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On that last day
Before everyone else
He came to her
In secret
And finished
What they had begun
Earlier
In silence
A die rolls
And someone dies
It happens quickly
Before our eyes
We do not move
We do not feel
We only spin the giant wheel
And then we hope
To stay atop
Another round
With a bit of dope
Before we too
Will roll the die
Before we too
Shall roll up and die
Last night I ate broccoli and cheddar soup
from Panera
--in a breadbowl

which I gave to my mouse, Chai;
now I am at the typewriter,
we are listening to Ziggy.

And with Chai sitting inside of it
the breadbowl looks like
a little mud hut in Mali
I love my mouse
I love my mouse
We must make things right
The Human misery has caused great pain and suffering
A darkness to grow and evil power to take over our world
The human race has lost sight
Must regain through the power of love
Not of just one person
The people of the whole
Love must grow and thrive
We must hang onto it and pass it around like a joint
This must be the year of a new era a revolution

***** facebook, cell phones, and twitter
It all just makes for a society so bitter
The face on the tv screen
Isn't just another sad teen
Its someones child, brother, sister, best friend
There is all too much violence
And way too much silence
Speak up!!
Don't let the words be unsaid


If we don't regain this sight
Technology has blinded from us
We all sit around not participating in this fight
Win the war against evil
Not with guns
And knives mind you
Then I'm afraid my friend..
I fear that everything will come to an end
I'm scared for my town that I live in. Every day there are more and more ****** and killings on the news. Its so sad. Before I just brushed it off like that towns doomed anyways. But then I realized that these are real people. They belong to someone, they belong to us. We can't ignore the pain and suffering that so many people are going through. I'm so sick of war. Guns and knives. I wish there was someway we could fix our world. Its saddens me so much how so many young and innocent lives are lost everyday. Through suicide, ******, sickness. The world is a scary place. I'm sorry I just have alot of thoughts on this subject.
She stumbles down these roads which lie
A thousand miles to get her by
But which path is the road she’s taken
Lies awake for a past mistaken
As a choice

It was not her choice

She was beat, forced down on knees bruised black
Told her she had not a chance for attack
But you sit there and call her a *****
For acts she’s only been told to do before
It was not her choice

As a choice

She ran farther than black roads could take her
Past those who said they did her a favor
But where can she turn on a path without light
All she can see are the stars in the night
As a choice

It was not her choice

She lied awake, and tried to scream
Wrote it all down in her pages unseen
But now her past has come to haunt them
Because of her memories she’s condemned
It was not her choice

As a choice

She runs faster than crashing waves
Through lines of friends that go for days
But who will save her if she falls
She’s running so fast, after all
As a choice

It was not her choice
The problem with phantoms, rings so clear
Like fear, they don't just go away
The more is learnt of the world, the smaller it becomes
The less of open space is felt.


The mnemonist lives in a pretty tale
And heads the way off rocky shores
For, oft a fool will come along
And wilful, bash his mind on reef.


Spill then thee, cantankerous spirit
Thy guts of ill-placed rancour
For in puny efforts to uproot
Fresh soil turned is...fresh soil turned.


The more we feed on empty words
The larger grows that aching void
Engulfing all but esurience
Engorged thus, thee will choke.


A mere gesture of goodwill
And extending act of kindness
Will conquer every wicked sentiment
And leave thee broken ... in thy own mess.


So, thy tiresome pictures on the wall, we see
Paint on, dear artist, paint on
These very merry parties, ye assemble
Will ken thy sharp and twisted ire.


Push on, weary soul, try to find thy heart
Thee seest not thy efforts fall in vain,
Fail to latch, for thy error sits too tall
In the absence of saving grace.


So caught up in thyself, art thee
Thine eye too bright upon the prize
That thou did not see thy plot at play
Thy goest yet on; breaching full redemption.


Weave thus thy tale and clothe thy mind
For, in this act, thy mind doth shut
So ill-fitting thy own garish attire
Seams must needs split eventual.


