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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
I know to
make sense of things,
each enjambed line
a heartbeat closer
to understanding this
(or letting

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,
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.
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

(P.S. Use a computer to ensure an optimal reading experience.)
Leah Barron Jan 11
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.
You could be my red wine
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?
J Dec 2018
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

Just like when
you meet certain
people in your life.
Just like when you changed mine.
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