Author of Observations (Complacency with Luther Ross)
I’m a crackerjack at destroying intimacy. I replace truth with flirtation to keep arms distance. No one pays attention to the color of the outline of my soul. I’m genuinely brash, but disguise my sensitivity in my cryptic verses. I unbutton my innuendos with a playful grin and unleash my sarcasm with a bite. I have been misguided and misplaced. I should reside inside an antique store on Belmont street. I’m a clown without face paint. The world is a stage and lost my manuscript the second I was born. I tend to use blackjack tactics on the universe to discover my following. I am enthralled to the broken and repelled by the fake.
I fell in love with a mystery. She scoffs at daylight and is quiet at night. I am often perplexed by her claims. I receive fragments of truth with resentment dancing in her sapphire eyes. I am an introvert by choice. I preferred to wed a loyalist who only witnesses the deepest shades of love I give. She ignores the dead spiders in my closet. The fear of dying alone is my tarantula. I am a promenading conundrum and my contradictions force me to limp. I am loved but not understood. The clarity is ignored and is stomped on. My identity is the shape of a hexagon with sides never exposed. She is loved but doesn’t use her voice.
I’m an expert at sabotaging affection with a shine. She will pay the bare minimum like a credit card with the debt being severe. I crave gospel with a melody. I want principles with curves and hooks. I want to sink my teeth into confessions with tears of liberty. I want that crack of fear to be eradicated. She clenches onto to complacency because it’s comforting. I lack the diligence and just stare into my reflection knowing the empty circle falls on my conscious. I am the author of observations and waiting for my funeral to hear a room of formalities.
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.
I was born between a California dream and a fog in the suburbs. I’m twenty percent scarecrow and the rest of me is a lion without a roar. I carry a pen and checkerboard notebook with fear parading in my alcoholic eyes. I have acquaintances that are on parole and a heart that is a victim of aggravated assault. Cassandra my dear, I’ve seen you take money from my camouflaged wallet. You plead insanity, is that what you want to call it? I juggle darkness and anxiety in my head. I fight battles I can’t see and shout at the gargoyles that laugh from the porch.
I fell in love with an embezzler who had a phrase “I don’t steal, I borrow” embroidered on her charcoal jacket. I once kissed an acrobat who tumbled away from my scars. I found myself glaring into an empty glass. I made love to a gypsy whose compassion and character couldn’t sit still. I was fond of a painter who sketched her tears on my chest. I found myself sipping on destruction. I was drawn to a lyricist who couldn’t convey her affection without a melody. I was magnetized to a whistle stopper who refused to stare into the truth. I found myself weeping in the dark gazing at the bottle.
I sat in therapy reliving my enigmatic past. He asked me in his continuous monotone voice “What do you write?” A part of me replied. “I write nonfiction because no one is listening.” He paused and provided his licensed smile. “Can you please share your latest entry?” “I thought I slept in a bed of catastrophe but I recognize that I’m the casualty in this foreign affair. I’m visiting a lackadaisical shrink who knows the answers to his longwinded list of satirical questions. I don’t want people to act like they care and he gets paid to show concern. I just have to move and stop sitting still.”
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.
“Michaels doesn’t fail to deliver in The Raven’s Poison. From start to finish I was taking around the horn on an emotional rollercoaster and was left in awe of his words. Can’t wait to get the next book!”
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“Braeden knows how to tap into the human emotion and the sometimes dark nature of our innate characteristics. This is a book that is sure to grab you by the throat from the very first piece until the very last. You will be gasping and grasping for more until the very end.”
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“I haven’t read a poetry book so full of great poetry in years. Everyone should pick this collection up.”
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“I highly recommend this well written book. His writing is full of great imagery and it draws you in leaving you mesmerized.”
I’ve seen the icicles hang in the burning silhouette I’ve been reminded of the unspoken truth caressing my frozen ghosts I’ve crawled between the spider like despair and mesmerizing sunset
Let the explanations seep and bellow Let the justifications trickle down my face Let the interpretations subside in the dusk Let the denial drip down my pale cheek I plead with my contradictions
I’ve tugged on my restlessness and uneven faith I’ve been surrounded by strangers with mind numbing tension I’ve sought out simplicity but eroded into complexity
Let the explanations seep and bellow Let the justifications trickle down my face Let the interpretations subside in the dusk Let the denial drip down my pale cheek I plead with my contradictions
I’ve drifted away from the sympathy and magnetized to the obscurity I’ve stolen hidden glances in my sleep and dream of the awakening I’ve ran from fears wrestling in the dark and disappear in the light
Let the explanations seep and bellow Let the justifications trickle down my face Let the interpretations subside in the dusk Let the denial drip down my pale cheek I plead with my contradictions
Instantly my judgements were casted. I sat at a table for three. I sat between a pessimistic dreamer and a carefree non stop smoker. I digested painted ideologies and exhaled nostalgia from my vibrating lungs. I scoffed at the handwritten kindhearted gestures. It was as if I had read them on a greeting card as a child. I tried to be engaging but was caught off guard by the long winded interrogation. Sidewinding questions, sarcastic remarks and complex theories were thrown at me like punches. I took a beating like a boxer.