Seeketh truth and truest, thy find's a trove
But sadder yet's the day, indeed
All vouch that in thy heavy plunder
Its value now plain conferred.


Treasure trinkets, happy hoops
Whatever be thy favour's currency
When day is done and swift sea smoothes
Revered will always be...saving grace.


Star Toucher, 17 February 2013
(A dedication and heartfelt thanks to the mercy of TRUE amity....so rare :-)
(Yet, when recognising falseness in others, deal it ...blows of kindness!)

Peace
Star Toucher
Carrying round this cage of secrets
Heavy on the soul
Feel the last rattle upon me
Vultures fly overhead for cool pickings.

The battle is not with death but me
I feel the battles I've had throughout my life
Battles against me, few for me
Battles against myself.

Then death rolled open its rich tapestry
Oh, and was it red!
As I stepped onto that final rung
I felt the wrestling inside; the rattling of that cage.

Great is pity for carrying over this onerous charge
I ball my fist, rage at the skies
And nought but silence greets my fear
Thus graceful forward; no more to prove.

I've heard that G-d is love...
Let's hope I meet no wrath
I've heard speak of rebirth
Oh, let me unburden afore I leave.

And the rattle of the cage's so loud
Lying here, I try to tell you things
But 'tis of little use, for I am witness to
The last moments of this life . . . .

Eyes feel lead-laden, hands so heavy
Head feels like stone, an appendage
Tongue swells up; cannot speak
And the lights go out inside my head . . . .

Yes, someone turned out the sparkle in my core . . . .

(I think that . . . . no, I think . . . . )

And then . . . . simply,

I am no more . . . .
No more.

( . . . .  )


Star Toucher, 21 February 2013
I just sit there silence
Its all noise and clutter
Where there are numbers I see white space
When you speak its like your speaking in tongue

Where I used play math like a game
Now turns my brain into mush
I can't turn X into brilliance
Into something that has meaning

I sit and stare at the clock
Hoping and willing the minutes to pass
I watch and listen as everyone else finds answers
Like they are all geniuses and I"m just your average joe

I imagine someone beating the answers out
One, Two, Three The X's won't come loose
Keep pounding till it becomes clear
The path to X is  there I know it!!

Of course I don't want to be average I want to be something
I want to solve X
Fix X
Define X
Who exactly is X?
Does X have boundaries?
Does it lie on the X and Y plane?
It's just a boring old line.
If I can't find X it will be the death of me
Is it only math?
I use a flashlight
Shine it
Shed light
On what?
On me?
I'm not creative
I don't deliver any talents worth mentioning
Keep that spotlight off of me

My words don't shine bright
Stand out
Its the same thing over and over
Repeat after me
I am not creative
My words don't shine bright
Stand out
Its the same thing over and over

I'm like that annoying cd that skips repeatedly
The same phrase, the same verse

I can't mold something new out of already hardened clay
I can't dream up beautiful rhyming words
I can't make a trending poem
Not one that paints a gorgeous portrait in the mind of its readers

We can talk about roses all day long if you want
Or tree's and sunshine
And blue sky's!!
Oh and rainbows and butterflys
If that's what makes a poem worth reading
We can talk about love
And hearts
We can hold hands and blows kisses
Peace and harmony

Or we could talk about the real stuff
The Shadows
The dark stuff
Teardrops
The shattered mirrors
All of our fears
The things that bring about nightmares
The truth
The ugliness
The misery
The dark and twisted stuff
They say the mentally disturbed are the most creative

Its up to you
Dear poet
Person sitting there at the steering wheel
Staring at the road ahead
Put the car in drive
Steer it in the right direction
Or is there a right direction?

Its all just space
Blank space
The pen just sits there in your hand
Waiting for an idea to take shape
Hope its going to be worth the struggle
The self loathing
Worth picking and prodding at your ego
Telling you, you **** at writing
So why bother right?

It's more than just a poem
Its more then just a page in your story
A direction in your life
A struggle
A meaning
A life
Its your life
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