Author: R. Brookes McKenzie

what fresh hell is this

too bad he’s so good

the problem with men
when you see how
they are with children
that aren’t their own
is that – if you are a woman
who has ever entertained
the thought of possibly
dating that man – there’s a tiny,
treacherous voice
inside your head
that whispers, “what
if they were ours.”

you don’t want kids
because you assumed
that you’d get stuck with them
because that’s what happened
to your mother, and her mother
and back on down the line.
you always thought
that if you met the right man
who wanted to take care of them
you’d be willing
to pop one out, take one
for the team.

so it’s bittersweet, to
see him being
so good with them. that’s
all.

come

be with me
and be my love, love me
with all your might
in the few hours
we have left
before you leave.
come and love
me like there’s no
tomorrow, come
prove there is
no distance that can
break us, there is no
darkness that can quench
our light. come and let
the memories we make tonight
be my candle against
the long dark days
to come, when
we’re apart. come
into me and warm me,
come gently and hold me,
do whatever you want but just
come.

mother goose

Thirty days hath October,
April, May, and February;
January, July, and September
have twenty-eight,
all the rest have twenty-nine.
Excepting last year, that’s the time
when June’s days were thirty-nine,
December’s, thirty-one and August’s, thirty-five.

If you doubt the reason
behind my rhyme, then
make your own calendar
to mark your own time.

what a difference

three days ago
I thought I had something
to tell you. it seemed
very important
to my sleep-deprived brain.
now I think
maybe it doesn’t matter.
it won’t change
a thing, and you don’t
care. I’ve gotten
some sleep, and my
blood has cooled, and
I’ve seen some things
that made me think.

why do I bother
to torture myself
over things that don’t matter
to anyone but me?

if I knew the answer
to that, maybe I’d know
what a difference
those three days
made.

flawed

I’m sorry
that I’m such a passive-aggressive weirdo
who causes drama
and pretends to be
so haughty and aloof
when in fact I am a boiling mess
of seething feelings
that I try so hard
to cover up
and deny because
the last thing I want to admit
is that I still care
way too much
when it was never warranted.

there was never an us.
you’ve said it
time and time again.
I know. but it rankles
like a thorn in my paw
and I can’t bear to admit
that I wasn’t your type.

I’m sorry
that I made you think
that I no longer value you
as a friend and as an artist
when that was never
the case.

I just can’t bear
to be straight with people
when the situation makes me
feel lesser than, unwanted,
not good enough. I have way
too much pride.

you deserved better.
you were a good friend
to me when I needed it.
you tried to let me down easy,
but I insisted
on making it hard.

my whole life
I’ve had to learn
everything the hard way.
I guess
this is no exception.

waxing

I can feel the madness
coming on:

it creeps
like beetles in my
blood it cranks up
my brain higher and
higher it makes me
so high that I don’t
want to sleep
even though
my bones are weary
rest has to sneak up
on me and knock me
out I wake up
too soon
by midnight
I’m off again
the leash on my
thoughts gets longer
I can shoot my mind into
the stratosphere
with ease
even as the cells
of my body get
more electric
I am full of moonlight
but down below
lurks darkness waiting
to hold me in its
slow death embrace.

I’ll dance as long as
these red shoes
hold up.