[The lines of the hands formed a complex map]

Reality strikes
The days pass by
Two lines
Different seasons
Separate stations

[Reality hitting on the rocks]

Curve line erasing the good things of the past
2 drops of water falling on the way to the office
  |        |
  |        |
  |        |  Old soundtrack passes over parallel tracks
Theater full, broken line

Days pass and pass
Birthdays pass, not words
Difficult to pretend to be well
No words happen

Places I’m not, line closed
Places you are not, closed line

Romanticism doesn’t feel the same as maps on our maps
2 parallel drops fall
|                               |
The game hits me against the rocks
You don’t follow me in a straight line

[Reality catches me]

there are no words
there is nothing
thick fog

The same lines
Now they are parallel
Your reality hits

[The lines in my hand no longer form a map]

   - Codelandandmore // 4:00 PM ©

I am an artist
painting ones eyes with colorful jargon.
Red for passion that strikes a memory.
Green for the abundance of words that allows reader to think.
Blue for open sky that leaves room to drift in visions.
Purple my favorite to tweak the imagination
with peaceful vibrations.
Orange for the juice that flows inside a poem.
giving place to roam.
Pink like cotton candy that tickles the taste buds
for expansion of heart.
Black for words that tempt one to look within
and face the dark for cleansing.

Playground of colors flow for a writer artist to color with
as the reader sits to enjoy, ponder, and celebrate in their own space.

StarBG © 2017

I am a lover of the written word.
A scribe who tickles a page.

I am a drinker who looks
through tinted glass and drinks
while writing my sorrows away.

I’m both lover and drunk
though not sure which comes first

So, I sit glass half full debating it,
over a cup of words, and a final period.

StarBG © 2017

This is a robbery
  of what makes you,
makes me.
This is my honey;
  I fit inside of you;
you-you-you-you.
  This is melting.

Our malls are fiends
  and our soccer fields
are growing stronger;
  our sports are growing
trophies our children
  could never be.

This is daddy's blood;
  our hero, our stud.
Working hard to
  help the factory.
This is poverty.
This is you and me --
               a robbery
we love to applaud.

This is blood, blood,
            blood.
This is you and
         this is me.

Sun my poems if you do dare
so I can feel so grand.
Then it will encourage me,
to write more with loves brand.

If I see a sun appear,
I will have much delight.
Then I will dance in my seat,
and smile with all my might.

If you think to send a sun.
I will say my thanks to you.
Cause it is a nice gesture,
that writers sometimes do.

So I post on this site now,
and send greetings yes far.
Everyone who writes on here,
is special and a star.

StarBG © 2017