one last light

i reach out to the stars
for the light to live on for a while
my fragments travel afar
spreading out west in 49 miles

i close my eyes some certain nights
and gaze at constellations I’ve made
with cluster of souls that fit just right
with mine, free and calmly laid

i walk up to each of them
and feel them growing in fire
when they cool down I pick up those gems
and move them above and higher

they glance to see how far they are
and thank the Lord about
the shine, the scars, their dimensions out far
I see them sailing out, and out

and now I crawl in my lonely sky
missing the light I found
all but one sang goodbyes
a spacial rose still hangs around

in this dusky sky of mine
amidst the dark of lights, their vain
i still have one star that flickers
the light that care still remains.

Under the stars, naked

Thank you for reading my madness.

I never expected
so many of you to read,
it is just madness
after all,
but that’s okay,

we are all a little mad and a bit crazy.

And I’ve always liked the mad ones

– for we are the ones who talk in riddles and smile when we do,
for we know the world makes more sense to us that way –

so, if you’re reading this somewhere in the world,
smiling,
I do hope that one day we meet.

And when we do,
let’s decide that no matter
where we are in the world,

we will find a place to light a fire,
on a beach,
or somewhere in the woods
where you can still see the stars

– and we will get cheap drinks,
the cheaper the better,
and we will play old tunes,
and laugh about the world –

and as the sun comes up
we will run,
naked,

as the stars call us back,
their children,
their mad children coming home.

let’s agree to that
and I hope
to see you soon.

You are not art

You don’t have blue skies in your mind.

You don’t have shiny stars in your eyes.

Your skin isn’t golden fire burning brighter than the sun.

Your tears don’t resemble raindrops patiently trickling down the window pane on a gray rainy day.

Your hair don’t breathe flawlessly in the wind.

You don’t look like sunrise when you wake up.

Your voice isn’t a tricky musical arrangement or a beautiful symphony.

You’re not sad or beautiful enough to become poetry.

You’re not broken enough that artists would die to paint your scars on their canvas with every color they could find until they lost you in the setting sun.

You are not art.

You are just plain and dull.

That’s what most would say.

Not to me.

You are not plain and dull.

You are what art aspires to be.

You are tragically beautiful.