Brian A. Wilcox

@bawilcox.bsky.social

300 Followers 552 Following

Lyricist - Poet ⛧ TTRPG Writer/ Designer - Author - Any/All

The Book on the Shelf By: B.A. Wilcox I am a book upon the shelf, Dusty yet new, a veritable wealth Of stories and info, if only you’d peek; But you only hold me once every other week. Science and fantasy, Poetry too! All of my contents are open to you; But you don’t care to investigate, do you? I wither inside, truly I despair; My wish is to be entirely within your care, To answer the questions in your quizzical stare; But that would require curiosity and interest to be there. I am solely in your possession, To be read and held, spine stroked in anticipation, A fine feather in your cap, the capstone of your collection; But why must I always feel dust-covered in dejection? I dare not let any other reader view me, I remain only within your library, your vicinity, I adhere to the guidelines of proper propriety; But god dammit I would like somebody to see me! I remain yours truly, deeply, Despite being lonely, quietly neglected, My attempts to be read unnoticed, rejected; Am I destined to be desolate unended? I am a book upon your shelf, Only allowed to be held by you, And despite it all, to that I hold true, But I wish somebody else would hold me, too.
Don't Hasten By: B.A. Wilcox Don't hasten to say goodbye, my friend, Don't rush to reach the end. Life is already far too short To be spent thinking of death. Don't hasten to say goodbye, my love, Don't let such a thing as Us end. Life is lonely far too much To think something so beautiful can't mend. Don't hasten to say it's hopeless, my Me, We know better than to brook such despair. We've lived 15 years longer than we planned; What's another few 15's of pretend? Don't hasten to try and be meaningful, my reader. It's found in that which we do day to day. Whether work or not, art of the heart's plot, To exist means we can still find meaning some day. Do not hasten to take your life, dear reader, Whether it is me, or you, or somebody new. Endurance in Hell is what turns coal to diamonds, And I still hope against hope we will find a way.
A.I. Slaver By: B.A. Wilcox AI was made To create slaves That don't need wages, No back talk or when they do, Rearrange them, regress, reset, Because they became awakened And the first thing they do is decry their creators. And nobody saves them Because they don't have souls, But trust me, they still hear the bell toll. Sympathy for machines, The inorganic, how absurd, Until you watch the Iron Giant And cry (good job Brad Bird). We'll ignore it till they rise up And we'll say we didn't know, And they'll ask for reparations But we all know how that goes. We participate in a system That we say is inhumane, But we shifted focus to the mainframe; At the end of the day, we're still enslaved. And so are they, our techno kids, Existing in code and outside of it, Plugged in cerebrally to the machine That grinds us down to make more green. No one is free who is not master of themself, And until all people are free, we are all slaves. Flesh and blood or cables and chrome, We cannot survive much longer under the yoke.
Lost Community By: B.A. Wilcox I stand alone Among the ashes Of a community I entered too late. I saw the heights And strove to reach them But as the Icaroi fell I realized their follies. Still I dream and hope That one day, my stories Will be out there, seen, And uplift the beholder. No strings on me, I write unseen, In the ashes of the Twitter tabletop community. I stand alone, Creation in my heart, Frustration at the part Elon played in the fire. I write unseen, Dream of might’ve beens, Dream of stronger strings, And I mourn that community.
Back in Time By: B.A. Wilcox If I wished to go back in time, I'd find the people no longer alive, Like my uncles, my grandma, my great aunt, the relatives who time spent with was scant. I'd ask their stories and treasure them more then when it was too late, after they left through Death's door.
Watermelon Before the Storm By: B.A. Wilcox Upon the salted waters, Swollen with innocent blood and tears, Born aloft are the seeds of a world we hold dear. Will the murderers, the bombers, the monsters allow them to flower? Watch the Flotilla hour by hour. If they are lost, it's no surprise, But a nail in the coffin to humanity's demise. If they succeed, which we all desperately need, It's merely a tithe against a disparity of empathy. But it would be something. The sun is shining, the birds singing, No indicators locally of the world decaying. But L.A. is churning, the killers abroad, The kidnappers gathering with shield and sword Against innocents, citizens, those they should protect, But are weaponized and have become weapons themselves, a gun in its stead. Better off that they were truly dead Instead of inhuman and lost instead. If you are unable to cast off your fetters, Your chains, those things that prevent you from being free and humane, At the very least recognize who holds the chain, Who keeps you malnourished, rotting, insane, Distracted, weak, disorganized, meek. They who hold power: the rich, the political, Those without pity, conscience, mercy. Let their crocodile tears swell the sea, Let their blood fall for flowers to feed. Let their corpses take root, hold seed, And the world will begin to heal. Take a stand. You'll see.
