and i don't want to be the moon
i want to be a star
how they all are dead
and yet they spark
and spark so big
and light so bright
and all because a tiny hydrogen
decides to collide

Sometimes i sit next the the edge,
an old radio next to me.
As i lie down on my sledge,
the radio sings to me.

Sings me songs of love,
like a chirping little dove.
Or cries a tale of sorrow,
my eyes trailing a river till the morrow.

But then...
skies of grey rolled in.
Thunder booms across the sky.
haze and fog clouds my gaze.

And the radio?
all i can hear from it is static.

ME:
Hello?
Hello? Can you still play?
Can you still give me the words that flow easily out of your head?
Can you still reach me?
Hello???

Surrounded by the murkiest shades of grey
I lay torn, lost and dazed
A heart forlorn, longing for the blissful days
Of just black and white, so plush and plain.

Some say
poetry is just a war
between dark and good —
but only a poet knows
the weight of every
single letter.

Maybe not today,
not tomorrow,
but one day
a soul will
picture the boulder
that language carries.

Poetry can’t be just
black and white;
it is a prism,
reflecting
a whole family of colors.