Inside my head all I could hear was the regurgitating water downed clouds of systems. The formulas, schemes, and strategies plotted by short sighted leaders of this self centered generation.
I nodded my head as the clarity dispersed. I was not treated like an equal. I sat between arrogance and a rattling jaw. I barely touched my grilled California chicken. I only took a few sips of joy. I was tired of the pointing fingers and criticism of my status. I was ridiculed by plastic snakes with their golden ideals in a frame.
Inside my mind all I could do was to assess the situation. I could sense I was a pawn in their chess game. I couldn’t shake off the smirk. I coughed up their sour and misplaced words.
I sneered at their ancient glossy wisdom. I could feel the itchy tickle in my throat. I hacked up a two hour disgusting stomach aching conversation after walking away from the table.
Once upon a blistering silhouette I wiped away my tears with feathers from the bitterness, I slept with misery and the faults I refused to see, the sun disappeared and my heart is vacant, the veil is ragged and torn, the anguish is dispersed and I wallow in the fields of exhaustion, guided by thorns and a cloud of animosity without a compass, I use to embrace the darkness, I bellow from the exotic tremors, hoping to discover the light I have forgotten, I have gripping dreams and an isolated peace I misplaced
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.
Even the devil himself chuckles The moon is carved with your lies Tangled up in your demented mind Serenaded by demonic gargoyles Stains of convoluted fairytales twitch Nightmares glide through your skull as you become the twisted spin doctor Even the devil himself despises you The haunted tree is covered in your sins Using the phrase “sick and dying” to draw attention The line for the roller coaster to hell banishes the disturbed and psychopathic rants Even the devil himself cringes at your name Fearing your chameleon sadistic skin Wallowing in your fragile bones Be careful what you curve with your tongue
Like porcelain skin wrapped in gauze Birthday tattoo displayed on her wrist Daydreams slip out on from her weeping lips Shadows blister, the monologue drowns Clasping on to “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings” in her pliable hand
And the lions on the wallpaper say her name in a chant And the ceiling is her midnight and decorated sky And the hallway reeks of discretion and tongue tied riddles And the ink she pours out never runs dry
Give me an invincible fire to stand within the pain Give me the light to crawl in the dusk
An ounce of slump and stagnation whisper Melancholy hanging over her head like a rain cloud Glaring into a closet of aberrations Atmosphere trembles, the letters trickle sanguine Twitching in the discolored oblivion
And the memories flood on to the pillow from her eyes And the moonlight that shines through her window growls And the conversations are still heard in these four walls And the ink she pours out never runs dry
Give me an invincible fire to stand within the pain Give me the light to crawl in the dusk
I glared into a faded photograph of our founding fathers, where dogma was priceless,the ink used to place the period behind our Declaration of Independence spoke volumes, where freedom wasn’t part of a cliche or a sales pitch, where dreams were bright as the clouds on the Fourth of July, where individuality was embraced but businesses thrived from the word capitalism, when tax was minimal, but as generations progress with a letter from the alphabet, the labels make the period disappear,traditions were once cherished, differences were honored, education was a foundation, face to face communication was imperative, and tears from the moon never fell into the cracks of the sidewalk of Washington Street
I carefully placed the collectible portrait between the pages of one fifty seven and one fifty eight of my history book, nonchalantly I sat on the curbside, glancing at the emptiness, no bumper to bumper traffic, no obscenities lashed out, civilization working behind rectangular screens, nominal movement, and goods can purchased with the click of a button, inch by inch, decade by decade, the zest is thinning, the lawmakers relish in spending income that isn’t their own, hankering over tax brackets, salivating where to raise outlandish charges, pulling a percent from this pie from the chart, manipulating statistics, storytelling and fabricating, patiently waiting to feel the tears from the moon on the sidewalk of Washington Street
