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Malia May 13
I used to be hues of yellow,
Green, blue, purple, and red.
With the sky as my soul
Feeling vibrant and bold
Like the stories I spun in my head.

A girl made of stars
Is bound to burn out
If her light can no longer be fed.
Learned the rules, learned the game,
Then I scrapped my old ways,
Sinking in water that I used to tread.

Your face was a charcoal portrait,
So I touched it to just see you smile.
But I smudged you all up and I’m covered in gray,
And the light, it retreats when I’m in the sun’s rays,
And I feel like the night everyone wishes was day—

But I take a deep breath.

And I find that old spark.

Just to realize that it never even went away.
“My childlike creativity, purity, and honesty is honestly being crowded by these grown thoughts.”

— Kanye West
Jeremy Betts May 6
My first mistake;
Going to Icarus to learn how to fly
In essence shrinking the distance to a wrap of pine
Resting eternal, days fly by
But never again will a day go by
Where I'll see another dark cloud looming in my sky
Where I'm headed there is no sky

And over the specks of dust and rose-colored evenings,
in the melancholic fate of soliloquy;
yet as wretched as her soul be, her very first breath was, “Have mercy.”
The pale, starry-eyed of April’s sky ends, and it’s pouring; the trees are swaying in their places; the sun is impressed by the rising of the lilies.
Daunted by the ray of light, quietly caressing its innocence.
She looked over the moon, as if it were painted by someone she knew.
In hope, she clenched her fist and whispered again and again and again.
Like the petals of dried daisies fallen from the moon.
She knew it’s written on the stars; someone knows her name.
The airy summer between spring and March’s language, an imprecise grief of longing,
a desert of bones starved on
an ethereal ghost of past summers and the sickening void of the night sky,
she needed to endure
something in her holler with violence—some rage kept on the other side of her old pillow.
And yet it’s still written on the stars—someone knows her name.
Where the river flows, she follows.
In hopes she’d be directed to the one who wrote her;
achingly believing she’s the muse this time.
Who else could have written her the way she is?
With her eyes the same as the earthly sand,
her lips alive in light gray, with the way she lit up when the moon reveals himself to her,
the sea pushes upon the land as if it were longing to kiss her weary feet.
With the way her hips dance when she walks, when she closes her eyes, only she can hear her author’s note at the back of her heart. Slowly yet surely whispering, “It’s written on the stars. I wrote your name, my love.”
And so she follows the flow of the river, faithfully locking her eyes in the waters' steepness. She gently brushes the cold river, and so it quietly blushes at the thought of her.

That someone like her was cared for enough by her own artist.
april, you were legendary and momentary. good days are coming.
Reimers Apr 20
I’d craft you a poem, yet words may fall short,
To capture the joy, the laughter, the rapport.
The very essence of what sets you apart,
The moment we met, the joy in my heart.

Instead, gaze upon the night's starlit design,
Connect the dots, the constellations align.
A grand spectacle, yet a void unseen,
A tapestry incomplete, until you intervened.

Stand amidst the cosmos, in lunar glow,
The missing piece, the truth starts to show.
By now, you must surely know,
How your presence completes this poem I bestow.
Been awhile since I wrote, but I put all my heart into this. Hopefully I can write more
With each other, I guess
they had started to reason,
and that is how the sky and the sea
Eventually met at the horizon.
Copyright Simran Guwalani
Vallery Apr 10
Stars in the night sky,
so brilliantly shining...
They light my way home.
Jme Love Apr 5
You gave me wings
We flew so high
You cut them off
That night in the sky
Fell to the earth
Shattered and bruised i
From the dirt and rubble
Without you
neth jones Mar 26
butterflied flay of cloud
Rorschach blots
                  cricket white on nursery blue
skilled autopsy of the summer sky
i feel like raw skin having a plaster removed

original version -

a butterflied flay of cloud
white on baby blue ink blot test
pulling apart in two directions equally
a skilled autopsy of the summer sky
Piotr Balkus Mar 22
Don't watch the clouds;
watch the sky.
I give this advice
to myself.
el Mar 20
the stars remind me of things
that they will never remind you of
you will look at the stars
and not think of anything but what they are
i will look at the stars and think of you
i will always look up at the stars
hoping that you are too
but within the stars i see you
i read them like braille
as they tell me our story
at the very least
the ones in our memories
i miss you
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