When a star dies
It explodes in a pond of colour
It's glow traverses the unforgiveness of time
And a voice pronounces your name

I am far from what I muse live
Haunted by a curse of my fate
But still enchanted by your existence
Never ceasing to burn the candle of my reason

I dream of your famished touch
Your skin labored by perfection
As an artist, you create an ethereal beauty
As an artist, I preserve your beauty with words

You exist only in my lonesome thoughts
My dreams are a bucker
How could you be so far away
If only you are my serenity

Your name is an hymn for love
Star will forever self-destruct
With the hope to become you
The existence of the eternal muse

I don’t get the feminine luxury of being
twenty-five  again every birthday past fifty.
For a year I must live with the snide joke  that
my actual age is a congress of crows position
illustrated in the karma sutra  (page 69).
Biologically I feel ten years older.  
Facially I look fifteen years younger.  
Every year there will be a different  joke
for the new number and another birthday.
But they say age is just a number .
You just  live with  the joke until
that final one comes up.

I do not hate growing older
I hate the failure's reminder
Turning into another number
No achievements to remember
My twenties are almost over
My childhood still need closure

I wish that my birthday didn’t
take a whole day because I
have too many things to do.
I do it to myself but there is just
too much and I feel spread so thin
like the frosting on a birthday cake.
I don’t have the time to celebrate and
what am I doing it for?
I’m not the one who brought me into
this world and now, here I am
squandering it.
I don’t know what I’m doing and
I’m wasting my time and I have
bitten off more than I can chew
and everyone expects greatness
from me.
I constantly fall apart so why does
my birthday deserve to take up
a whole day?

Look at you, Blue Oleander
at the margins
of a birthday wish—

at seventeen, you were
the night’s favorite
sparkler,

and at twenty-seven,
the morning’s
favorite petal to kiss.

Clapping hard lives yore
half a century lauded
illume anchored lives