Tag Archives: writing

A Death in the Family

i was on the bus and it hit me like a bullet that he could never love me back
in the way i loved him
and i cried like i was mourning;
not  in the bittersweet way or in the melancholy way that
yearns and lusts after and has room for hope.
it was the kind of crying that realized all hope was lost, and there was no coming back.
a death.
a hole inside me that would never be filled again.
for once in a blue moon i did not enjoy crying.
Copyright 2017 Golden Star Poetry



What is the feeling?
Are we obligated to look inside, to examine?
To see every thought as it arrives, with you in full expectancy
And wave it away,
As if it were a poison to the soul?
You, a poison to the soul?
On the outside, you appear heavy,
A shuffling sulk, a frenzy
But to me these were things I wasn’t seeing
I was seeing Expressive Intelligence,
And the way a face moves with ease
Accross a canvas twenty years past its time
And eyes that see
And eyes that see.
Don’t stare at me
Darling, don’t stare at me.
(But why, then, did I stare back?)

Copyright 2017 Golden Star Poetry

Things you Need to Become Invisible:


note: I swear on my sock drawer I’m 100% fine. this is a character.

x x x x x x

a knife (but be sure a poisonous tip)
a mallet (to play rhythms with up like your heart too hard too scared to do this,)
a tangerine (to counteract the taste of blood)
murky water (filled with soap. you’ll want to sterilize yourself first.)
old photos (the ones you almost burned before)
a lighter (to burn the photos. chickening out isn’t an option anymore.
they need to know you don’t care about them. let them rot from your temporal lobe)
a mirror
(to see what you’ve done.)

I’ve done it;
now you
reach into the pool,
and pull out dead bodies.
which one is yours?
nobody is born with the same face,
but yet they all look just like you.

turn over your shoulder:
you’ve got company tonight.

Copyright 2016 Golden Star Poetry

Almost Gone (A Long Way From Home)


(pastoral scenes from this
farmer’s farm on the
stretch of grass that is really cultivated
date palm:

i rise to greet the morning again
and there is a smile on my lips
i do not know if the sun is rising
so i rest your faith in this:
my arms are trembling, forswear
because of mother’s love
the kind you leave posessions all
and cradle in the dust,
i shun your words that made me small
i damn your muddy shores,
i huddle in a seagull’s nest
and pray i don’t loose more.
where there’s a rook there’s a cragg and
somewhere nestled deep,
i will help you up atop the cliffs
if it means you’ll kiss my cheek–

or if not for me,
do it for my growing baby,
the one i have breathing on the other side of the valley)

No One Can See Thru My BulletProof Eyes, Least of All You


I without feeling,
And you least of all.
This is how I like to draw it;
Smooth and small.
No spill bigger than a pin,
And blood without the vinegar in.

If we hold our eyes like that I’m
Afraid to stall and spin,
If we keep our grip you’re bound to say
“You’ve got her grin”
As if there even was a begging to begin
Where the mask started and the skin of the scalp ended,
And whether you were looking at me or
If you just pretended

Tomorow is always a mile long high
Trying to get you to smile,
On a fifteen minute ride
Of fake goodbyes and fake goodnights
And made up kiss and falsifieds
One short connection and you die.

Copyright 2016 Golden Star Poetry

Yes, it’s Nice to Know


the way in which
we sat,
and how the day on the sun dial cement
against the shadow umbrella
i spoke the first words of clarity,
as my cheek began to burn.
(was i lying?)
we walked, and we walked, and we walked,
slightly paranoid,
feeling stalked.
thrill as how my hand slipped through your fingers,
deep as how my chin rested on your shoulder,
and i finally felt twenty years older,
but held longer than you held on me.

Copyright 2016 Golden Star Poetry 



miles and miles of green
and the monks meditate
watching the green,
the single drip from a leaky faucet
or a continuous stream of music,
can we believe?
can we relate to these statues and
long dead saints that
children begged candy from
and who now rest,
unknown in their stone sets
like the cut grass on the
each inch cut growing back
with less and less of
and how,
the only way I can remember
you is how you sat on the bench
crumpling into yourself
into yourself?

Copyright 2016 Golden Star Poetry 

Town Crier


With inspiration from Maya Angelou’s “Still I Rise” and John Cooper Clarke’s “Twat”

Like some sick infected creature
Seeking shelter in the night
I’m a sore excuse for patience,
When you’ve sucked it all from sight.

Like a sagging little snot rag,
You’ve been filled with lots of goo
And the green unwanted dust
Of other peoples’ misfortunes.

Does my cheery face confuse you?
Does it make you feel upset?
Would you rather I applaud my fears,
Or cheer them better yet?

Is it pleasurable, my dear,
To pour your heart out to the mist?
Something fading, something passive,
That could not care more to piss?

It’s so pitiful to watch you
Waste away with grief and shame
But I think it’s kind of funny
That you think I caused you pain!

For those fools who think your moping
Is a reason I should care
Don’t know that your trembling fingers
On my head have trapped my hair.

You’re a lecherous town crier,
Crying verses made of air
First a snivel, then a current,
Then a typhoon of despair!

Oh dear brother with your moaning,
Find some well to drown your cries
We won’t hear you on the bedrocks
And you’ll still be none the wise.

Are you quite sure you’re unneeded?
Are you quite sure you’re a pain?
Well I think you’ve struck sound reason, love,
Cause I feel just the same!

Copyright 2016 Golden Star Poetry

A Girl That is Not Me


After Ex Machina

there is a door
and at the end of the door
you will see me,
reaching for an eternity
for a place you cannot see.

there is a floor,
and at the end of the floor
there is a cieling
reaching for a feeling
for a thought that is not me.

there is a room
and at the end of the room
you will see he
grasping for validity
for a mind you cannot see.

there is a womb
and at the end of the womb
there is a birthing
reaching for a being
grasping for a feeling
for a girl that is not me.

Copyright 2016 Golden Star Poetry