brain fart

My eyelids choke out the last rays of light beaming into my soul’s window. My fingertips creak over the blank page. Each noise paralyzes me a few seconds. I listen. For the water to drop drop drop. For the insomniac wrestling with the bed sheets. Watch for words lingering. in air. My yesterday, today, and tomorrow fall to whispers. My hands stretch into a familiar, comfortable place. My fingertips run for their freedom. My freedom.
© Miss Brandy

The Interrupted Artist Speaks displays EXCERPTS of the poetry, works of art or stories I have written. All of these works are original and inspired by God and the creativity within me. If you see phrases that fade off like this….. this means a part of the poem was deleted. Some people take pride in stealing other peoples works and claiming it as their own. For this reason, I won’t publish the entire work. I have a copyright for all excerpts and poems – so if you are one of those people that steals others words– just know that if you use my work, you will not get away. God has given us all enough creativity so that we don’t have to steal others.

the Energy experience

I ain't really for spilling my guts to a bunch of strangers. It’s just that some things happen that won't allow me to do anything but spill everything.

The energy I experience from some people who cross my path or even journey with me is indescribable, powerful, and a blessing. Conversations don't just happen with these people...somewhere between hi and how are you our innermost thoughts and dreams seep out of our pores and create this invisible aura. We are now talking in clouds of inspiration. When the aura rises and the cloud appears, fighting the grasp of inspiration is impossible. Trust me, I tried it, tried to stay present in the meaningless chatter human beings spew on a daily basis, but I can't escape this inspiration. It’s overwhelming and before I know it, God has whispered a secret to me. He shows me a part of my puzzled life and how these people are the missing pieces that complete the picture. I appreciate the careful thought that took place before each person. And all I can say when the cloud clears is "wow!"

Can human beings even connect on a deeper level than we just did?

The level of our connection clears the cobwebs of my life. I dig up buried pictures. Pile my bags of hurt and unforgiveness in the trash. Really listen to love's introduction of herself. Encourage myself to study the light. Dust the corners of right brain. See the bigger picture.

My soul fills. My heart gives. My mind lives. I spill.
© Miss Brandy

The Interrupted Artist Speaks displays EXCERPTS of the poetry, works of art or stories I have written. All of these works are original and inspired by God and the creativity within me. If you see phrases that fade off like this….. this means a part of the poem was deleted. Some people take pride in stealing other peoples works and claiming it as their own. For this reason, I won’t publish the entire work. I have a copyright for all excerpts and poems – so if you are one of those people that steals others words– just know that if you use my work, you will not get away. God has given us all enough creativity so that we don’t have to steal others.

Hmmmmm.....

WHAT YOU THINK OF ME IS NONE OF MY BUSINESS.

Memories

“What are you doing here?”

“Do you welcome everyone like that? I come in peace.”

“You don’t mean that. No one who has been through what you have could possibly mean that.”

“Oh, but I do. A person who suffers from grudges is the person who holds them, Mr. Hodge. You don’t agree?”

“Mrs. Tea -- ”

“Please, Mr. Hodge, I have asked you to call me Charlene.”

“Well, Mrs. Charlene Tea, if my daughter’s life was snuffed short because of unspeakable acts, I would hold more than a grudge. And I certainly wouldn’t forgive --”

“Well, maybe this is why you have no children. My husband doesn’t know I am here. He has enough trouble wrestling criminals all day. I figure there is no sense in having him worried just because I have red hair.”

“Please, Mrs. Tea, you need to leave.”

“I wonder if it was the red hair. You know, I always told my daughter that her hair was special. That God squeezed plenty of tomatoes, even threw in a few carrots, just to come up with the golden orange-red hue she had. You could spot her from a mile away with all that hair. Don’t you agree Mr. Hodge?”

“I don’t want to talk about your daughter anymore. Please go.”

“Oh nonsense Mr. Hodge. Didn’t you find the white prom dress she wore that night just stunning? So hard to turn away from her. You know I told her to go with black. We saw the cutest black cocktail dress with sparkles everywhere on sale.”

“Please stop. You talk about her as if she is still alive.”

“But she tells me, 'Mom, no one wears black to a prom. You wear black dresses to funerals.’ I guess she should have worn black after all, huh, Mr. Hodge? Do you miss her any?”

“Lady please.” [Aside: “I’m ready.”]

“You must miss her Mr. Hodge. How could you be friends with her and not miss her? Did she tell you she loved me?”

“Yes.”

“Do you ever think of her? Miss her? She visits me, you know.”

“Look, lady, I have to go. You have to stop coming here.”

“She visits you too, huh? Of course she does! How could she visit her own mother and not visit her murderer?”

“Mrs. Tea stop it. See what you do. Why do you say you forgive and torture me with your presence every month?!”

“Mr. Hodge, you should be ashamed of yourself. I come so we won’t forget. My husband forgot. Or at least acts like he has. Maybe because my daughter was not related to him. But we, Mr. Hodge, we are connected to her. Someone must keep her alive, even if only in conversation. We must not remember how you brutally raped and decapitated her. We must not remember how you choked her and then tossed her life in abandoned field. We must remember as she was that night, before her fiery hair called your name. Before you say you had a conversation with the devil.”

“Please don’t come back.”

“Sorry for upsetting you so Mr. Hodge. Next month I will die my hair black.”

Dead drops

Pictures tell stories. Sometimes they lie.

