Reach out and touch
The reflective surface,
She's an unbreakable object held
A long-durational sleeper,
Motionless in her far-off stare.
Time dilation may be absolute,
But there's no denial
Of a sundry smile
And questioning brow.
Glass divides she
From true self,
Kept in the hold
As priceless cargo
That once inspired the likes
Of da Vinci.
Thus Snow White wasn't quite dead
When the trap was sprung,
Her day lay in wait
For a kiss of life:
An event horizon.
Lift the lid
And with a centuries-old yawn,
She fixed her face upon
Her growing public,
And broke through
To give birth to a star.
Fame is a kind of addiction.
It can be a lethal condition
If taken with no restriction
Real life succumbs to fiction.
Elvis took too much stuff.
Janis fell for too much guff.
Jimi didn’t quit soon enough.
Morrison had to act tough.
It was all about being a star
Instead of being what you are.
Life is not a big expensive car
It’s what you have done so far.
Becoming a famous insufferable,
And ordinarily unapproachable,
Can make behavior intolerable
Rendering you reprehensible.
They turned away with a shrug
Went back to a favorite drug
Left a dead body for others to lug;
Their fame swept under a rug.
The pretty face won’t protect you
No matter how often they inject you.
In time your fans will neglect you
But the coroner won’t reject you.
The star insures that his crew,
Let him do what he wants to do.
Refuse him and you’re through
The star has no use for what’s true.
You made it to the Top of the Pops.
What was it like to be idolized
- do you still savour the fame
- does it remain or fade?
'I am left with what I am,
needing to recognized myself
for what I am and always was.'
- But is nothing left of stardom?
'A star! A shooting star more like
that quickly falls to Earth
dazzling itself, burning away
its substance in the flames.'
You know what would be miraculous.
The comprehension of reality among the populace in general.
That would be a miracle.
We live in an age where these twenty something tweens believe that they are all,
One second from stardom.
It doesn't matter how many people
Follow you on Twitter,
Friend you on Facebook,
Or how many followers you have for your YouTube channel,
If you can't find a single original thought for yourself
In that pop music filled-
Romance and Action movie watching-
Book of the month club reading-
Head of yours,
If you can't think and feel for yourself
YOU ARE NOT A STAR
You are a hack.
You are just normal.
Like the rest of us.
So stop trying to get discovered,
Something for yourself.
Something for the world to see.
Because you can't get by on the coat tails of others forever.
Sooner or later you will need to survive on your own.
And then when you've created something on your own.
Something from your heart.
Then you have a chance.
A small chance,
But still a chance
To be a star.
left after suckle
as babes in the wood
he whispered his goodbye
with sour quavering lips
the wonders of stardoms
that captured his heart
now i mean all
to myself only and life
he left with a buckle
to get me a ram
and came back so gleeful
i left all to hear
he ranted of stardom
but left me behind
the moment that struck me
my life took a turn
he left with his sickle
and i found my me
the entity hidden
beneath his towering gaze
now i peeped at the world
for the first time in life
this thing would not be
if he never said bye
i live with my sparkle
i got all alone
the moment he left me
i picked up and ran
i caught on with age grade
their laughter and all
i now drill the wonders
of pure water mines.
(A chronological tale of a star who could not handle fame)
what can make
You're sitting across a table, in the next room- and it's the month of July.
And as the beads of sweat chip off your forehead
like a shank of butcher's meat,
your dorcel fin peaks through the sand where my toes peak through. The picnic table where I write letters; post cards.
I take photos, make reservations, and
even after I'm canceled on for walking around
downtown in my bright neon-pink underwear, I still roll to the
left side of the bed sit up and drop the cigarette I fell asleep on. You're just sitting, first entry: Stardom.
I don't have room for you in the corners.
The corners of this room, padded walls,
shifty vaseline sway- the white cotton stick
of a sucker pointing out of your mouth, its red numero forty dye shines
in the specks of light flicking
out of the horizon like a carousel ride
around and around.
I'm getting a bit dizzy, and even less honest.
If you want to see me spring,
like the silly string on my birthday, yellow silly-putty; molding the monster face,
I observe you through a kaleidoscope of dexedrine and morphine.
Your catastrophe with Xanax, passed out
in alien-green *******, at that party in the abandoned firehouse
on News St., how you could lay trust on me after that
(a daydream with sawing you called me)
sixteen-year-old mishap of an afternoon.
— The End —