Shades & Shadows

Stars Without Stories

Stories were like wishes

Wishes I'd grant a writer wishing I could be

Right there_wishing away my feet

Knees, thighs- fading from underneath

And swishing
Into the cold
The warm
The winter
The war
The richer parts of me
My imagination alone
Places
It wouldn't take me
Wishing on my own
Wasn't wishy
Enough

Stories were like scars on my face
I couldn't feel
Yet felt real
Enough to make me hide that place
With bandages mere eyes couldn't trace
Below the steel-ly expression
That graced the smile
That made me forget the depression
Of frictionless roads
Conflict is special
And sometimes tension is gold

And stories
Are like babies in wombs
Growing, evolving, kicking and consuming
The wounds
Within our innermost rooms
Groaning to reach-to term
And escape the white coloured tombs
In which they are written
And dancing to the premature tunes
Of unhatched vision
And we, are the writers that rule
The unhinged domains swirling in the pool
Of future tsunamis
In the tips of our tongues
Stuck to the roof of our
Stuck and searing
Sizzling pain
Trying to speak is weary
When what you must say
Must be worth the words
That you use
Words
You mustn't betray

And why?
I write is insane
I run from it
To find myself in front of a page
Asking why?
I run from it again
Yet running to it
In circles of same
Seeking for a masterpiece
Bearing my name
Trying to write a story
I couldn't write again
So I could write against it
Simply wielding the pen
So I can best it
And take pride in my imagination
Being tested
Against itself
I can't help myself
I'm invested
In my own destruction
For there could never be
A villain more formidable
Than my goodly reflection

And stories are like the threads that weave
Our shoelaces into direction
Of collision course with
Meaningful connection
And could there be no meaning?
In the stories we have been woven into
If so
What we weave is dead
Dead like the leaves when shed
If so
There is no difference
Between alive and dead
Except
That they have no meaning
Well, they are similar to that effect
But then how should I distinguish
Without breath and breathing
When both are so equally
Fleeting
And so then no difference
Between me
And a dead dog
Is kind of demeaning
But then again
The point of it all
Is as dead as the feeling
Bearing no difference
Between them
Yet full of the utter lack of meaning
Strange I say
If you believe it
And if it offends you
I hope you know that I mean it
I really do
Mean it
But then if nothing has meaning
It won't change
Even if you read it.