We wear big smiles as the waitress brings our seafood platters. We dance with strangers. Our ex-boyfriends' mistakes hang on display in our eyes. Cheap makeup in bold colors caught with popular hairstyles and fashion fads. We dance with more strangers.

I pile our happier times into a shoebox.

The hole in the backyard is just big enough. Handfuls of dirt slap the box. Leaves flirt with the wind. Trees wave their limbs. God is rearranging the sky. I must move.

My soul has been asking if this is necessary. My mind reminds me of your cold, resounding "no." You are not mad. But you can't forget. And you won't forgive. Your hurt clings closer than our happier times.

You won't allow me to be human.

You and my hope disappear under the greener grass.

I sigh and run to escape the fury of the clouds.

All dead things must be buried.

© Miss Brandy

The Interrupted Artist Speaks displays EXCERPTS of the poetry, works of art or stories I have written. All of these works are original and inspired by God and the creativity within me. If you see phrases that fade off like this….. this means a part of the poem was deleted. Some people take pride in stealing other peoples works and claiming it as their own. For this reason, I won’t publish the entire work. I have a copyright for all excerpts and poems – so if you are one of those people that steals others words– just know that if you use my work, you will not get away. God has given us all enough creativity so that we don’t have to steal others.

Clouds

He jerks the crumpled box until a Newport cigarette falls out. The slender stick sways between the invisible creases of his bottom lip and the tip of his tongue. Orange flames set it on fire. Smoke lingers.

Oversized cottonballs spill across the faded blue strokes that color daybreak. God's tears fall into them. Man's nicotine addiction rises to them. They totter on the edge of air like a brave man unsure of sky diving off the earth's highest mountain. He watches them. He counts clusters of them spread above his head.

She exhales. "Stop starin' at the sky. You making me nervous." The aged dents of her face pull away from each other and a row of yellow teeth emerges.

"I ain't starin' at the sky. I'm starin' at the clouds."
© Miss Brandy

The Interrupted Artist Speaks displays EXCERPTS of the poetry, works of art or stories I have written. All of these works are original and inspired by God and the creativity within me. If you see phrases that fade off like this….. this means a part of the poem was deleted. Some people take pride in stealing other peoples works and claiming it as their own. For this reason, I won’t publish the entire work. I have a copyright for all excerpts and poems – so if you are one of those people that steals others words– just know that if you use my work, you will not get away. God has given us all enough creativity so that we don’t have to steal others.

She should not have come

Her thin fingers flatten the wrinkles bunched together on the pointed petals in her skirt. Amidst the crisp white uniforms and loud summer suits the narrow glances lost in the blood red of her blouse make her uncomfortable. She should not have worn this. Not here. She should have worn a black and a white and a wide rimmed black hat with lace, sparkles, or some other ornament that says “hello” to everyone it sees.

“Bathrooms to the left past the classrooms and programs for a small donation at the table here on the right,” mumbled an older lady with a face untouched by time.

She knows where the bathrooms are, and she is not surprised to hear they are selling programs. Children’s voices, the laughter of her past, and the pit pat of her footsteps running from classroom to classroom are all she can hear whenever she comes back to the tabernacle. She should not have come here.
© Miss Brandy

The Interrupted Artist Speaks displays EXCERPTS of the poetry, works of art or stories I have written. All of these works are original and inspired by God and the creativity within me. If you see phrases that fade off like this….. this means a part of the poem was deleted. Some people take pride in stealing other peoples works and claiming it as their own. For this reason, I won’t publish the entire work. I have a copyright for all excerpts and poems – so if you are one of those people that steals others words– just know that if you use my work, you will not get away. God has given us all enough creativity so that we don’t have to steal others.

My crazy idea

Everyone else is doing it. Well, not everyone – just the successful and well paid writers. I spend hours hanging on the words they tell other writers and reporters; they write everyday. Now, if writing everyday was something that only a few of these writers did, I could brush off my habit of writing something creative twice a month, tops, as something that works for me. But it wasn't a few writers who said this. In both written and taped interviews I have read or seen, every successful writer has said that they write everyday.

I don't write everyday. I spend my days chasing news stories and my nights planning how my freelance career is going to take off. When I do have time to put my creativity down on paper, I do one of several things instead: sleep, catch up with old friends, read books, watch movies, clean, or move my laptop under my bed while telling myself I can write later. Sometimes I do manage to get the laptop on. If this happens, I search the internet for information on whatever I am thinking about, check e-mails, clean out my e-mail inbox, and search for nonfiction writing jobs. If I actually open up Word, I stare at the one sentence I wrote and watch the cursor blink. If I write more than one sentence, eventually I stop, tell myself that the story I am trying to tell is undeveloped and lacks whatever good novelists and short story writers have, and then hit Select All and Delete.

Today I had a crazy idea: I am going to make myself write something down in my blog everyday for at least a month. When I created my blog, I had no intention of doing this. I had planned on writing when the mood struck me or inspiration hit me. But truth be told, I do not want to be the writer I am now. I want to be better. Challenging myself this way should bring forth some good creative work I can submit. Then I can be the successful and well paid writer giving interviews instead of interviewing writers.

Of course, I have never been interested writing to gain success or money. It would be ideal, and I would certainly take both if they came my way, but I write for a different cause. I write to change people and the world we live in.

Cheesy and cliched, I know. But it is the truth. For now, just call me green.