"The Fallen Star"

Upon a storm-torn eve, when thunder roared,
And lightning danced with heaven’s silver sword,
A star, once bright in midnight's velvet dome,
Was struck and flung far from its starlit home.

It plummeted through clouds in tearful blaze,
Its brilliance lost in fire’s cruel embrace.
To Earth it fell, to fields of emerald grain,
Where fireflies danced in quiet, warm refrain.

No crown of light, no golden rays remained,
Just stardust weeping where its soul was chained.
The worms and beetles welcomed it with grace,
And taught it how to smile in that dark place.

It learned to hum the songs of moss and dew,
To cherish stars not only born, but grew.
It wandered paths where twilight softly crept,
And in the arms of humble earth, it slept.

But lo—one eve beneath the willow tree,
It glimpsed a silver photograph set free:
A picture of the moon, so high and wide,
Reflected in a puddle by its side.

Its stony heart began to throb and ache,
A thousand memories did swiftly wake.
The songs it sang with sisters in the skies,
The glow it wore—a jewel in night’s guise.

And from its eyes, long dry, the tears did stream,
Each drop a loss, a wish, a shattered dream.
The fireflies blinked, confused by such a sight,
As grief eclipsed what once had learned delight.

It cried until the morning broke the dark,
Its final breath a whisper, soft and stark.
Then stardust rose, in shimmered veil and gleam,
To where the moonlight weaves the weeper’s dream.

There, in the sky’s embrace, its soul took flight,
And kissed the Moon—a reunion of light.
No longer bound to Earth’s forgiving crust,
It lived again, in love, in stars, in trust.

what benefit would there be for me to admit
to such shameful feelings
you fuel my every twist of hand
you make my poems the most refined
all my songs stem from the pain
you've inflicted to my heart
my most raw emotions and uncontrolled stem from your every action

what's the benefit in admitting something so destructive?
what's the point allowing myself to lose the one thing that keeps me breathing ?
cause how do I explain that my love for you leaves me for dead .
gasping for air ,
no more blood pumping my body
as it's core is no longer there
how do I explain my heart leaving me for dead
with  the sole purpose of running to you with it's fleeting energy left

how do I explain my heart leaving it's natural functions
committing suicide as without me it dies
for the the sole purpose of meeting your own?
like the mere presence of the one it craves is worth the worst kinds of death
the slow and heavy ones , that leads my vacant eyes to fathom the most untrue outcomes.

how do I explain that you drain me of all my being , with just one part of me being yours
Why did I fail to realise that in my chest was not where my heart lied this whole time
or that it belonging to you when you had abondonned me here to die

If Poetry was cornered,
and about to be scorched alive
he would stand still and strong
despite the quivering fear inside.

His murderers would begin to sneer,
watching Death dangle minutes away,
and torcher him before they'd say:
"Any last words, on your last day?"

He'd swiftly swing open,
his delicate pages aflutter
as their wretched smiles
start to crack and sputter,
in shock at the boldness
of being openly sighted
and so very vulnerable
to being instantly ignited
just to save the great works
of all the world's poets,
who poured out their hearts
so purposefully in pen.

They'd see pieces of Poe,
about to exist Nevermore.
The words of Angelou,
with emotion in store.

Frost and Untaken Roads
that now all lead to Death.
Wordsworth's wisest words,
soon to take a final breath.

Eliot and The Wasteland
will find one another soon.
Not even sad Shakespeare
is going to last till' noon.

As the observing evildoers watched,
Poetry paused on a piece prepared:
"Because I Could Not Stop for Death,"
to which they remorsefully stared.

What a shame it would be,
said proud Poetry,
to let these legacies die.
the spirits of every poet
will haunt you if you try!

The mob looked at one another,
and quickly fled the scene,
leaving the ending as happy as
A Midnight Summers Dream!

The weather is important when writing a play,
Such is when Romeo and Juliet was shown,
It was a cold and raining day.

So the audience would forget about the heat,
Off in fair Verona had Shakespeare failed,
To keep mention of the begrudging summer.

