iconbrownpoetry@gmail.com

He changes eyes
Sees exactly the same thing
Changes minds
Thinks the same thing
Rubs genie’s lantern
Wishes everything wrong
Sings a war song
No one rallies
Cries into towels
Washes dirt from his hands
Makes a mud pie from the runoff
Enough to feed an entire colony
of ants
Steps out into the light
Sees exactly nothing
Steps back into a corner
Still warm from his last visit
- •••IconBrown - Something you weren’t expecting, but predictable
Through the hallways of her mind
There are many doors left locked
There is a room with her mother’s voice
And one with her father’s hug
And one door with double padlocks
That contains her very first kiss
She gave me a keyring
With many keys upon it
And said that these are for the doors
Of our future
That this time
Please leave the doors unlocked
And throw away the keys
As they are used
I want to remember everything…
- •••IconBrown - Keys to the Future (via iconbrown)
A folded letter in one hand
A folded map in the other
One told me to run away
The other to where
I salvaged my tears in a bottle
For the long journey ahead
Much needed hydration
To climb over the body of you
I’ll climb to your shoulders
But will never conquer your mind
I’ll tug at your ears
In hopes you will finally hear
How much I think your map
Carries zero X’s
Zero treasures
Many hexes
And infinite pleasures
- •••IconBrown - Map Builders

Nest Builders pt. 2

Jimmie buys a home

Jimmie buys a wife

Jimmie buys a firstborn son

Jimmie splurges on two daughters

Jimmie buys a deluxe double-wide California king mattress

Jimmie buys home insurance

Jimmie buys a pension plan

Jimmie buys a diversified stock portfolio

Jimmie saves his pennies for a pair of jet-skies

Jimmie buys a vacation or two

Jimmie buys a divorce

Jimmie repurchases a new wife

Jimmie buys a nursing home

Jimmie tries to sell his Alzheimer Disease

But forgets the market is slow

Jimmie tries to sell his failing kidneys

To buy new kidneys

But forgets there is a waiting list

Jimmie buys a gravestone

With gilded writing and a sweet message

Jimmie tries to buy an afterlife

But they were all soldout 

•••IconBrown

Nest Builders pt. 1

An oil-painted portrait of a young man
Ancient and old and has seen the sun
Of many late summer evenings
Cracked and crackling
Layers lifted and flaking
Eyes shifting yet more majestic
Eyes shifting adding to the mystery
Of whom this little man-boy was
And what he meant to those in his days

My hand reaching to glide the ridges
The tips of my fingers riding up and down
The mountains and valleys created
By the oil’s age
And as I pull my hand back
Palm-side to my eyes
I see its own mountains and valleys
And try to imagine what it means
To those in my days

- •••IconBrown - Painted Allegories 

Nest Builders pt. 1

In the twenty-third-and-a-half minute of Chris Marker’s masterpiece of a film, Sans Soleil,he writes "Poetry is born of insecurity". The moments afterwards when those words settled in and made evident how true they were, I had to pause the movie. I had to reexamine my experiences with poetry and the times in which my work is at its best or when my work really rings true to my moods or thoughts or feelings.

We spend so much time and effort in our life to make moves that circumvent insecurity; We are nest builders and future builders in which both aspects involve making these areas comfortable and secure. In our nests, we have our down-comforters atop quilt-top mattresses, coffee machines, and movies by the fireplace. In planning our future, we take our college courses and sacrifice countless hours in cubicles to maintain a secure job. But these secure avenues are robbing us of our intimacy with insecurity.

I liken this to immersion therapy, in which phobia patients are directly subjected to their fear in gradual phases until they ultimately overcome their fear or learn to rationalize and live with their fear. Writing about an insecurity is much the same, the reactions we feel when we directly subject ourselves to our fears when writing can be just as visceral and highly emotional: Panic, sweating, hysterical laughter, disillusionment, and disorientation. These are just a few reactions I have when I’m tackling a piece in which the initiation was based on an intense insecurity or in some rare instances when I am simply feeling insecure

The result? I will either end up with a piece that is well received by my peers or a piece that will never see the light of day but will be well received by myself. Which in the end, makes me feel more secure… and that’s what we crazy crows want in the end. We crazy nest building crows. 

•••IconBrown

I want to first thank everyone that has been sending me messages and prompts - It’s truly an honor that you all want to participate and collaborate! However, I need to let you know that I can’t get to everyone’s prompt, although I really do wish I could - If I’ve missed you in the past or in the future, please know it is not personal!

Much love and respect to the best fans in the world!

•••IconBrown

Anonymous asked:
he called me c#nt/because I didn't deserve a name/pinning old confessions above my head/he whispered that I wasn't worthy of his touch/the bruises on my lips are Merlot/he said/and I'm driving him to alcoholism.

She called me “Can’t”

The worst amongst the four-letter-words

As if I couldn’t scream louder than the roaring engines of the passenger planes flying above my head… or were they in my head?

Or were they the confessions that were at odd decibels… shattering glass and peeling paint?

Yet these are not merlot bruises upon my lips but the bruises of being punch-drunk by your confessions

•••IconBrown & anon

Anonymous asked:
look at me/like I am a bonfire/raging against the night sky/every flick of my hands/as I stroke the stars on your cheeks/let me trace the constellations/hiding in the freckles of your thighs/yes, we were fearfully crafted/and I'm crazing the rapture of your embrace.

So it is you that ignite the stars in the night sky?

Then tell me fire queen - Why is it that you burn my stars and plant them on my face like little ash trails?

And why is it that you are you placing these stars neatly upon my thighs in order to depict our hands held tight? This wizardry you call “constellations”?

The only thing here fearfully crafted are your magic tricks

Tricks that incinerated my arms from our first embrace that painfully made it our last embrace

•••IconBrown & anon

I hid secrets/in the hollows of your collarbone/your breath tangling in my hair/chest swelling like the sea -/wash over me/take me back to the shores of my youth.

I broke my collarbone 

Digging fiercely for the secrets you left

As each secret is more tantalizing than the last

Now each deep breath stings

As my bones attempt to settle and heal

This is a problem

Because my chest and heart rate rise

Each time I see your face

And at the rate of how often I see you

My bones will never settle

Or heal

Which has caused me to possess

A perpetual hobble

Like an old man upon the shore

•••IconBrown

 & narglepunter

Through the hallways of her mind
There are many doors left locked
There is a room with her mother’s voice
And one with her father’s hug
And one door with double padlocks
That contains her very first kiss
She gave me a keyring
With many keys upon it
And said that these are for the doors
Of our future
That this time
Please leave the doors unlocked
And throw away the keys
As they are used
I want to remember everything…
- •••IconBrown - Keys to the Future
do not fall in love with a poet/treacherous creatures that we are/sewing love letters to the inside of our palms/so every strike stings of passion/do not love a poet/we will never let you die.

This poetess speaks simple truth

We poets are creatures built upon simple lies

Lies of love

Lies of beauty

Lies of promises

We sit behind our desks late-nightly

With our cups of tea or whiskey

And immortalize you, our loves,

With paper and ink

While you rest soundly in the other room

Not a clue you will be read

Like a history book

One-hundred years from now

•••IconBrown & my lovely narglepunter