Broken Brush Poetry

art at war

[brokenbrushpoetry]

Amidst all the past madness

I thought I finally contrived sense from

A self i could be proud of

Only to be proven Fool again,

Here i lay awake,

An endless scene of disjointed memories

More unwilling to leave me

Than you were.

-now you say I'm just a friend-

[brokenbrushpoetry]

I used to write poetry on the nights that I was lonely, or heartbroken, or drunk, or plagued by memories I didn't want to admit were me, or nervous I said too much, or too little, or conscious that I often come across as condescending, or so hypocritical I condemn myself within a run-on sentence, or arrogant and pretentious and defensive, or disillusioned that I deserve better when I know I don't, or considering looking you up but its been years so I won't, or reading something I wrote before, or thinking of you, or thinking of you, or thinking of you, or drunk, or artbroken, on most nights I went through all of them, on some nights none. I used to be poetry.

J.S. “nothing gold” https://brokenbrushpoetry.tumblr.com/

[brokenbrushpoetry]

I miss you, I really do.

Me? Or the attention?

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there are still nights i check the stars curious if they've aligned right above our cars in a driveway that isn't -

J.S. -do you wish it is?- http://brokenbrushpoetry.tumblr.com/

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i've been teaching horror and the atmosphere of terror to my students and a boy asked what my biggest fear is so i lied and said being buried alive struggling through those final moments, the anxiety of a confined space nails etching apologies into my face inches from the wood as i hyperventilate through all the mistakes i wish i could retrace and chances i was too late on, but i'm more afraid i don't need to wait, that i'm already digging -

J.S. -i should have said clowns- http://brokenbrushpoetry.tumblr.com/

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when i was a boy i would dream of various famous careers and the celebrations of success and financial happiness, i'd pretend to be on talk shows in the bathroom mirror but as i aged in imagination the conversations changed into interrogations and accusations and my responses to them, somehow that luster of notoriety grew into a paranoid anxiety driven nightmare and i stopped fantasizing about what i wanted to be because even before i was it, i was terrifed of it, whatever It was, adolescence incubated in the thought that no matter what i would be i'd be hated. i didn't like how those reflections would match the subconsicous voice inflections as i'd dig deeper into the origin of those questions until i couldn't answer myself anymore, i realized that i didn't need to be afraid if i never made anything of myself, there'd be nothing to hate. the hidden mistake was thinking that if i avoided life that it wouldn't come crashing into me at every opportunity, there are only so many lives i can run from because my world is too small and too many people have met me, too many ask to see the boy in the mirror, the one i'm too scared to be -

J.S. -do not resuscitate- http://brokenbrushpoetry.tumblr.com/

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I miss your poetry.

Thank you. I'm sorry to say that I don't write as much anymore. That piece of me is falling apart in ways I can't really keep together.I hope what I have written still means something to the people who read.I have come to realise that writing may be eternal, but writers aren't.

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I pay less attention To things lately, Too much poetry Made people I love hate me, Late night chair rocking for adoration From strangers As I abandon my own mangers Or threaten to cut ties With the only girl who doesn’t despise The empty art I offer, Trying to dig up my mind From before the horror Story began, but I can’t find Any of that innocence Left, new precious moments That should be silly Are ruined for me, Steam sings from the crock Pot and I fall into the shade Of an argument from 08 when she made Stew and told me about You, The Cock She was leaving me for, Was he number three, or four? Instead of hearing the harmony Around me, I relapse inadvertently, She calls out my name And I pretend I was day Dreaming, but I don’t dream the same Way Anymore, now I’m haunted by  catacombs Full of chimera With portmanteau names and running mascara, Wallpapered hallways of forgotten homes As the lipstick patterns my cheek bones And the scratches resurface, Getting nervous, I hear my name whispered but I’m alone, Awake but in a different state, Would you have stayed if I said to wait? … Would I?

J.S. - redefining rhetorical - http://brokenbrushpoetry.tumblr.com/

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Hello; I've been around since the beginning, and I must say that your art is amazing. You are likely my favourite living poet and quite possibly my favourite of all time. You have this sort of combination of raw emotion and elegance that doesn't seem to exist anywhere else, at least not anywhere else that I've found. My own works came to a screeching halt some time ago, because I for so long I had been fueled by negative emotion. When I found my peace, I lost a part of my inspiration, but (1/2)

Thank you. I’ve been rewriting responses since I first read this, and everything I can think of feels so pathetic in comparison.Thank you. This is more heartwarming than anything I have ever read about my writing, or about me.You are a tremendous person. And I appreciate it, with all of my heart.This next one was only written with the courage you just gave me. Thank you.

