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Star BG Jan 2018
She bleeds on me
with her negative flowing jargon
that attaches like plague.

Words that dishonor my very soul.
Red corpuscles from heart
try to disintegrate its power
as blood melts into me
robbing me from life energy.

Ego jumps in
supporting her disease of thoughts
as I determined to survive reach for truth.

Positive words to bath in
and wash blood away.

Truths that say,
I am a smart, precious,
gifted and
deserving to be free

Free from the disease of my mothers blindness.
inspired by branded glaciers GE   Thank You
Pleas NOTE  I still love my mother. She helped me heal past life stuff and made me strong. There is NOTHING I would not do for her at her age of 91.
But it is important to get out to let scab form and not get opened again.
Star BG Jul 2017
Word-weavers we are carefully choosing
how to entwine our visions in moment.

We curve the textured linen page
with phases that in-hanse a readers mind.  

We create loops of poetic jargon
that dances to inspire a readers eye.

And when our cloth of vellum is done,
we present our gift to all who gather
in our tapestry of words.
Just thought of word word-weavers and then this poem was birthed. :)
Star BG May 2017
I, the poet wears many hats to adorn self at any given time.

Musician, orchestrating with instrument of pen, expressive words upon page.

Artist, painting with beautiful colorful jargon, to open eyes and hearts inside grace.

Gardener, planting seeds of thoughts for them to bloom inside readers mind.

Chief, dishing out many a line, filled with delicious words to tantalize reader.

Landscaper, constructing scenery as beautiful as a mountain, or deep as an ocean.

Sculptor, molding craft of words sometimes soft and light, other times sharp as steel.

Teacher, enlightening one with information to open their consciousness if they choose.

Sailor, guiding ship-like eyes across a sea of words to move into calm waters for peace.

Laborer, picking just the right phase, to get a fresh new perspective inside a poem.

Singer, using one's rhythmic voice to echo inside vibrations of a sonnet that goes viral.

Doctor,  becoming a wordologist aiding the reader to receive insight to help them heal.

Secretary, to self who writes and transcribes many an ode so reader and poet has peace.

I, poet has a wardrobe quite extensive to pull from, on a creative journey of sharing.

StarBG © 2017
inspired by MU
Star BG May 2017
I am an artist
painting ones eyes with colorful jargon.
Red for passion that strikes a memory.
Green for the abundance of words that allows reader to think.
Blue for open sky that leaves room to drift in visions.
Purple my favorite to tweak the imagination
with peaceful vibrations.
Orange for the juice that flows inside a poem.
giving place to roam.
Pink like cotton candy that tickles the taste buds
for expansion of heart.
Black for words that tempt one to look within
and face the dark for cleansing.

Playground of colors flow for a writer artist to color with
as the reader sits to enjoy, ponder, and celebrate in their own space.

StarBG © 2017
inspired by Yasaman
Brooke Davis Aug 2015
I can't write these sentences anymore,
or piece them together
to make sense,

crafting coherent thoughts
is hard enough...

words could never express
half of what i'm feeling.
It's getting harder and harder
to feel human anymore.
Sara L Russell Jan 2015
Sara L Russell 20/1/15 11:32*

Windows of opportunity
ways of touching base
teamwork with alacrity
cutting to the chase
jingoist linguistics
speaking business tongues
ladders of loquaciousness
rushing up the rungs

See all the little workmates
running for the bus
trying not to be late
not to cause a fuss
every day frenetic
 a speeding metronome
a life too energetic
so glad I work from home.
Eilis Ni Eidhin Sep 2014
Take life in bitesized chunks, let the histories overlap, BOOM! New life, fresh life everlasting.

precarious words Jun 2014
I'm ruptured whole and am considered
as my
amygdala slides through the trachea drops to my ventricles falls through the aorta plunges to my diaphragm hits the esophagus crashes to my phalanges.         There is no hope.
May I hold something over your cranium?
May I remind you of your neuron imbalance? And yet
you sit and
watch as
my septum separates from the left atrium from the right ventricle from the bicuspid from the tricuspid from the pulmonary semi-lunar valve.
I love you.                             (Stupid cerebral cortex.)
I love you.                             (Imprudent Broca's area.)
I love you.                             (Hopeless frontal lobe.)
I love your nonfunctional mind and functional soul and


this is all a metaphor for unrequited love.
much older poem

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