Months are far spent and with you i still cannot break words
I must say, you and i have spent this lost time in two different worlds

During which i was about what would be termed infidelity
Faced with guilt i became scared of the consequential reality

I began to search for words excuse my indecent behavior
But non was good enough as words became blur

Eventually i lost my sight of words for expression
Then my train of thought derailed into chaos of volcanic eruption

And even now as i pen down this confession
i cant say much because my mind and hands has lost connection

i was carried away by sexy distractions, oh! dear poetry
i am sorry for committing adultery

If you leave anything that thing also leaves you
Star BG 3d

Secrets of a poet are hidden inside heartbeats,
ready to be played on scripted page,
on platform for readers eyes.

They're buried beneath scar thought to be healed.
Exposed to bleed once again
so a poem can be birthed.

Perhaps, Secrets are inside rays of sun
that dance with kaleidoscope beauty
inside a warm breeze.

Or on top of a shooting star moving in galaxy
that opens one to wish inside a breathe.

Secrets in treasure chest of scribes vault
welcomes a readers eyes
with key-like words and strong intention.

Come, open the vault with eyes and partake
wont you?  The invitation is now given.

Inspired by Sunprincess poem Writing
YoYoWrites May 12

The pen in my hand, the paper remains unwritten.
The pen starts moving writing down the secrets it’s been hidden.
The writer remains quiet but the paper shows how much she’s screaming.
Wrote down how much she misses dreaming.
With the cold cup of coffee, to keep her awake.
Her enemies wouldn’t ever to feel this pain.

YoYoWrites May 12

The pen in my hand, the paper remains unwritten.
The pen starts moving writing down the secrets it’s been hidden.
The writer remains quiet but the paper shows how much she’s screaming.
Wrote down how much she misses dreaming.
With the cold cup of coffee, to keep her awake.
Her enemies wouldn’t ever to feel this pain.

I’m not very good at poetry,
But lately I have been sick in bed
Violently throwing up all the words
That live in the pit of my stomach.

Ephemeral May 10

Hunter S Thompson held hands with death
The bony fingers wrapped over his own
Resting on the trigger of a gun pressed to his head
Bang: blood went everywhere
Found by his son with dead eyes and cold to the touch

Sylvia Plath laid her head on deaths lap
Inside of an oven with the gas turned on
She took deep breaths and starved for oxygen
Carbon monoxide filled her lungs
Found by a nurse with blue lips and a still chest

David Foster Wallace reached up to kiss the lips of death
A rope worn as a necklace
He let his body hang as his face turned blue
Found on his patio with a broken neck and a broken heart

I too am a writer and they are scared for me to reach for death
I long for their embrace as a razor across my wrists
Writers are always torn apart trying to be too many people at once
So let them find me without a spark of life or an ounce of blood left inside

Rachel Ace May 7

I trapped on the stairs full of turns

A few days so high up in the sky
A few days down in misery

Sometimes led to sanity
Sometimes led to gray

Railings full of thorns         s  
Down the rungs to   o n  u    i o
                                  c       f           n
Half-raised arm                                
Touching opacity

Tail dress
Bare feet
Hidden blushes
Saved hope
Ballerina hands

Lost in the middle of your stairs
You pushed me down?
Mess catch me
Why?

I'll always be the morning dew for you
You insist on showing
You forget the thread that joined
You changed the pretty
Why like this?

You are well on which step you are?
In which can I find you?

It's not down to sadness
(You changed the meaning
The essence disappeared)

Existence is like many steps
                                       I thought I came to the top with you
                                                             ­                                  But it was an oasis

For your young you: Generator of ascending stairs in our dimension.

- Codelandandmore //20:30 PM ©

Real Cute boy, remember last mermay, It was all so fun :)

A writer must write…
so that’s what I do.

Not that I must
But it’s the right thing to do.

It’s not always easy
to lay down a line
on a small scrap of paper
that’s so hard to find.

Expressive nouns and passionate verbs
they assault my brain and
take me away.

There’s no way to dictate them
out on a page.
So I write them all down
any place that I can.

While at the bar,
a napkin will do.
Or in my car,
a matchbook or two.
A Post-It will get me by
in a pinch.
Or any other paper
I’m happy to find.

And into my shoebox
I tucked them away.

I laid them right there
for another day.

Occasionally I’d come back
to see what they say.
Reading them over
again and again.

Into my brain,
that's where they have gone.
Stuck in my mind
for a decade or more.

The shoebox is gone now
from so long ago…but
the memories still linger
inside my brain and
out to my fingers
they continue to flow.

I write them all down
and expand on those thoughts.
Remembering the memories
I once thought were lost

An explosion of words
pouring out on the page.
These many little thoughts they
now have a stage.

The lasting memories
are now down in print.
The shoebox is gone
but the words are in ink.

The act of writing
Compels me to magic and
Raises up my soul

This is very true for me and I know it is for many of you as well. Writing is medicine for the soul and I don't know where I'd be without it.
Star BG May 6

To all those writers I wish,
a happy night and day.
Everyone on this site,
wake up to hear me say.

I say all do have great gifts.
You are of divine light.
As you dance inside your hearts,
your writings are so right.

Just take words and catch your dreams
The magic it is here.
Stay connected inside love,
to move without a care.

So my gratitude goes out,
with candle that burns bright.    
Look its burning oh so high.
It's flame's an awesome sight.

StarBG © 2017

Just felt like acknowledging everyone.
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