This poem was mused by:
"Shakespeare won't look at me" by ThomasW.Case
-----------------------------------  -------------­-------------------

We fill our lives with work and stress
in the lust for new possessions
we're taught that this is called success
and it makes for good impressions

But pleasures we’re taught to suppress
so our souls will fly up to the heavens
but this flesh that god has gifted us
are our only true possessions

If we find ourselves casually undressed
which is frankly, our natural condition
and if ****** needs should be addressed
there’s no need for ****** confessions

for pleasure is something to be expressed
if we’re alone or in a marvelous coalition
So I wish you satisfaction in elations quest
as you work the knobs, slants and levers
because this isn’t some kind of competition

P.S. Will Shakespeare was familiar with *******'s guilty thrills.
"The expense of spirit, in a waste of shame is lust in action"
.
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A song for this:
Flowers by Miley Cyrus

shall i compare myself to others every day?
they are more charming, and more talented:
tough luck does take its toll; often too hefty to pay,
and the bill of regrets is way past its due date;
sometimes too hot the baton of pride burns inside,
and often in a sea of mediocrity naked, i swim;
and every ball from ball sometimes drops,
by a poet in his underpants, and *****, untrimm’d;
but my eternal hard-on shall not fade,
nor lose faith inside the hole i bore’st;
nor shall spite keep me from dues unpaid,
when that eternal hard-on in time so grow’st:
so long as i can sing, profoundly and care-free,
so long lives this - it’s a fun read, won’t you agree?

In a faraway place and faraway time
stood square a cabin rotted pine and bramble flue.
Once haven for old crones craven - their skins thin-skinned slivers of brine;
now nary a soot line marked a witches' brew.

In the dark, swirling silver stark and creatures would quiver
held over ***-stew thither, along hymns of damning chanted.
Waggled tongues with an evil glaze would slither,
cursing in eye, toe, and liver the bubbling broth decanted.

Oh a malkin giggled and a paddock piggled;
sniggled in a mirth-marked cauldron's rubble double bubble.
With a whoosh and a swish a bony finger had wiggled,
as papery skin withered the drubble swuddle brubble.

On those blackest of nights, when wolves would fear the moon,
howls held loomed, choked on down the throat of dusk.
Hatred uttered its sleepy breath, pitch-entombed
and justice marooned under a tar most brusque.

Shadows danced incantation
for an occultish creation, oh the devil's bidding be done!
Flamed carnation, neither here nor there god-fearing,
cackling a primrose coronation; the stirring spoon spun!

Death-catcher chimes hung close upon the entry;
a dust since turn of century marred bone;
witches’ wart-encrusted noses crinkled at gentry;
chenille voices sung with celerity a hellish praise: Divinum Occultum.

A little duende ran down the cauldron,
gloom chanting a chant come out with a hurl.
Burnt feet chasing away all ghosts ‘n goblins,
unfurling like whisper from the concoction:

Doom upon all the world.

There’re so many sad love poems around here.
If you guys need help negotiating love’s slippery *****,
let me offer you, your own, romantic horoscope!:

Don’t court romantic disaster
don’t mistake a lightbulb for the moon
Titanic wasn't a rom com

and a sad update:
Grand romantic gestures don’t happen anymore,
you're lucky to get a vibration in our pocket with a "sorry" text

I know what you're thinking though, “We didn’t know the moon was useless until we landed on it,” but once you’ve ‘landed’ on a guy (or girl), once or twice, it’s too late—you’re likely ‘in it.’

Big picture-wise, I think we all have Shakespeare to thank for unrealistic, romantic storylines. Romeo & Juliet are the perfect example—they meet, fall in love and marry the very next day.

In Shakespeare’s defense though, love in his world-building was always messy and imperfect, and there were few "happily ever after" narratives. (The exception being Beatrice and Benedick, in ‘Much Ado About Nothing’).

In a side note, my weekly horoscope (Libra) for the Thanksgiving holiday reads:
“You’ve become so self-centered, It’s all about you. What about your family? Before you go emo and angry, change your perspective—own it—strive to improve relationships.”
Sarsh (so harsh), in this writer’s opinion.
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(Songs for this):
Love Is In Town by Brenda Boykin
Do You Even Know? by Rae Morris

“O, who hath done this deed?”
        
“Nobody, I myself. Farewell./Commend me to my kind lord. O, farewell” ~ Othello V.ii
            
                                     *

The day my dad built my new bed, I cried for hours.
At last, a frame that will lift me up,
Not force me down.
At last, a frame that was fit for purpose.

No more hiding from the monster that lived underneath,
overhead and
in-between my sheets.

Somewhere to lie in without being lied to.

            (It’s just a bed, but it’s a safe place to rest my head.)

Somewhere to peacefully retire, not hastily retreat.

            (It’s just a bed, but it’s without him, so it’s without sin.)

There used to be so much silence after all the violence
          “And yet, she must die.”
You could use the very knife my life rested on to
Cut the tension in the room.

But now, Sweet Desdemona!
Now your rest is due.
He took your every breath away but
His chaos could not consume
Your famous last words.
He cannot reach you in your eternal sleep.

For months, I have thought you lucky, and envied your fate.
But now, at long last, I have found comfort in my own bed frame.