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Carlo C Gomez Oct 21
Reach out and touch
The reflective surface,
Nearly-perfect, infinite.
She's an unbreakable object held
Within stasis,
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
It did,
And with a centuries-old yawn,
She fixed her face upon
Her growing public,
And broke through
To give birth to a star.
Brent Kincaid Dec 2015
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.
Tony Luxton Nov 2015
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 a hack.
You are just normal.
Like the rest of us.
So stop trying to get discovered,
And start
And Creating
Something for yourself.
Something for the world to see.
Something original.
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 worthwhile.
Something from your heart.
Then you have a chance.
A small chance,
But still a chance
To be a star.
kanma Oduwegwu May 2015
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.
Cara Little Nov 2014




(A chronological tale of a star who could not handle fame)
ZinaLisha Jun 2014

what can make
such beautiful
souls corrupt?

Life answers.
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
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 —