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Photographs stir inside
Grasping a birthday wish
Thirst and hunger subside
Frustrations built like a wall

Slowly, yet with sated ease,
Allowing you to enter,
You break the walls of slicing past
And pull me from my centre

Staring at what I should have done
Gravitating to a brand new me
No longer sipping on cravings
Voices stretch out to you

Allowing words to touch my sense
It may have left me long ago…
And in the midst of innocence
I tremble as new wings grow

Sweet fascination spreads
Leaping for your finger tips
Throwing away could haves
October skies open up

I let the rain pour over me
Cleanse my doubts and cure my mind,
Cast out shadows of bruised yesterdays
Tiptoe through days I’m yet to find

Reborn and teary eyed
Appreciation drenched in our song
Fallen and tattered
Still seeing and clenching on to you

My voice cries notes of you and I,
You heal my wounds, I will not die
In storms I hold you, beat your heart
A molten canvas, whispered art.

Braeden – Non Italics

Fiery – Italics

Check out Fiery’s blog if you haven’t! This was really fun and enjoyed collaborating with her!

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My sun has set, I dwell
In darkness as a dead man out of sight;
And none remains, not one, that I should tell
To him mine evil plight
This bitter night.
I will make fast my door
That hollow friends may trouble me no more.

‘Friend, open to Me.’—Who is this that calls?
Nay, I am deaf as are my walls:
Cease crying, for I will not hear
Thy cry of hope or fear.
Others were dear,
Others forsook me: what art thou indeed
That I should heed
Thy lamentable need?
Hungry should feed,
Or stranger lodge thee here?

‘Friend, My Feet bleed.
Open thy door to Me and comfort Me.’
I will not open, trouble me no more.
Go on thy way footsore,
I will not rise and open unto thee.

‘Then is it nothing to thee? Open, see
Who stands to plead with thee.
Open, lest I should pass thee by, and thou
One day entreat My Face
And howl for grace,
And I be deaf as thou art now.
Open to Me.’

Then I cried out upon him: Cease,
Leave me in peace:
Fear not that I should crave
Aught thou mayst have.
Leave me in peace, yea trouble me no more,
Lest I arise and chase thee from my door.
What, shall I not be let
Alone, that thou dost vex me yet?

But all night long that voice spake urgently:
‘Open to Me.’
Still harping in mine ears:
‘Rise, let Me in.’
Pleading with tears:
‘Open to Me that I may come to thee.’
While the dew dropped, while the dark hours were cold:
‘My Feet bleed, see My Face,
See My Hands bleed that bring thee grace,
My Heart doth bleed for thee,
Open to Me.’

So till the break of day:
Then died away
That voice, in silence as of sorrow;
Then footsteps echoing like a sigh
Passed me by,
Lingering footsteps slow to pass.
On the morrow
I saw upon the grass
Each footprint marked in blood, and on my door
The mark of blood for evermore.

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Hello All,

I am sure many have noticed that I have not been on here in a while. You can find me on instagram.

I have not posted any new material due to some soul searching and over time you will see my blog change. I am currently in transition and reinventing myself as a writer.

I appreciate all of your support.

Thank you,

Braeden

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my ice skates on a wall
lustre of stumps washes his lavander horizon
he’s got a handsome face of a lousy kid
rooming-houses dirty fingers
whistled in the shadow
“Wait for me at the detour.”
river… snow… some one vague faded in a mirror
filigree of trade winds
clouds white as lace circling the pepper trees
the film is finished
memory died when their photos weather-worn points of
polluted water under the trees in the mist shadow of
boys by the daybreak in the peony fields cold lost
marbles in the room carnations three ampoules of
morphine little blue-eyes-twilight grins between his
legs yellow fingers blue stars erect boys of sleep
have frozen dreams for I am a teenager pass it on
flesh and bones withheld too long yes sir oui oui
Crapps’ last map… lake… a canoe… rose tornado in
the harvest brass echo tropical jeers from Panama
City night fences dead fingers you are in your own body
around and maybe a boy skin spreads to something
else on Long Island the dogs are quiet.

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And how sweet a story it is
When you hear Charley Parker
tell it,
Either on records or at sessions,
Or at offical bits in clubs,
Shots in the arm for the wallet,
Gleefully he Whistled the
perfect
horn
Anyhow, made no difference.

Charley Parker, forgive me–
Forgive me for not answering your eyes–
For not having made in indication
Of that which you can devise–
Charley Parker, pray for me–
Pray for me and everybody
In the Nirvanas of your brain
Where you hide, indulgent and huge,
No longer Charley Parker
But the secret unsayable name
That carries with it merit
Not to be measured from here
To up, down, east, or west–
–Charley Parker, lay the bane,
off me, and every body

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Vigorously illuminating

She’s overworked

Quite compelling

She’s overtired

Completely potent

She’s giving

Magically robust

She’s asleep on the couch at 1AM

Forever lovely

She’s precious

Make up less

She’s still captivating

Deserves everything

She deserves a forehead kiss

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I am only home for Thanksgiving and Christmas. I moved away for a job and it’s been a journey since then. When I met my family my brother pointed something out that made him teary eyed. There were names of deceased family members on the tables. I saw my aunts name, my mothers, grandfathers, grandmothers, and my cousin. I looked around the room as tears fell from my eyes. My brother saw me and hugged me. Although we are very different in many aspects we are the same. We moved over to the corner of the room and told me how our mom would be so proud of me. In his own words he actually expressed how much he loved me and missed me. This is something he would do when he was drunk. He didn’t have an ounce of alcohol in him. Naturally I cried as he spoke. I saw my brother in a different light. A part of me moved away for a job and part of me moved away from my family. In my eyes, growing up and still today I feel misunderstood. I want to unravel all the feelings we all feel in my writing. I want to write from different perspectives. I told my brother the other day I have three published books. In my head I spend my time writing wanting to leave something behind, my legacy. Perhaps on the blog this is where I am understood. But my brother for once understood me. He could see parts of me that are broken. He could see why I write from other perspectives. It’s easier for me to write from other points of view because I have some pieces I don’t want to look at. He could clearly see I just didn’t move away for a job.