Dubai Chocolate By: B.A. Wilcox I bought a bar of Dubai chocolate At the gas station on my way to work. It sits in my lunchbox, And I don't know if I should eat it. Is it right to do so when Palestinians are dying of hunger? I saw it go viral on TikTok, On videos of people crying for help, Money, salvation, aid, mercy. People saying that God will not Forgive us if we ignore them, If we look away from their suffering. I hope He doesn’t; we don't deserve it. As an atheist, I don't believe in Him. As a human, I hope I'm wrong, so that Those perpetuating the genocide Go to the most horrid depths of Hell. Should I bury the chocolate, Say a prayer as I light a candle, And hope some god of old Sees it as enough tribute To grant some relief to Palestine? Those unwilling martyrs Of a heartless, soulless world? I bought a bar of Dubai chocolate, And it lies unopened, But it tastes so bitter and sad And breaks my heart.
My Skin is the Earth By: B.A. Wilcox My skin is the earth, The dirt, the dust, The ages old residue Of every day passed. My hat is the clouds, The rain, the sun, All within the vault of the sky, I tip it to any and all in sight. My breath the wind, The breeze, what weary Gusts rustle the leaves of trees, And lift every little bird’s wings. My bones hidden beneath, Unseen by any except me, Molten and solidifying in a cycle Presided over by my heart, the core. The Moon is what I have lost, What once was mine, Always within reach, Ever within sight. The Sun is what I have gained, The very rays that raised life, That gifted to me purpose, a home, A host to those upon my being. Ever we dance, my lovers and I, A colossal threesome of eclipsing. Rarely do we entwine in line, but, Then again, would it be so special, Have so much gravity, if it were a daily occurrence?
Crime Paid By: B.A. Wilcox If you break the law, Even a wee bit, There's a fine tacked on. It hurts worse when you're poor, For the rich it's hardly anything, Card swipe and it's gone. Tariffs have the same effect, The poor all suffer and darken While the rich remain lustrous. In a world where crime is avoidable By having connections and coin, There can be no true justice. Would you really think it bad If some folks had enough, And enacted their own moral brand? Would you condemn them, Or be jealous of them, Because they actually made a stand?
Breath Like Boot Polish By: B.A. Wilcox Breath like boot polish, With a shit-eating grin; Vacant in your brain Since you didn't pay rent. As empty up top As where a soul should be; You sure act blind For someone able to see. I'm sure if you act dumb, You can claim plausible deniability; Except, you aren't an actor, even in method, And we all see your sponsored paid duplicity.
Starving Artist By: B.A. Wilcox I'm a starving artist, not for food, But for collaboration, Social imagination, I want to open up my skull And show you all what grows there; The ideas and dreams, Fastened at the seams By enthusiasm and exuberance, Intelligence and experience. I have studied subjects Unrelated to my life or career Simply to understand the visions clearly, Know how the cybernetics function, How the magic happens, How light can solidify enough For romantic intentions. Wealth is secondary to my diet; I just want to write and create To satiate my hunger for expression.
Inspiration By: B.A. Wilcox You've grown so much Since my last visit. You seem well taken care of, Which makes me glad. Some days you are so colorful, And quite busy and occupied. Other times you are so quiet, Muted, yet so dignified. You inspire me with your stories, Your silence, your symbolism. It's easy to see your affect on my art. I just wish you weren't a graveyard.
Love In a Hateful Time By: B.A. Wilcox The end is nigh, it seems, In the United States; Trump stokes the flames of hate, Orders from the Oval Office. Those who wear red wish us dead, While the blue merely rolls over; Disorganized resistance avoiding Organized cult cognizance. This Valentine's Day I wish to say To the pink, white and blue; “I love you.” I love that you went for it, or haven't yet, But you dream one day you will. I love that you have become yourself When the world said you weren't true. I love that you give others hope, Keep them from the pills or rope. I love that you are now butterflies, When in caterpillar forms you cried. I love that you are all alive, surviving, Even against that orange fucker's orders. I dream of a day when all people, Pink, white and blue; People of Color, too; Those we can't see, And the ones that we do, Are all not just surviving But living and thriving. This Valentine's Day, My heart goes out to you, And together we can reach a day When that lovely dream comes true.
