Brutalist Head Talking to Itself

The façade leans in like a gossiping jaw,
all magenta cheekbones and turquoise teeth.

This is a building that tried to become a face
and stopped halfway for coffee.

Beams stick out like stubborn thoughts,
cantilevered sentences that refuse a full stop.

Yellow remembers sunshine from another city,
green remembers plants it never had.

A corridor bends into an ear,
listening to the elevators dream in primary colors.

Brutalism here is not mass but mood:
a concrete psyche scribbled with markers.

If you walk inside, every corner whispers:
I might be a room, I might be a memory—
please choose quickly, the walls are impatient.

From afar it’s just geometry,
up close it is a head full of angles

trying very hard
to think in straight lines
and failing beautifully.