I know what to do with the polaroids we took over the holidays--
I can burn them.

I know what to do with the seven t-shirts, two sweatshirts, and one jersey you gave me to sleep in and wear while we held each other in bed every night for three years--
I can throw them away.

I know what to do with the necklace you gave me when you visited me, the bracelet you gave me for our six months and the earrings you bought me when we fought last year on my birthday--
I can sell them.

But I don't know what to do with your voice ringing in my head, saying I love you, and then I hate you.

But I don't know what to do with the image of your eyes lighting up when I would greet you at the airport, and then of your arms hesitating to hug me the last time we would ever see each other.

But I don't know what to do with the thought of you holding someone else and giving them your t-shirt to sleep in after a long night in.

And I don't know what to do with the memories. Three years of memories. Of loving you, of you loving me. Of holding you, of you holding me. Of fighting. Of every moment I caught my breath to make sure we were real and then of every moment I wished you hadn't lied or cheated or done something hurtful. Of every little thing that made me want you and want to get away from you all at the same time.

What do I do with all of that?

There are few things I hate more than watercolor,
I muse to myself
As I sit watching
A rigid man
With the perfect posture, really,
Casually watercolor the coffee shop around him

As if we all are just the backdrop
To a life of routine normality
Succumbing to the occasional confrontation
With hot beats of caffeine--

A subject to be posthumously entombed
Executed marginally
Flattened and kept in a sketchbook
That will,
Most likely,
Be a dust collector given one year's breadth.

The cynic in me
Hopes he mistakes the water cup
For his coffee cup
In his feverish efforts,
Sitting slack and unaware
Right next door.

But unintentionally,
It's the bias
Creeping in.
Secretly,
I've never really been
That *good
at watercolor.

There's a quiet murmuration
Of figments of my imagination
Dreams and broken notions
Feelings and emotions
Swirling and rearranging
Into ever-changing shapes in my mind

There are absent gods and howling dogs
And the broken backs of the poor
While jugglers perform tricks with wealth
As nobody seems to care anymore
Amidst marching boots as children shoot
And hope lies dead on the floor

There seems to be a ghost somewhere
Wandering high in purple mountains
And low in deep green valleys
And this roaming soul may well be
A kind of long lost truth
Inside my hidden mind

                               By Phil Roberts

From the balcony of the universe,
in bleacher like clouds, they gather.
Many vibrate in place to observe,
As others aid the humans population.

From the far reaches of the galaxy
in energetic portals, they arrived.
Many reincarnate to assist mankind,
As others join with angels for the fight.

Fight...
To rid the world of the dark ones,
who have controlled all for too long.
To reinstate earth to its true beauty
and assist the many to integrate LOVE energies.
To help as more awaken and need guidance
so all align inside compassion and joy.
To aid in removing the veil of untruths
and stop the Cabal to bring world peace.
To do Gods work to make heaven on Earth,
as its meant to be.

From the balcony of the Solar System,
in the moment where sky holds stars,
love echoes with grace.  
Many beings send their admiration,
As mankind moves with grace
inside hearts with love.

StarBG © 2017

Someone else's ****** mood
Won't bring me down
Smile and be happy
For the day had just begun
Change your mood
Love the day
Take a step back
Be grateful for you are alive