
Indecisions hide like bats in the echoes of the cave Uncertainty sips from the acidic river Vinegar seeping between the crushed bones and sharp nerves Isolation and desolation are thumbs ripped from each hand And the rattle lingers in the corner of the ear drum
Dismay is tucked away behind a faded curtain Flaws stick to me like starving fleas Substance is the saliva dripping from the piranha’s teeth The equilibrium inside me wakes up the storm And the rattle parades in a rhythm that disturbs the haze
Symptoms of a nontransparent disease spread Inside the soliloquy the cage embraces the thunder Murmurs and grumbles tremble with fright Theology and myths walking in unison And the rattle pounds like a headache
Butchered insults and splinters drive three inches through my anger Crude laughs and vicious skies open up pouring sadness Exasperation drags my eyelids through the dirt Sorrow is a creek that I cleanse the silence And the rattle pierces my aching skin
And I lay here with the rattle in the cage soothing the emptiness
Forget me not, my sweet fears I found untouchable verses within my discomfort I found veracity within the crevices of the dark I found my reflection staring into my tattoo of courage I found emptiness deeper than this bottle
And my tears dry up and it’s time to stand up And my anxiety carries a heart beat And my passion bleeds forever more And my endless ink soars like a blackbird
“Take my hand, I can no longer do this alone. I can admit, I can no longer do this on my own”
Forget me not, my sweet fears I found my imagination spinning out of control I found my recklessness ripping me at the seams I found my identity buried in a grave with a bouquet of havoc on top I found my revelations reading scripture
And my tears dry up and it’s time to stand up And my anxiety carries a heart beat And my passion bleeds forever more And my endless ink soars like a blackbird
“Take my hand, I can no longer keep hurting myself, I can admit, something inside needs some help”
It’s 5am, I’m carrying those restless thoughts like a backpack over my shoulder. I’ve tumbled through an existence with my freudian slips, gray instincts, and coarse satire. I’ve been dripping misery on the edges of my inner shell. I’ve been playing with matches with ten foot flames higher than my self doubt. Take a long long look at me and you may see yourself. The only distinction is that I’m not afraid to seek for help.
I was the ghost that you were afraid at the age of five.Remember when I made you smile when you wanted to cry. I was there when your world caved and you couldn’t move. I was there when the doubters left and shouted “you have nothing to prove.” I was there when your scenery started to change. I was there when you took all the blame. Here we are, seeing nothing is the same. Where does the ghost go from here?
It’s 5am, I’ve got nonsensical riddles on display and the Gods are poking fun at the answers. I’ve been talking to myself with a straight jacket and heckling the clowns in the audience because it feels like I’m on stage. I stumble with society because I force rhymes because I’m staring at a blank page. Take a long look at me and you may see yourself. The only distinction is that I’m not afraid to seek for help.
I was the ghost you made love to at the age of sixteen.Remember when I held you in my arms in silence when your nightmares wanted to scream. I was there when your world crumbled and you couldn’t move at all. I was there when the people around you started to build walls. I was there when the colors of your painting started to fade. I was there when your soul needed to be saved. Here we are, everyone is gone and I remain.Where does the ghost go from here?
