A poet decorates the stage of life with their verses. They enhance the scenery for perspective with thei prose. They travel in hearts/mind to gowhere no man has gone before. They then come back with a golden map of new horizons to rest an open eye. Hurray for the writer. A gift to humanity.

shattered bones
and i was drunk
i put my phone away
to watch the ghosts
come for me
lost my voice
saying goodbye
and there was nothing
left to write
at the end of summer
when time is slowed
and nothing grows

Her poetry is a wrist continuously weeping
Emending fallacy of her bare actual being
Liturgy of her demurring heart screams
Perhaps a pellucid précis of sodality's grim

Moreover, never did the words pierced thee
Ephipany to her cloaked cry, 'tis ought to be

If my verses give another reason to smile, trust, and believe in the vast universe and that we’re not alone than I will rest better knowing I did well to scribe with purpose.

If my poetry makes another laugh, or sigh, or even stop and move in their truth as divine being of light and love than, I have succeeded to aid one heart at a time.

If my phases excite and give another, room to recall
their greatness and not stay too long in shadows of the dark,
than my title as writer will stay intact.

If my poems empower others to know who they are
to celebrated and face their fears gallantly with dreams and hope than, I will walk feeling my heart open and wings spread.

If my work infused with love penetrates and cradles with words to give insight and encouragement than, I have for-filled my contract as light worker to reset the world for peace.


StarBG © 2017

fast

the way that my heart beats around you
the way our culture likes things done
the fast gets there early
the early bird always wins
i was always rushing looking for things

never thought i could learn something different
but then i met you and now i understand
how beautiful the world could be

slow

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If my hands
knew no limitations
to what my mind
speaks
papers would
blush
at the intensity
of what
a fire sign
feels

Eighteen―no,
Age is just a number.
Like the page number of a book, her story, her life;
It doesn't matter.
The ending doesn't matter.
The beginning doesn't either.

I read her in chapters, in scenes, in words:
she lives in each and every one.
She is not merely the main character,
she is the plot herself.
And I picture her in my head,
Through mundane moments, rocky cliffs, twisty plots;
She endures.

I don't want to reach or read the ending.
I want to keep reading,
keep browsing through the pages of her.
I want her
to keep writing.
To keep living.

What if this attention or what mortals called fame,
Vanish all of a sudden, will you still stay the same?

What if time slowly takes my voice away,
Will you turn your back and finally stay away?

What if life keeps me under the soil of the earth,
Will you ever voice out all the pieces I've written for the youth?

I'm a small pilgrim of the earth,
I'm the most trusted of the Deities
I'm the enemy of the mother planet
A tiny dust breathing under the vast skies,
Soon I will die and be one with the ground
And fade away like the sunset,
Letting the dusk that they call death
Take over and be in union with the night sky.