The wheels of the bus grind into my flesh.

You proffer your own salvation,
as martyrdom trumps your hand.

Bitch show.
Freak show.
Leave me the fuck alone show.

Let me sleep my nights in peace
and walk around corners
forethought free.

Bark into your own backyard.
Eat what you put out there;
antacids don’t soothe vitriol.

Choke, you bitch.
Choke on the reflux of your words.

Brenda Warren 2015

False Little Smile

Her false little smile disturbs me
it hides her truth from view.
She forgives all the people around her
for transgressions they did not do.

The world inside her head defines
her counterfeit presentation,
leaving the rest of us hoping she seeks
a mental examination.

Brenda Warren 2015


She asks for grace to regenerate us
in big bold words on her page.
Resolute, her pencil pirouettes
proffering graphite salvation,

erasing our stains.

Brenda Warren 2014

Note: I used only three of these words.


Visit The Sunday Whirl

invisible nails bring feelings of betrayal

(knock. it. off.)

Indefatigable fists emit impulses of energy
up her solar plexus
sparking ideas that fly from her head.

Precise and Infinite hits.

She wants people to kneel at their creation
while she pounds invisible nails
into her palms.

She grows accustomed to the distance people keep.

Tidal rhythms ebb and flow
with whisperings of bitterness
and how you never know.

Betrayed, she wrings her hands in her lap.

Brenda Warren 2013

Dramatic Response to Drama

Just shoot me now.

Before the rest of my life unfolds,
let me lie beneath dirt’s dark ease
tickled by centipedes,
sidled by earthworms,
melting into soil.

Let your bullshit compost my remains,
until something beautiful grows.

Brenda Warren 2013