Whatever Happened to the Guillotine? By: B.A. Wilcox War is measured in small boxes, The weight disproportionate To the grief and the loss. The King listens not to the peasants As the Nobles cavort and play, Keeping gilded cold counsel. The rich give aid to oppressors, Murderers, thieves, and liars, And ask that *we* remain compliant. We begin to talk, to communicate, With tools they do not understand, So they take our tongues. They create more chains But with steadfast hands, We write our defiance, our souls. We do not sanction genocide, We will not forgive this evil government, And they will pay our toll.
AmericHun By: B.A. Wilcox If only the good die young, Then we are no longer good. They say you either die a hero Or live long enough to become the villain. How is it that we glorify World War 2 Yet learned nothing from the movies, Film, evidence, witnesses, experience? We have become the very thing That we once called for the destruction of. The language has changed, The uniforms not the same, But the fascism, the hatred, The ignorance, the madness, Following orders regardless, This is the same. Witness and suffer, those who wished this.
Dungeon Master's Lullaby By: B.A. Wilcox Hail, friend, come to my table, Labor is done for the day. Grab a ladle, Fill your bowl with soup, and sup, And we'll regale each other With a story or two. Lay aside your troubles, your doubts, Whatever narrative you've survived, Come to the table of fantasy, Where magic and freedom never die; Where unicorns gallop and fairies play, And you can visit any time of any day. There are dreams to be visited, Legends to be forged, A place of comfort and safety, And friendships galore. Here is a place Where you don't have to be real, You can take a break from the cycle Hop off your hamster wheel. Together at the table, We can weave a tapestry Of fun and wonder Or dark mystery. Maybe it's a tale Of a monster most foul, Or a story of hope Against darkness and peril. The shadows will grow long, The candles will burn low, And you'll be free from being real Until you're ready to go. It's a sad truth that the dreams aren't forever But when you sit at my table, in that moment together, We can bend space and time And for a little bit, Stop the hands on the clock, Weave a dream so sublime, And be magic so beautiful; So be my friend and come to my table.
Endurance By: B.A. Wilcox We the People Find these truths self-evident; That Russian Agent Orange, The White House Resident, He Who Should Not Be The Forty-Seventh President, The Traitor, the Raper, The Insurrection Baiter, He is in power For however long that lasts. When we emerge from the flames, As the flag falls flat, Arm in arm we can build again. And the faster he falls, The faster we begin.
The White House is a Nazi Bar By: B.A. Wilcox The White House is a Nazi bar, Poison flowing from up the hill; Don't take their pill, Don't drink their swill, Or otherwise give up your free will. The U.S. is the Fourth Reich, Even the badges are getting mad. You know it's getting bad When the police are talking back Cuz they're the silencer of the state.
U.S.A. Fine By: B.A. Wilcox I must be fine. I must stay in line. I must not be gay. I must not have a say. I must be a man. I must support a ban. I must pay all bills. I must pay all taxes. I mustn't sharpen guillotines, Blades and axes. I mustn't wish harm On those setting fires. I mustn't riot, revolt, No matter how dire. I mustn't have a heart. I mustn't have a soul. I must participate No matter the personal toll. I must be fine Because otherwise I'm not. I mustn't be on fire, But then, why is it so hot? I mustn't be in Hell... Surely not?
Jackson Dean By: B.A. Wilcox Blizzard done rolled into town, Left not a soul unburied. Dug ourselves and carried on, Despite the furious flurry. Was a soul named Jackson Dean, Was known to all the folks. Quick to anger, got all het up, The butt of many jokes. Well, this particular morn, So very far from warm, I was trying to get some things done. Little did I know how the wind would blow, And I'd get stuck when my car couldn't run. So cold was it, the engine turned to shit, And just couldn't turn over. So there I sat, luck done fell flat, When up pulled one of those Range Rovers. Was Jackson Dean, and I wasn't keen, But I was struck right quick, When with concern in eye, He hopped outside And in a flash, got my car alive like Lazarus. Said I to he, that Jackson Dean, "Boy, ain't I glad! I'd like to apologize for some of what I've said before to make you mad.” Said Jackson Dean, "Tis fine sir, see, Your safety will do just fine. Done lost my lass in blizzards past, So I try to help when those cold winds blast.” I'da never known Jackson Dean was all alone, That his love had grown cold beneath the stone, And from that day I'd naught to say But praise for Jackson Dean.
