Writing

She was born in the radiation era, 
A veil of marble covers her eyes,

Her lids webbed in waves: 

They were stitched too tight

to permit the penetration 

of the perpetrator.

when a star dies, it is a violent explosion.

it can emitt more light than an entire solar system.

and while it pulses with hot gas and blue light,

it slowly dims. until its remnants are scattered

I like to write poems 

bejeweled with heartbreak philosophy 

In which i equate the illusion of love to 

Religious salvation.

(Something real for many, yet not quite tangible)

What does it take to see the dandelions blooming in the spring, yellow manes bobbing in the wind?

What does it take to see the sun slanting through the windows, to hear the tree frog's chorus in the night?

The world has turned preppy

And I can feel it when I turn on the radio.

Artists I don't like

Because I can't relate to them

Can't relate to the stupid way they flirt

How obsessed they are with themselves

I've been called the sun.

The idea is, the sun of the solar system.

The one my friends revolve around.

I did not give myself this title, nor do I want it.

I do not want to be the sun.

Maybe