I started writing early in my life. Most of my works have been short stories, but I have drifted more to the poetic in recent years. I fell in love with poetry thanks to a professor I had in high school many moons ago.
I am currently a student at Buffalo State College in Buffalo, NY, studying Literature. Writing, which as of right now, is a labor of love for me. I write for myself and not for others. I love what others say of my writing and thank them for their comments, but I know many writers and poets with much more talent than I.
I have one sister, Jennifer. Of course, I also have my little love, my terrier, Ozzie. I am a big fan of the National Hockey ... more »
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Brian Hinckley Poems
The Murder of Hope
Step on it good and hard, make sure it is dead. Hope under heel, grinding into powder.
Dancing In The Corners of My Mind
We once lived in a world of music, a world where the tune infused our bodies. The dance floor was ours alone, be it at home or on the town.
Bursting at the seams, the words roll from my tongue. Searing like hot iron, they burn your soul.
Coffee replaces blood, televisions replace the mind. Just another day here, in corporate America.
With Cold Eyes You Judge Me
With cold eyes you judge me, casting guilt and hurt in my teeth. You burn me with words, freeze me with your touch.
Her face shining in the dead of night. Her soul shining to keep the light.
December snow falls among naked trees, blanketing fallen leaves like soldiers on a battlefield. Paths covered with footfalls from the past,
Time slows; then stops. You have an epic smile, shining brightly to challenge the sun.
Try, Try Again
It's alright, try again. I'm here to help, use me as you wish.
Two Hearts (Two Minds) [Two Loves]
When you love a person, you love them without conditions, you leave your childishness at the door - you love them. You learn to give of yourself and you learn you are not alone, but it's hard to love - when your love is not your own.
I turn my back for just a moment. I can see you and the tears in your eyes.
Angel Of Love
I walk empty halls feeling oppressive loneliness. My mind dark and empty; save one thought.
Her laugh spreads like a contagion and her voice could shatter hearts.
I write beautiful music, yet never strum a string. I am an artist, who marches to a different beat.
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
The Murder of Hope
Step on it good and hard,
make sure it is dead.
Hope under heel,
grinding into powder.
Slide that knife across skin,
hard and deep to be sure.
In a ditch like a missing person,
Hope lies bleeding.
Salt that wound and burn it,
coagulating under your heat.
Blood and dirt combine,
this sickeningly sweet murder excites you.
Toss the weapons aside,
no caring if they're found.
Your murder was metaphorical,
no reprisals are forthcoming.