Brandy Danielle Nicholson

Drifting and sinking into a ship of delicious objectivity, I can't contain the refrain of dripping sadness. Brazing the graze of decisions and fate to solder the happiness with the pain. Tripping through molecules of my mind, the beat repeats, and I crave sleep. Dying to be surrounded by an ocean of love, living to be surrounded by lies. Fake. Great. I'm lathered in gold and the night is bronze, sterling. They stare so deep into what I am, what seems grand, is all a sham. Now the night is blue, and I'm coated with hate. Regret. I can't seem to shake the grandeur of what you think I am, until I break. Upon a crooked pedestal rests the foot of control pushing forward to madness. I can't help but be inspired by the idea of an untrue lover's lover. She is all I thought I was, and everything I hoped to be, before I was left in uncertainty. My extremities excrete pheromones of simplicity. My insides bleed for forgiveness amongst an insane...

My heart's an intricately cracked slab of concrete delegated to the patio of your great grandmothers hundred and fifty year old house left to fall apart the day she died in the silence of her once elegant, country, Georgia home. Every chip in the concrete is symbolic of a lover that has taken a chunk of me with them. Some larger than others, respectively to the time and love I invested, hopeful it would be enough. But, it's never been enough. My eyes once a prized possession, shiny, bright, and full of youthful desire, are now worn scratched and dulled like an old knife, now neglected and pushed far to the back of that junk drawer you never open, but to search for something that was most likely found in a much more obvious place. Dark, gloomy, and lonely, my eyes rest far beyond your need for them. My breast's are beaten, used, lathered in age, longing for innocent vigor and care, like the set of double doors falling from the depreciated shed in your backyard. Aband...

A place above the colors, floating tall, there's an existence I've been told of where women never die. Their dreams last forever and life is sweet. The future bends and bows to  women at their feet. Nothing is hard, unless hard means easy, and if you're ever looking, look here and find me. 

The question of morality has seeped in to the obliterated cognitive process. A process that was once regarded, revered, respected is now annihilated by the blurry lines of right and wrong. The era of excuses and apologies has given right to commit acts of crime against a conduct of integrity. Conclusions have been drawn and dissected of ethical codes and principles of righteousness. Yet, virtue has become irrelevant. The austerity of the matter is concerning. No longer bothered by the measure of a man, but rather the means of a man's measure is the unconsciousness of society. Where is the audacity found to harbor such usage of a fellow mind likened to that of one's own, and how is it a goal for which one doesn't hesitate to seek?

A generic life is hastily made on the crust of the earth. Deep within are sins yet to be birthed and all around are minds that pine for lack of a greater surge. All the while I fall in place fantasizing of more. I'm sucked into the black hole of drones, at mercy of the event horizon's girth.

I'm afraid of intimacy. I'm afraid to be vulnerable. I'm afraid you could be the one for me. And I'm afraid I may never know. I'm afraid of friends and foes alike. I'm afraid of talking. I'm afraid to go anywhere, because they will ask of you. I'm afraid I've said too much. I'm afraid I've said too little. I'm afraid to be afraid. I'm afraid to love again. I'm afraid to never love again. I'm afraid of who I am. Who would want me? Who wouldn't want me? I'm afraid I may be found. I'm afraid I may be saved. I'm afraid of every night. I'm afraid of every day. I'm afraid to be lost forever. I'm afraid to lose myself again. I'm afraid I may never return to this solemn satirical atmosphere. I'm afraid I'm not wanted. I'm afraid to be wanted. I'm afraid of the weakness. I'm afraid of the strength. I'm afraid I'm not what you think. I'm afraid I'm not what I t...

The days of Cold War and the nights of Revere rides have caught up to the times in which two and two equal four. This- the rationalists can prove but ask them where the two's abide or the perfect circles collide- with nobility? Ask them the equation of reverence times reason times honor times courage times good and love times morality times ethics times nobility... And they're faint- pale- for an answer. Because this terminology cannot be rationalized with objects- or multiplied by bones or equated to a number of footsteps. This equation must reside in the world of forms, Plato's perfect, immutable, eternal world where all true knowledge exists. And all of this- is imaginary like Descartes' uncertainty of life as a dream. Everything we know is nothing and paradoxically- the nothing is still everything. All appellations have clarifications and explanations that have been concocted by some mind of some time in another world wh...

I wish I could say, in one kind I find peace of mind. But, I've never known the glories unless I've slept alone. I drown in ignorance for a state of bliss, and my people are gone through time preference. I was never able to meet my day or meet my best friend who warred by my side. The night is lonely for kinds like mine, left amongst a troubled generation discovering none of their kind. The searching has brought me a multitude of people revealing their kinds in pairs. I've paired myself, but I fear my death before I've found the one I'm bound. The loosening of my soul is here, and I'm fearful of the tatter. The inept pieces have clouded my view of who I am and where are you? I miss you day, and I miss you night. I miss the connection for finding my life. If you were here, who would I be? And would I be searching for the current me? I'm yearning through the stage of blue, the doom has heeded farewell. There's a certain kind bursting through, and t...

The dawn of time is curled alive inside the peeping sun. The mountains bloom and days anew while the moon will loosen the tide. The gaping hole of the empty soul is hiding in the field. The wheat is ready and crops are full of aching in the mud. Outstretched roots have bartered through the future of the ruse. Wilting brine and heaven's hell must no longer hide. Time is here woven in space, it's captivated truth. Lost is what all have found surrounded by the dew. Blue is the wind and still is the rise of the breath that's given life. Stunned at sea and electrified by the coming of the night. Arisen here the dead will walk and all are left to die. Taking tolls amongst the road's forgiving dead end sign. The wooden will of the flavored air ceases to exist. A mental note is pacing drones through the cry of wretched fear. Amongst the stars, an endless disease of sanitizing peers. Revere the youth and wise alike with all who have been here. Beyond existence is carnal desire...

I'd like to take a moment and state how uninterested in life I currently am. The bee bop shot of your mother's intuition holds no bar to the standard at which I am expected to live. My expectations outweigh any of yours for me or for yourself. Any regret you have is nonsense. This life is unremarkably saddened by the loneliness of drear, fog, and cold. Any chance I've been given is unknown to me, for choices and consequences have taken over my thought process. I can't function properly. I've had this problem for far too long. Where is it that I can find help, promise, hope, or even the slightest bit of will? Where is the passion? This pit is unbelievably deep. I've lost my will to climb. I haven't cared for far too long. I can't live without substance. Yet, it makes me so cold. The beat contains a reference I don't understand, and the chill resembles a bitter end. The life I've been given is a mystery and my problem solving capability was...

The library. My current disposition is placidly grateful to have a matter of choice over my own disposition. I chose this spot, to stand purposfully. I came here to write, to be inspired. Upon observation of my immediate surroundings, I see a woman. This is her. That woman. She sits in a seemingly comfortable chair padded with leather on a wooden frame. Her black converse and rolled up jeans cover her propped feet as she slouches comfortably with a mannerism characterization showing timid and reserved. Her arms are crossed, eyes closed, and head heavy as it sways from side to side as she tries to find a place of rest in her mind. She fights her will to live and sleep and read all simultaneously. Her glasses are still on, but they can't help her see her dreams more clearly. Her arms are crossed just above her magazine that she must have propped up against her legs as a decoy. Her bag sits beside her, vulnerable. Her eyes I'm sure tell a story, one that I cannot read for her e...