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.

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

With breath,
publication bound by my words
I scribe
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

Morally dissected,
emotionally conflicted,
courting one dilemma after another,
the writer in me is struggling today

In the anxiety of words failing him,
and in the fear of him failing the words,
a battle wages, enrages,
and as silently as it arrives, it withdraws

And then when one page crumbles after another,
when the mind stutters more,
the ground I had held firm all this while,
resigns, all at once

Maybe this is the best time to write,
to bare the emotions that are grey
and while a part of me longs for you to identify,
a little something, in the vulnerability of an expose,
hopes you never do.

I met a girl who puts her hair up with a pen.
But before thinking, "that's an odd thing to do,"
I lended her one of mine so I could try to see her face, now uncovered.

That beautiful face.

That beautiful girl.

I am but
a writer for myself...
But if I can
have one
audience,
Let it be a
wandering
heart.
I am not a destination,
I don't want to be -
My words are
for the passersby...
It would be
an honor to
be a part of a journey.
It would be a
pleasure to keep
your company
as I write these
untold memories...

"Sometimes I tire
of poems
about poets,"*

said the poet.