That’s the way the addiction grumbles That’s the way the drunk stumbles That’s the way the moon serenades That’s the way the elephants walk in the parade That’s the way the politicians talk That’s the way the predators gawk
That’s the way the innocent dream That’s the way the raped scream That’s the way the fears surrender That’s the way the cold remembers That’s the way the lost are found That’s the way the veterans weep to the sounds
That’s the way the truth should be told That’s the way the lies are bitten and sold That’s the way the victim cries That’s the way the quiet feel inside That’s the way the impregnator stares That’s the way the son of a bitch cares
That’s the way the glass is poured That’s the way the children are ignored That’s the way the perception is skewed That’s the way the label is crude That’s the way the society thinks That’s the way the one percent drink
That’s the way the air becomes stale That’s the way the skin becomes pale That’s the way the poets write That’s the way the day turns into night That’s the way the heart breaks into bits That’s the way the last puzzle piece fits
That’s the way the thunder growls That’s the way the thieves prowl That’s the way the light disappear That’s the way the dark becomes crystal clear That’s the way the luck falls That’s the way the anger crawls
That’s the way the perpetrators finger points That’s the way the hippies smoke a joint That’s the way the teacher dresses That’s the way the students make messes That’s the way the winners gloat That’s the way the captain steers the boats
That’s the way the rich treat the poor That’s the way the small companies closes its doors That’s the way the snake rattles That’s the way the beast fights in battle That’s the way the cookie crumbles That’s the way the insider fumbles
That’s the way the performers act That’s the way the sky becomes black That’s the way the song is heard That’s the way the villains see the words That’s the way the view turns into stone That’s the way the virtuous become alone
That’s the way the branch breaks That’s the way the dealers make mistakes That’s the way the world divides That’s the way the humans collide That’s the way the people see That’s the way the universe will be
She use to be my enraptured muse A mystical raindrop that drenched my entirety guided by purity, kindness and authenticity unveiling the sentiments in navy ink written in the coveted firethorn notebook
In the afterglow she disappeared Stillness was the enemy
She use to be the prayer between both hands A snowflake cleansing my weary tongue navigated by a sweet hummingbird whistling displaying the verses with a keen eye penned in a diary surrounded by flames
In the afterglow she vanished tranquility was the rival
She use to be my northward carnival A buzzing gypsy crooning in my orchestra maneuvered by truth, sympathy and light revealing the lines with unseen impressions authored in a journal of mysterious flare
In the afterglow she escaped serenity was her shadow boxer
Selected poems from each of Braeden Michaels’ first five books of poetry:
“The Raven’s Poison” – a full collection characterizing and describing all aspects of the human condition and emotions.
“Stella Walker’s Acquaintances” – character poetry surrounding the friends and acquaintances of a widowed woman as she reflects upon her life.
“Unpaved Crossroads” – poetry which depicts various scenes and moments in time, with a common theme of specific place throughout.
“Growl from the Sun” – a collection of political poetry including Michaels’ magnum opus of the same name, opining governmental and civic current events.
“For You, Love Always” – heart-touching and emotionally moving poetry for lovers.
I’ve watched you become the acrobatic apologist I’ve heard about the yellow fellow who broke your melodic heart I’ve recited the third page from your journal pertaining to your inadequacies For your wounds will heal in the garden I stand as your protector, silver shield, and the knight in the desert My love for you is a basket of gold I’ve witnessed the boy who cemented crippling demands I’ve stared at the smeared carmine lipstick on your oval mirror and that reads “The chip on my shoulder weighs a ton” I’ve scolded the gentleman who made claims of manhood For your discolorations will be cleansed I stand as your defender, eagle’s eye, and sword My love for you is fearless and is a scent of heaven I’ve growled at the heathens who replaced love with immaturity and lust Daphne, my beloved, your fantasies and dreams are sacred Your darkness can shine in our universe
Suffocating winds, drowning in a venomous and callous night gripping to a malignant affair shredding overblown letters of sensuality my esophagus is bound to split
“I’m on my knees, begging please, with forgiveness slicing my tongue, aching to breathe.”
Sounds of vanishing ripple Sounds of exhaustion sob Sounds of agony growl
Suffocating winds, immersed in worth with scabs and pockmarks consumed by a rain of affliction ripping flashbacks with endless tears my esophagus is bound to rupture
“I’m on my knees, begging please, with forgiveness piercing my eyes, aching to breathe.”
Sounds of distress shrivel Sounds of loneliness escape Sounds of tears shriek
“Carnival sins, I lay in your distress and only see myself as a bomb. Carnival sins, I don’t take responsibility for my ignorance and indifference. Carnival sins, I clutch on to my weaknesses and dwell in the shadows. Carnival sins, I see the clowns but recognize I’m the jester without a smile carrying a plastic laugh. Carnival sins, I bleed poetry that you can’t comprehend and my tears fall within the metaphors. Carnival sins, I’m dying on the inside and my wretched skin is peeling. Carnival skins, I am a color you wish that never existed. Carnival sins, I plead guilty for not loving my identity. Carnival sins, I don’t sleep in your coffin but dance in your cemetery. Carnival sins, my tears are deaf and the silence is scorching. Carnival sins, don’t you feel what i feel? Carnival sins, I am the wind you can’t feel. I am the enigma that awakens your nightmares.”
I stopped searching for answers in the corridors and the empty halls. I stopped searching for whispers where my frustrations growled. I stopped searching for innocence where scars burned. I stopped searching for the lullaby on the carousel and in the carnival. I stopped searching for the exclamation point in this longwinded sentence. I stopped searching for the dreams that evaporated and the hollow river I never felt. But I struggled to find beauty in my chaos.