As I walked down Washington Street, I recognize too many boarded up buildings, morals and ethics were pennies that jingled in in legislators pockets, make no mistake “we are shrewd burglars that don’t need to break into your house to steal from you,” no bureaucracy is willing to save a dime, “Let’s not pretend, we love to spend” is the proverb for thieves in two piece suits, I can recollect the carpenters that hammered every nail to the bankrupt superstructures being unemployed minutes after the task was complete, the cosa nostra and baby-kissers are no longing working against each other, the henchmen and handshakers are exchanging recipes for disasters over a bottle of burgundy, chuckling, smoking Churchill cigars, reciprocating filthy and racist jokes behind doors of the dungeon, but hours later standing in front of billions with both hands together pleading “togetherness, one, unity” reading it from a teleprompter, fumbling through every word, and the sound of the crack pipe falls to the floor, the camera moves in a split second to ensure the puppet is protected by the exclusive, but let me remind you the stooge who can barely walk up a flight of stairs received eighty one million votes, let the confidence ripple, and the thunder in the catastrophic sky pierces a million ears across the globe, as I walk toward “The Devil’s Backbone Tavern” I could see the lightning whisper danger, my feet froze on the sidewalk of Washington Street
I entered the tavern and could hear the introduction of the spoken word from Ramsey Parker, a local townsman, with a raspy voice, with his arms swinging, a theatrical display…”Welcome to the the insidious circus, where the clowns are incoherent, and the ramblings labeled as a speech are gnarled and tangled, weaving in and out of grains of truth, silently signing executive orders to vaporize the capital air, beware, apathy is a tattoo on our forearm, endless pages of calculating distractions, categorized and classified, blindly swindled, if you disagree, childish tantrums will be heard, lack of respect and cohesion, popularity plummets, approval ratings dismissed, impeachment being tossed around like a softball, no hardball here, afraid to rock the sinking ship with a stumbling captain who is meant to be an oar thrown in the ocean of disgust, humanity struggling to keep their heads above water, if we throw you a life jacket, we own you! Safety wasn’t a priority, designed for the survivors to be a minority” Ramsey shouted at the top of his lungs “Wake up America before it’s too late” grab your weapon, freedom, parade Washington Street, bark at the moon and pray it doesn’t cry
The sipping regulars clapped their hands, even the bottles of bourbon and scotch are pointing fingers, the mice on the thirty year old floor scrambled from the outspoken rhetoric, the shadows on the wall nod their heads, the bartender wipes down the hallucinations over and over, the optimism shrieks like a ghost, the misfits in the booth exchange civic points of view, babbling on about equal wealth distribution, working twenty five hour weeks, bellowing over exhaustion, taking orders from convicted illegal empty headed authority figures, the bystander on the left is a former navy seal listening to the nonsense, a man who carried laurels on his back, with eyes like a sniper, capturing detail like an artist, shrugging his shoulders walking away, discomfort is drank on the rocks, while truth is an invisible spot, heading for the door to leave a place of familiarity yet smelling a stench of wrecking change
Exchanging histories, undiscovered blessing She was born with silent violet butterflies dancing in her “catch my breathe” eyes A surreal connection, depth with curves She walks with simplicity dripping from her mysterious and irresistible lips
And she sings with heartache and strength And she sings with brilliant magic And she sings with white hot conviction And her inner beauty is a magnificent star
I walk through the forest listening to her enchanted voice I walk through the forest following her footprints
Kindhearted edges, carrying wreckage She carries invincible wings over her worn out and distressed shoulders crystals floating in her periwinkle soul She lights up in the dark like a firefly armed with blistering faith
And she sings with heartache and strength And she sings with brilliant magic And she sings with white hot conviction And her inner beauty is a magnificent star
I walk through the forest concentrating on her enchanted voice I walk through the forest guided by her dazzling spirit
I sat in a fossil like auditorium with the fragrance of significance brimming in the air, a middle aged man with a silver beard unleashing his thunderous and stout voice “Corporate America is a cult I don’t want to follow, she will entice you with her glitter and clown red lipstick, she will hike up her skirt for a glance but you will have to pay for the seductive dance, Corporate America has a stench and will leave an ill aftertaste, breathe in the sun and slowly walk through the hellacious gardens that will make you live again, Corporate America is a lethal injection without a needle, it’s an invisible blood stain on Mount Rushmore, it’s the catalyst for consumption with gallons of saliva, and by God everything you purchase with that plastic card all stays here when you are buried in that graveyard, Corporate America will disown your soul, spit in your eyes and fill your lungs with greed” The silence reverberated and awakened us.
