The letters in my words
Are like keys on a piano,
And I play them, all night,
To hear their rhythm.
I don’t write them down.
I just play them,
With two hands.
Rarely looking down.
Some call them poems,
Others call them songs,
Some call them stories,
And say they're too long.
They don’t know,
Who I am,
Nor, who they’re about.
The writer is the car,
And the road is written,
It leads to the end of
a broken bridge, and
Its car is always missing.
Perhaps he is venting,
Perhaps he’s reminiscing.
Perhaps he’s talking
Reading, being another
Form of listening.
Perhaps he knows
What he’s going through.
Another word for, if.
Perhaps. What if?
Perhaps is an If
Without a question mark
At the end of it.
The ghosts come back to haunt her,
Their shadows lurking over the ancient escritoire,
Quill in hand, paper a blank canvas,
Wondering if the poets of the past would praise her
Or look on her in scorn,
Will her own words be a wordsmith's dream?
Will she live a travesty and be idolized in death?
She buzzes with unease,
Feeling the fierce grip of inspiration overcome her,
Succumbing her to its essence before it vanishes,
And in her isolation, the words dance,
Sometimes in harmony, sometimes in battle.
A writer's eyes closed forever
Cold lips will never read the lines no more
A broken heart put forth
Neatly cut hair, fair and pale
In your face a soft expression
But under your smile fighting a tyrannic battle of depression
Revealed the tragic in your words
Betrayed and glorified, innocent and scared
A Daddy's girl with no place to go
A proud Mum living with a grown child
Larger than a life of symbolism and mythology
That couldn't deal with your radiance
Am I Lilith or am I Eve?
Maybe both in one
Every wife's a mistress, every saint a sinner and the biter bit
Tell me Syl, the reason for your chosen silence
Will our fates coincide
Or did you die for me to reunite all those who failed in just one life?
Like me my dear
You were the first, did you want to be the last?
They don't talk anymore, your cold lips
We are the scribes,
the poets that open hearts to change the world.
We are the sages,
that move cross desserts that need our lyrics as if water.
We are ground breakers,
who lead the many to travel in our vortex of words.
We are special ones
who awaken mankind inside love
launching dreams, trust, and peace.
StarBG © 2017
publication bound by my words
as lyrics collegiate onto page.
Red blood cells swim in grace to illuminate thoughts.
White blood cells float in protection mode
as words of light inspire reader.
My heart beats with rhythms to form verse.
My mind searches to anchor illusions grand.
My imagination soars to make eye catcher phases.
And as page void of creative words
is reformed into visions as if pen a chisel
and paper block,
I smile, following my souls path
as author who gifts a readers heart.
StarBG © 2017
it just a starts towards the final destination called death
but roots are not specified for it.
so every new born is a story teller ,
he tells a new story which state a cause of a birth,
with the tense called past and verb called live
and noun called he/she.
sorry, there is no alternative climax for it
and no questions at all. fill in the blanks of each irrelevance-
with the adverb which is “fate”.