I stopped searching for the acknowledgement from the copycats, finger pointers, and instigators. I stopped searching for my identity within the affection of lovers and takers. I stopped searching for pieces in a whirlwind of anxiety. I stopped searching for forgiveness from acquaintances with an image. I stopped searching for devotion from perfectionists. I stopped searching for laughter in cursed temptations. I stopped searching for beliefs with the unblemished appearance. But I struggled to find harmony in my imbalance.
I stopped searching for approval from rambling critics. l stopped searching for flames with sky-scraping expectations. I stopped searching for peace where there was social combustion. I stopped searching for engagement that turned lethal. I stopped searching for supremacy within my crumbling doubt. I stopped searching for loyalty from nonbelievers. I stopped searching for kindness from callous hearts. But I struggled to find charm in my flickering character.
I married a mannequin who sleeps in expensive clothes. I married someone who has been convicted of aggravated silence. I married a vegetarian who salivates when I eat meat. I married someone who sleeps during the day and is a scavenger at night. I married an owl with haunting and debilitating eyesight. I married a rainmaker who is infatuated with the clouds in the hollow sky. I married a wallflower who strolls in a pastel garden. I married a boxer who punches with their sarcasm. I married a contextualist who takes everything out of context. I married a war who seeks out a battle. I married a liar who impersonates being a lawyer.
I married a cheater who is terrified to gamble. I married a bloodhound who laughs at fear. I married a stop sign who runs through a red light. I married a drifter who is clingy. I married a myth who tells long winded fairy tales. I married the dark who refuses to seek any light. I married a nightmare who is afraid to dream. I married a stigma who can’t see anything positive. I married a character who is fictional. I married an impressionist who never made a desirable impression. I married a run on sentence in a poorly constructed paragraph. I married a doubter who believes in Jesus Christ. I married a critical spirit with a vacant soul. I married a peasant who spends money like they’re worth a million.
I married a question mark who believes they have all the answers. I married a language who struggles to communicate. I married a cup of toxicity with a pinch of selfishness. I married a witch that can’t cast any spells. I married someone that is directionally challenged but carries a compass in her pocket. I married a confession who is often speechless. I married a lover who is incapable of giving love. I married a bricklayer that loves to build walls. I married a theory who doesn’t comprehend science and facts. I married a killer who didn’t understand what it meant to live. I married a corpse who didn’t understand what it meant to be alive.
For you, I was your wildflower and a whisper I was drowning in your crimson flames Letters from my jagged and jaded soul burnt Free falling, lost your touch in the summer rain I was sleeping in your elastic and lucid dream a snowflake evaporating on your sleek tongue I was just a temporary fascination and wonder For you, I was your wildflower and a whisper I was descending in your artificial paradise Letters written from my heartbroken tears Slipping, invisible to your smooth-spoken ego I was growing dimmer in your nebulous eyes a blanket you never wanted to feel and cradle I was too invincible and priceless for you to hold
I am a connoisseur of analogies and a lost paragraph. The expectations are nonexistent and the inconsistencies are bloodletting. I’ve washed my hands in rain and rinse them in agony. I hate to stare in my complexion of mediocrity. I walk around with a fistful of aspirations and cough up restlessness. She keeps the awakening truth inside her shell. She ignores the knock on the door of confrontation.My knuckles are shaking. I spell out my fantasies in luscious ink as she pretends to read them.
I am the cerebral nighthawk that dances in the moonlight and dreams like a joker. I follow the road without a sign, just the sound of dragonflies, and the heartbreaking temptations.She’s made claims that I have acquaintances and sidekicks. She’s joined in holy matrimony with a introverted cynic who’s dying on the inside as the second hand moves. She holds in her frustrations and the fears stuck to her palms. I play with riddles and hide between the ten feet conundrums. I play with her subconscious and the ghosts that appear in her sleep. The end is just the beginning and the beginning is just a part of the end.
Between shadows and memory, one woman’s diary elucidates relationships come and gone, those who helped shape who she is from the inside out. Turning the rain into something beautiful, the opening petals of a rose now blooming.
Veteran poet Braeden Michaels crafts his seventh collection of poetry into a mold of vision. Like pages from a twisted fairy tale, he narrates using his unique poetic style and perspective, first dissecting emotion before reconstructing and reimagining each one.
Storm of Ink 