Showers of droplets Break in sparks On moonlit glass Their wintery shine Mirrored to a gaze Spears of ice Melting in the night Trailing windows With silver beads
Contrary to the belief, a dying star doesn't feel pain, the fire in its core sings a song of liberation, all along. in a galaxy distant it simultaneously takes birth Death is not the end of a star, yet another beginning it is!
How many times Can one say I m s o r r y before I m s o r r y becomes I m s o r r y nothing more than I m s o r r y individual letters I m s o r r y That hold no meaning?
I was in an art museum once. I saw a black and white picture hanging on the wall. It was of a potato. Nothing else. Just a potato. I was angry at first. I had just meandered through an exhibit of miniature houses that must have taken hundreds of hours to complete and a crazy amount of attention to detail. This person took a picture of a potato. I thought of what my hipster friends would say. “It’s isn’t just a potato. It’s so much more. It’s art. It probably stands for famine or the Depression or a childhood friend...” No. It is a picture of a potato. I thought I would jump on the bandwagon. So here is my poem: Potato.