I'm a star and I'm alone
Waiting for Neptune to dream;
Plan and write it in scheme
I started small but I have since grown,
Yet the night sky still seems baron
An old lonely sun, I stand misunderstood
I wish there was a way in which I could;
Draw your face as a constellation

Let your fathomless eyes;
With sanguine perception
Illuminate my cold and rusty heart,
Light up the dark and deserted skies
Forgive all this star has done,
And lay at my feet a chance to rechart

Half asleep feet shuffle in aimlessly;
Water fills the celestial coffeepot.
Chocolate brown grounds by a spoon are allot.
A spoonful spills to the floor! This marks its tragedy.
Another, another, so painfully,
This tragedy would make any distraught.
How can sleep be torn from eyes so bloodshot
Without the black elixir so holy?

The sleepy feet walk through the garage door,
Each brooms' handle is long like cold harpoons.
It sweeps up the wasted dreams on the floor.
"I measured out my life in coffee spoons."1
The tedious toil begins once more,
And so go the morning coffee mistunes.


1 - From "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot

I brought her to the water by the moon,
To share with her, the shade beside the sea,
I gave to her my eyes, that she might see,
and sang to her the most afflicted tune.

I prayed of her what she might ever do,
When faced with all the mightiest would fear,
She whispered, through a solitary tear,
A crystal verse to stay her last adieu.

When fires of gold have shed their morning light,
When embers fade and only ash remains,
When enemies of old are at the gates,

Do not embrace the darkness of that night,
Or think upon those ashes with disdain,
For all that might remain will share our fate.

If thou perchance hast longed for my embrace;
thou felt its spectre linger on thy skin,
thou must unearth a paradise wherein
abundant is the fruit that thou shall taste.
     Its sweetness and perfume will thus invade
thyself, who art perplexed by strident din,
(which one mistakes to be the medicine)
and shall be cured of solitude's malaise.
     And thou may wonder where doth one procure
this nectar so sublime that guarantees
escaping from the claws of loneliness?
    In silence, these empyreal orchards endure
the perturbations of the fleeting years,
and in the fruits they bear - thither I rest.

Some people say that poetry has died.
No point to put on paper poesy bold,
No longer needing sonnets - rhymes of old
Which one inside can softer feelings hide.
To Netflix, Insta, Amazon they run
And dull their brains with shows of Island’s Love.
No thoughts of flowers, nightingales or doves;
Minds choked with wealth and *** and hate, and guns.
But never they’ve seen your smile in morning’s light
And wished to catch it – tangled, held in rhyme.
They’ve never placed their head upon your lap
And felt the need to jar the safe delight
Of looking into eyes so warm, sublime,
And thought of methods, forms: eternal traps.

Desde un rascacielo miro
fijamente las luces brillantes
pero soy ciego, un infante
aparte del mundo de abajo
Desde las montañas, y sus picos
vientos suenan al horizonte
tocando el sol invariante
estar sólo, tan magnificado
Pero todo lo que ve no es nada
¿Qué es esta luz del cielo?
¡Un resol! El sol es tu sonrisa,
¿O la música de la tierra?
Las aves solo cantan ruido
Solo quiero oír tu risa

When we first met I told you just how beautiful you were.
Like the pale lavender sky rewarding me for getting up.
Like a diner in the distance drinking each distasteful cup.
You blinked twice and told me that you weren’t so sure.
Your disarray was perfect, repulsive with allure.
You were fighting through the crowd like a nectar drop through moths.
Everything was terrible, your good was just enough.
And I loved every little quirk that others just endured.

On the day you broke the glamour I was lying in my bed.
You were sending me letters saying all the things that I have done
The sudden rush of inputs started streaming through my head.
My world was dark already, with you as the sun.
And as the sun did set that evening, sinking down like lead,
the brightness of my colors dulled with everything I've done.

The first draft is always hard.
The hardest, if I were to be honest.
When writing, you don’t want to hold back the best
No, not even a shard
Don’t let your story be scarred
Or be darkened like onyx
If you write freely, you’ll be astonished.
But don’t let your idea be charred.
If you don’t want to spend the time

Because you don’t think you have talent
And because you don’t like rhymes
Or want to have a popular valent
To keep your writing in its prime
You must share and be gallant