I’m just a silhouette situated on a cracked street corner gazing into the crevices of the cement. I’m a wanderer seeking warmth from a gentle hand. I spend too much time looking inward and only see engraved scars. I’m just a singed shadow that leaves whispers and tears for an empty sky. I find myself buried in my beloved diary. I cling to it as I cry myself to sleep as I pray to a God that is made up of sandpaper beliefs and songlike scripture.
I tend to sleep with trauma with invisible gauze and bloodshot dreams. I rationalize the hallucinations due to the measurable weight on my shoulders. I live in a household filled with indifference, butterflies circling fears, and ghosts having sarcastic conversations with each other. I carry a laugh from an ancient carnival. My mother named me after two distinguished poets. The name Sylvia Poe Chandler feels supernatural on the birth certificate. My personality is upside down and is unseeable. I scoff at normalities and jokes about what can not be changed. I loathe logic defended by agendas that are written by parasites. I am drawn to the stars have a tint of green because the moon is jealous. I am fond of the night because I can see my skeletons sipping on ignorance in the closet.
I never once believed in the elegance and fragility of love. I believe in monsters, dark side of humanity, warlords, and anguish that swallows you whole. I don’t believe in the hands of compassion nor forgiveness. I can’t believe in concepts I’ve never felt. I never once believed in angels, optimism with a silver lining, and words spoken by the rich. I believe in individuality not the mummy walking mass. I never believed in rhetoric from men wearing blue suits. I do believe someone below is smirking at my trials and tribulations. I can’t believe in fairy tales but I believe in an epilogue with a waterfall.
She calls me an infant and he calls me ungraspable. I’m a mute but the list of endless adjectives are added to the scroll. I am seeking love and affection from heathens wearing sin like a trench coat. I’m full of spite but spit out caffeinated speeches. I walk with a phantom knowing I’m contaminated. Self worth is buried in the forest of my backyard. As I walk through the woodlands I can feel the mosquitoes surrounding my significance. The closer I become my eyes swell with grief.
I am a cloud hiding behind the sun seeking a ray of hope. I have a backbone that you can’t see. I am a star gazer with drops of melancholy in my hands. I have been destroyed by my foul mouthed pro creators and poisonous ex lovers. My fate is torn but my destiny sees a rainbow from a distance.
I’m jittery but calm in my logic. I parade these streets with echoes and slippery sentiments. I feel misplaced, misguided, and my feet continue to fumble. I struggle with intimacy and the white lies I swallow. I walk with expectations that I can’t see and standards that I can’t comprehend. I ignore my swirling instincts and lackadaisical intuition. I camouflage my fears with sophomoric humor and childish innuendos. I cough up resentment on a daily basis.
I wear my pride like a tattoo with animosity sewn to my arms. I am slightly dysfunctional and walk with a scorched tongue. I have an appetite to be understood than loved. Love is just a mirror that shatters over and over. Affection is just an object that we all hunger. I wiped away the frustration from my eyes and see myself residing in the winter’s scream. Please don’t hold me, just reach in to breathe in my cold air.
Bitter honey, the aftertaste is drowning the affection once pure turns into ink Disjointed and spots of spite stick to my worn-down tongue, I dwell inside
I lost my existence but found my shadow I lost my fears but found my perspective I lost my pride but found my character
Even in the despair, the calm was burning
Bitter honey, the aftermath is devastating the devotion once concrete crumbles Frail and specks of turmoil rushes down my frightened throat, I wallow inside
I lost my independence but found my direction I lost my truth but discovered the lies I lost my innocence but gained my wisdom
Even in the melancholy, the silence was light
Bitter honey, the afterthoughts are distant the tenderness once snug is crippled Cracked and traces of sorrow drip from my serenading eyelashes, I cringe inside
I lost my thirst but found my hunger I lost my laughter but found the jester within I lost my ghosts but found my guardian
Television is a disturbance of luster and plentiful Television is a scandalous invention Television is a disruptive mechanism clogging your arteries Television is a vacuum sucking the cells from your cerebellum
And the imagination crumbled And the ingenuity succumbs And she seduces hour by hour
Television is nerve gas crippling your legs and motivation Television is a apparatus blended with hype and inferior hogwash Television is a machine gun of information with a steering wheel Television is a junkyard of contraband with sounds of justification
And the mind evaporates And the muscles sit And she seduces hour by hour
Television is a volatile substance with a grin Television is a crutch with a bomb chained to your feet Television is a fifty two inch rectangle civilians idolize Television is a glass religion with no faith
Storm of Ink 