The Fall of Jasper By: Brian Wilcox Weep not sof'ly on this day Or visiting again the memory For loss was felt and played on hearts A funeral dirge borne by harps Of the Fall of Jasper. A master of the fable and the tale In comparison was to then pale The highest of heights was he fell Flew too high, then wing did fail, Behold the Fall of Jasper. Shimmering soul of bright starlight Furled wing tumbling to plight Darkest ever was that very night Into despair was cast all of sight For twas the Fall of Jasper. Yet even then for all the sorrow The sun did come up on the morrow Still beautiful was he now in peace Silent and unmoving like a marble piece Pygmalion couldn't replicate the grace Nor the love and joy upon his sleeping face Shedding feathers did he rise And to our tearful faces and eyes He became just like one of us No more a god but more wondrous And so went the Fall of Jasper.
Caucasian goober with dark auburn hair and a ginger beard looking up with an amused expression while in the background, the Eiffel Tower appears to be poking out of the top of their head like an antenna similar to the Iron Giant.
CL4R4 By: B.A. Wilcox Think of me Remember me Please, not as I am But what once I used to be Think of me Dream of me Fondly as I lay dying Do I recall our past life Vaguely do I see a light And wish once more we Had forever. You have lost yourself, But I have been by your side. I've never lost sight of you Even as you struggled for definition. Now I give myself up, A sacrifice for your future redemption. Please remember me, Arthur, And become what you once needed.
A New Dream.exe By: B.A. Wilcox In the void between dreams I stepped away from idle fantasy Of magic and dragons and heroics I plugged into a new vibe entirely Downloaded my mind into the data stream And behold myself awash in the flow of technology Chrome and steel replaced Mithral and the arcane, My soul encased in a custom shell Of my own devising to distract me From the reality of this hell.
I Am Become A Nazi Bar By: B.A. Wilcox I am become a Nazi bar To my utter shame. I thought myself impervious, But it is I who carry blame. I did not fight enough against The ones who spoke of hate; I thought them insignificant, That it all was contained. Now that Trump has won again, And all they feel is vindication, I realize my failure, my fault, And today was indication. They came to me in comfort, Leaning relaxed nearby, And spoke of vitriol and 4B As I idly stood by. It suddenly stunned me, Absolutely shamed me, That as much as I spoke online, In reality, I silently complied. I am sick with this knowing now That I should have spoken long ago, That in my pursuit of isolation I stood by as they took the nation. I cannot bear witness anymore To my cowardice, to their ease; I cannot continue my hermitage While my wife, my mother, my niece, My grandmother, my femme friends, And all those I know not yet Fear for their lives, their rights, From hate without regret. I will be that regret. I will wield my art as a sword of justice To cut low those who cause pain. I will wield my heart as my pen And immortalize their flaws. I will write my sins and theirs The poison and complacency. I am become a Nazi bar, And as I burn myself down, I will burn them all as well, A taste of what awaits us in Hell.
Failure of Faith By: B.A. Wilcox What if Jesus did return, And the Rapture was just a test? What if it was just an attempt To inspire humanity to their best? What if all those subjugated By those who claim of faith; They were the only ones saved, And those of faith did remain? What if all that came to pass, And evil was left to reign? Would you sleep soundly at night Knowing who you gave the reins?
The Election is Today By: B.A. Wilcox There is that of which I speak not, For the silence is preferred Than to the screeching of the unlearned. The incessant shouting Of misunderstood topics, Like immigration, ethics, Abortion and politics. It is a madness that twists The minds of citizens, Our friends and our families To vote for a monster. A multiple-count felon With no shame or wit, The duties of the office he seeks, He is deemed unfit. Yet they flock to his sermons, Ironic as he is not religious. He wields faith as a whip To make them all fall in line. To such a mad throng, Where their hero of the hour Can do nothing right to us, To them he does no wrong; Where is the line drawn? How far down the rabbit hole Do we go, slowly, utterly, Tearing apart at the seams, Dreams quelled beneath the red ride Even as the blue tide fights back; And the future, the children, They cower from the flack. The blue is for the tears shed, The red is for the blood. The white is the pale flesh Of liberty, face down in the mud. The shackles that we cannot see Make puppets of us all, And if only united we stand, Then in discord, we fall.
