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Category Archives: poetry

Ever since I was born I can remember
I both hated myself and wanted
to make people’s lives better.
I learned very slowly
that these two energies don’t
work together, they work against each other.

Sometimes, I still hate myself
but I know this is a passing feeling or thought
that I am stronger than. That I am loved despite this.

But what will always be a part of me is my
undying urge to make a difference.
                                              To change somebody.
                                              To inspire and encourage.

Britta B.

One night, I was walking
hopeless 

I remember this moment

when I was tired

and I was loved

I was tired
And I was loved

I thought I was empty
I thought I was done

And still

I had love
to give

And still

I am FILLED with love to give

I am filled with love to give
I am filled with love to give
I am filled with love to give
I am
filled
with love
to give

Britta B.

For pictures from the shoot and more eye candies, check out Andy’s blog: http://andyjuma.blogspot.ca/

She who has yet to learn to love landscapes, not men
Loses herself in thought, constant thought, thinking and feeling
Her imagination is cruel
She’s obsessed, addicted to
Nature, and her attempts to nurture it
(she’ll die from natural causes anyway)
She is a mountain lion on a public beach
She is but a loose thread from a ripped sleeve
Wrapped around a thrusting heart
A heart that pumps and bumps into many things
All she wants
Is to be still

Growing old in her mid-twenties from looking
At love through the eyes of the past
Compulsive thinker she is,
Her mind uses her
All she wants
Is to be still

With candles lit, hot tea sips
She begins now to
Break free, open
Puts her mind between her hands and into a good book
She watches where her mind goes, loses it
Enlightened, she
Realizes she is not the thinker she thinks she is and instead
Watches her self think
Observes her self feel
She disconnects from mind and body
She is a soul again
Resting alive in peace

“You are one with all that is”
Here
Now
Please, be still.

Britta B.

one hazy morning
i awoke
to a glass of mystery and a splash of some fresh sun 
a brown-skinned mister
a warm brown-skinned mister wearing nothing but his sleeves
lay next to me, quietly, watching me dream

he declared a nightmare he battled and won as i
dragged my palm across scars bruises burns
touching him on purpose
where i’m sure it once hurt 
but then the fool kissed my hand
as if to take all that pain back, I
couldn’t wipe the smirk
off my face
he had me wrapped
in his warm
didn’t want a blanket to do his job
this hazy morn’ i was
beside myself with him

perhaps, there was no return to reality

Britta B.

A white truck, delivering expensive gardens, swings
around the corner of the house where
two twenty-something year old females glowing
from foreign backgrounds, kneel over
spoiled soil.
They pull over-grown weeds from dry
dust-ridden
dirt
The sound
feels like a good scrub
One of the glowing ethnic empresses
pricks her thumb on something sharp
and goes inside to wash it off
as I watch it all, sitting
in the soon-to-be
garden of
Eden.

Britta B.

sitting on these slanted rocks
thinking ’bout these slanted thoughts
contemplating on jumping
into this lake or
falling back in love.

Britta B.

…a little bit about an event Britta B. performed on June 30th, 2012 at Ngoma Lounge in Toronto, Canada.

i’ve created delight. pulling my hair.
pretending it’s you.

i can pinch and know it’s me pinching
i can scratch and know it’s me scratching
i can bite and know it’s my mouth
i can lick and kiss and rub and frisk my whole body
and not be able to trick myself

but pulling my hair. i’m convinced it could be you.

i twirl. and twist.
a handful of waves // damp
bottom hair
never sees the sun // i pull.
as hard as i want to.

as hard as you would
if i told you to. (hey, a little harder next time)

i’ve created delight.
pretending it’s you, pulling my hair.

Britta B.

But I can’t confess how lonely it gets
to sit in a room full of all your favourite things

To stare

the whole night through
at the ground (or the bottom of something)
Thinking
of a brother who never calls
and a friend who always answers

I am the only one here.
I am the only one here.

And to stay here (everywhere I go)

alone, attached

to some detachment that bribes me into
laughing at the world every time I fall; God forbid
I show any signs of weakness

Britta B.

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