stardust fell down from her honey brown eyes and kissed the neck of her wooden guitar and inside her aquamarine gloom lies truly the most ethereal gold by far and for every single shaky breath is worth one hundred dollars to a fool and for every fragile thought of death is cut exactly like a priceless jewel her hurt worn like a 1950s fur as she licks the rotten fruit of Eden they rearrange her life all around her into their own holy flower garden she, seraph, looks up to the heavens gates remembers how it felt, plummeting to hate
I pin the anemic bodies of poems to the bed of palm like they are cadavers waiting to be d i s s e c t e d.
This is the only way I know to make sense of things, each enjambed line a heartbeat closer to understanding this sadness (or letting go of it).
I gawk at the contents of the shelves that live amongst the curdling strips of wallpaper. Yellowing mason jars, each containing some tragic specimen swimming in formaldehyde tears-- Plath's last breaths; Sexton's paper cut fingertips; Van Gogh's severed flesh.
The sight of this ghastly collection sends the scars on my wrists into a spiralling ache.
I once made the mistake of assuming poetry would instantaneously exorcize the aching-- it only brought me closer.
But I must remember that bleeding is the last stop on the route to mending; it's gotta hurt before it can heal.
So I write, bear the sting of these words as they stitch together the tattered patchwork of my heart; until the scars meet at the pinnacle of my anatomy, crisscross, bright constellations flowering from the darkness, starlit tulips that shake the sorrowed dew drops from their rain-torn petals, celestial hieroglyphs waiting to be read-- This is your history; not your future.
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the moon lovingly caresses us in her soft midnight blanket sown with stars we look up and see infinite beauty in a universe so vast we are small and insignificant but we are born of recycled star dust because fate thought us beautiful enough to belong beside the celestial
Well, I think you could my red wine. My sweet decadence. Or maybe you could be my sunshine, My moonlight. You could be my celestial dream. In my heard is such precedence, Such a hope sublime. I hope that you could be my red wine. In time, My sweet decadence.
The stars in the sky, they seem to sear They are pasted onto a charred black canvas It's only a matter of time until the glue melts And what then?- I think it will rain molten glue And when it falls, Who shall it mutilate? Who shall it blind? Who shall it bind together?
I do not claim to know much about the stars or the universe or how it works; but what I do know is that when two celestial bodies cross paths, they can either collide or alter each other's trajectories forever.
Just like when you meet certain people in your life.