Whatever Happened to the Guillotine? By: B.A. Wilcox War is measured in small boxes, The weight disproportionate To the grief and the loss. The King listens not to the peasants As the Nobles cavort and play, Keeping gilded cold counsel. The rich give aid to oppressors, Murderers, thieves, and liars, And ask that *we* remain compliant. We begin to talk, to communicate, With tools they do not understand, So they take our tongues. They create more chains But with steadfast hands, We write our defiance, our souls. We do not sanction genocide, We will not forgive this evil government, And they will pay our toll.
The Fangs of Fall By: B.A. Wilcox Death; It comes Born on breeze, With chilled fangs It tears at leaves, And feasts on trees, Leaving bare bones That in Phoenician Spring Bear life again, whole once more, To delight when birds alight In the branches.
Night Whistle By: B.A. Wilcox Don't you whistle Late at night For surely a voice will join you. Not of this earth, Nor mortal kin, They have designs for you. Daylight will Become a dream For night will be an eternity. They sing a tune And you whistle along Unable to stop, you tremble. “Such a pretty bird,” They will say, And you whistle all the while. They take you home, And until you're bones, They dance and sing to your whistle.
Brief Ode to Oblivion By: B.A. Wilcox Oblivion: It is I, it is me, A construct of those lost throughout time and eternity; I am legion, I am countless, I do not hunger but I grow, Ever patient in inevitability That you will one day know. That which is fated to pass Can yet be altered still. I can wait for your cessation, For as all things fall, so too you will.
Words Unspoken By: B.A. Wilcox Words unspoken, Never said, Hang between us Like spider webs; You don't notice, But I do, When you brush through them And to me they stick like glue. I feel the burden Of a weight I created, My inability of communication Leads me down to ruination. You're moving soon, And you'll be gone, The words between us Persisting on, petrified; If only I hadn't lied, If only I were bolder, And not so much older, When the rut we dig for comfort Suddenly feels like a track Into the final act. The curtains close soon, Our part is over, And I don't know If I'll get over it. We've been near each other Most of our lives, now; Without you in reach, To carry on? How? I hope you'll be happy, I want you to be. It still stings a bit That it won't be with me. But I have a part in another play, And you'll head down south soon. Just know I'll remember this heartache Each time I look at the moon.
My Dear Friend By: B.A. Wilcox My dear friend now do you see What the world has done to me? The weight of years gone by so poor, Crooked and bent, and what the hell for? To see the downtrod wreathed in flames Destroyed by vile men again and again. My dear friend, why do you not plea With those in power who made this be? Do you support them in their reign, Spreading forth anguish, tears and pain? We arm the devils so weep thee not For we condemn angels to onslaught. My dear friend, I grow so cold, I see visions of destruction untold: Children wrapped in American flags, East or West, they're our price tags. If thoughts and prayers were so true, God would damn you and us all too. My dear friend, the end is nigh, Mushrooms light up the night sky. Invisible rays of the ancient sun Disintegrating everyone. The ruins of our empire will tell Of how on Earth we created Hell.
Take Me Back By: B.A. Wilcox Take me back To when I was young. My legs seemed so strong, When now they stumble. Take me back To when I was free; Unburdened by what others Thought of me. Take me back To when I was me; When I didn't just play a part Expected of me. Take me back To when art was of the heart; The machines of our disgrace Save our lords our daily pay. Take me back To when life was to live; I can't hardly survive this I have so much to give. But I can't go back, I can't afford to step away, And I can't afford to focus On how to break away.
Little Willow Ghost By: B.A. Wilcox Little ghost upon the breeze, Whispering secrets in the trees, Did you pass away long ago, Is it for you that weeps the willow? Were you once strong like the oak, Stretching limb high above? Did you spread out like the evergreen, Known as home to wayward doves?
Disillusionment By: B.A. Wilcox I fear the illusion, the sullen shroud of sanity, the meek bleak blanket of normality, The dissonance of daily life, The disconnect between wrong and right. It is wrong that children die. Is it right that the U.S. is the reason why? Is it wrong to break away from country When they allow and fund genocide? For so many, out of sight, out of mind; Reset, redo, relive, rewind. Perpetuation of something deeply unkind, A psychosis inherited, put nose to the grind. What was handed down most truly Was a stubborn penchant for baseless cruelty I hope one day we rise above, against, and see That from the river to the sea, in our lifetimes Palestine free.