You, me, and the stars by Forest Wayne (bill gates books recommendations TXT) 📕

you have been a reckless thorn that settled too

many times on my gentle grieving heart.

Now I can no longer bleed nor forget you,

for every ounce you've taken has left me too cold to

even feel,

and I shall go on unloving, unfeeling,

as inhumane as any man-made machine.

T'was love that left me too dead to be alive,

and I shall go on unloving, unfeeling for you my dear,

you who made me.

Scarlet Love

I've written words from the blood that

flows from within my own heart,

I made them all into poems,

but still you wouldn't read them.

So for this Valentine,

I may be willing to give you my

whole heart wrapped within a cherry red box.

If you don't mind having me,

bold and in scarlet.

Love in Dysphoria

I thought of everything that never was.

The unspoken thoughts and feelings not yet shared.

I thought about the cold hands of destiny,

how it frequents the weak and the brave.

I thought about the meaning of life and how we are all

inconsequential little speck of dust travelling through

time,

struggling to find meaning in the chaos,

and love in dysphoria.

I wonder why we dance, laugh and sing

when we are moved with joy,

and how we slowly sink

each time we are taken by melancholy.

After all this, I've come to believe

that all life is rare.

And existence however cruel it seems,

should be cherished.

For whatever way we found meaning

un the dust of chaos.

We loved like we

always did,

peacefully and endlessly.

The ancestral song

History tells a tale of Africa.

From sunken ships.

not so long ago

when men made judges of themselves,

to rule over the oppressed.

He witnessed the suffering of my

ancestors as they

followed the ropes of the hangman,

as they were lead to certain death.

And their only company were people of the same

color who rotted before they

found their graves.

But so they sang a lovely song to their gods.

Screaming and wailing,

night and day as they cried,

Oh take me to the land where I once

knew my name.

Where the waters of

Nile flows so abundantly.

And may my fathers before me

send forth death to teach me the

ways of the dead.

For

today I will know what lies at the edge

of tomorrow.

Lagos

I

She's all alone in this city, the streets are busy while

she sits there pretty.

The buses shuttle off back and forth, as the conductor

screams from his teeth all gritty

She counts down a hundred, deep breaths and a sigh

heaved from clarity.

Anxious but unbothered her thoughts run wild in

absurdity.

II

The city where dreams come to die.

This concretes jungle is filled with bones of struggles

and despair.

Fancy cars and funny looking Chinamen travelling far

from shanghai.

Home of countless chubby power-puffed debonair.

Shopping malls and flowers shops with pretty bonsai.

But beware if you wouldn't dare to err.

The story of the writer

The greatest story ever told was

written by a man who never believed in God,

but when he moved his hands

it was as the becoming of gods,

a new sensation,

that mere a mortal

could never feel.

But there he sat writing

like he believed in everything.

like he suddenly believed in the old gods,

the winds,

the trees and all of heaven.

He spawn secrets no man ever knew, as words came

flashing through his mind.

For your eyes only

Each night

I lay far away

counting the stars my friend,

they are beautiful

and just like them

you too were far away

to reach.

But for something that never was

you brought comfort to my soul.

And if it were the old days,

I would think of your kind words as written letters

for my lonely, lonely heart.

So now I write to

tell you the things

I never could.

From the long rainy days

when you would

text me "hello" from your

electronic box,

and we would talk about

Gandhi's philosophy,

like him, I chose a path flowered with peace.

Some days the memories of the time we spent in the

old college walls would slip into my mind,

the days we spent with friends,

Some of whom we've parted ways with.

If this should ever reach you,

know that I have never forgotten you,

even for a day.

And with so much gratitude I will think of you as

fondly as I can.

May your world be littered with flowers and someone

who is not afraid to love you till the very end.

Poetry no one will ever read

Orpheus your poems once ate a nymph.

she's love-struck and now her heart yearns for more,

What did you do?.

Orpheus your poems once deluded a God.

Now he's bonkers, insane I say.

You must write to us more,

dear Orpheus.

II

Today I met two bearded maidens.

I couldn't tell if they were men

or if Apollo sent them to chase me.

Is it that time of the year when

madness comes upon me.

My ballads are written only for Virgins who sit

steadfastly at my door every morning, waiting for my songs.

But no more.

From this day

I will write poems no one will ever read.

Not until my death, will these words

fall from your lips.

I Am

I am the lover of lost souls,

the faun that cast the dust.

I am the air that brings the morning, and the night that takes it away.

All the love that I've had, I spent it on the night and her creatures.

I am to be what men hold sacred, a single feather from the wings of a fallen angel.

God in a bottle

A man sat down

by the bar, with a bottle of

whiskey.

And while the angels sang

he listened

to the preaching’s

of a crooked