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Hi, I turned another year older the other day and went back to this tumblr to read posts from when I was 19 & naive as ever and stumbled upon how much I enjoyed your writing. I remember messaging you back then wondering how the brush broke because your words leave a melancholy I can’t quite place. Reading through your tumblr again, I just wanted to say that in spite of the hurt that inspires it, I’m glad your words exist. And I hope my own words will someday match the emotions yours evokes.

First... happy belated birthday. Congratulations. I hope it was a really damn good day.Second... thank you. I haven’t posted much lately because things have been rather erratic, and life has gotten in the way of poetry. Though, I suppose, it’s more that I have gotten in my own way. That may just be how I am.It means a lot to hear though, that despite being away, the poetry I write is still meaningful.

Never sell your own writing short. Don’t match anyone else. Match yourself, completely, to all honesty and intensity. Do not hold back.If you do that, no matter what, you will have the satisfaction of knowing that you chose to be who you are.

Good luck <3

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New job applications going out But the interviewer asks about My social media accounts So I stutter when I have to announce Broken brush poetry Is Me, Not that it’s something you’d know But I’ve always felt safe on the down low Cause I write about you, and you, and you, I don’t know what else to do With a room of angry names and faces So I put them in public places Hoping I can hide behind The better lives I outlined Erased by a lack of confidence, A pulse of fear and kicks Of common sense From outcomes not meant to be Thinking that you, or you, or you ever loved me, Tricks From the politics Of romantics, A failure to communicate Through doors locked in haste And tears, a life to create Or end, the taste Of iron dripping down a thigh, A note passed through cracks pleading for another try, Flashes of years ago with that older guy, Linoleum pounds, heart races, A cold room of angry names and faces, Separated by inches of wood Wishing I could Hold Your hand through the threshold, But I can’t reach… I want to work in this speech Pathologist office because I believe Their words didn’t leave Me -

J.S.

- i don’t know how to put this on my resume -

https://www.tumblr.com/blog/brokenbrushpoetry

[brokenbrushpoetry]

i have always been afraid of the light because i've been made to believe i'm a bad son, sun, silent submission to black cause i don't want to have to see the surroundings around me, the reality of the boxes, empty shelves, torn out pages in book cases of selves i've detached from, heart ache to heart ache laboring numb as the nails rust and the depression in the center of the shelves becomes more than an impression and something obviously visible, problems i wish were drinkable but the trash can is full of empty things as i curl up within decrepit wings, terrified of the sky and to be in the light, so instead i pluck another feather to write - i wish i could tell you that you're the only drop i don't want to drink, just let you sink to the bottom of me - late at night i like to think of voodoo dolls and a book of spells cause there has to be some logic for this magic you've used on me -

J.S. - i found a ghost whose haunting i dream of - http://brokenbrushpoetry.tumblr.com/

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Missing your poetry xox

I don’t think anyone has ever said that to me. Thank you. I’m trying. But I’m in the valley, and finding it difficult to climb out.I hope you enjoy my next. I know I didn’t.

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months at the mouth of madness in a poetry riddled mattress, puzzles of forgotten verses trying to find the purpose in replacing ripped sheets, cigarette burns of improvised satin incense to erase that last crease of you, a smoke immune scent immortalized as the heat and wisp hit my lips and i taste you all over again -

J.S. - breathless - http://brokenbrushpoetry.tumblr.com/

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27 and somehow still alive despite all the times i’ve put myself in front of the pen trying to confront the truth of who i’ve been, complicit in countless sin, dodging photographs cause they’re evidence of the decadence, her paragraphs on my skin that the pen can’t spin, everybody wants to be poetry but on my body, and the lines aren’t ever pretty, compilation of composition from a thousand nights with dirty hands, my body of work, heartbeat a punctuation mark, pauses in the ink till the flows stop and the last period sink to the aorta, composition till decomposition, the last of her oxygen, vena cava starts to suffocate, stories from studs disintegrate, collapsed artery - - carrion - http://brokenbrushpoetry.tumblr.com/ redo as text so i can actually do the font properly

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all i've ever had of you is a still frame to hang on the wall, your nickname hand written in quotes to feel the possibility of family, a set of dates, love, hope, fates, and here i am, sealing it in a letter to send to your mother, all i've ever had of you, all i ever will, i thought i was sad before but seeing splintered paint and a faint dust outline on the wall from the page i love more than all the others, more than anything i've ever written, has made me realize all these years have been silent, repressed, never woulda guessed there was anything left in me to break -

J.S. - my heart is in the mail - http://brokenbrushpoetry.tumblr.com/

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I say that I have bad months, But that's far from the truth, They're all bad, Happy birthday sweetheart, I miss you.

J.S. - 3 years old - Brokenbrushpoetry.tumblr.com