Paint The Stars

Paint the stars
Across my weathered shoulders;
Let the moons orbit ‘round my eyes.
Have the planets tuck me in
When I go to bed at night.
Let the sun greet me
When the time comes.

Paint me with the stars,
Press them deep into my wrinkles,
And throw the moon’s iridescent cloak
Over my crippled back.
Show me the heavens,
Have me caress the galaxy
And play with the universe
Like a child.

I long to touch forever;
I’m old and worse for wear.
I know it seems a mystery,
But I’ve no energy for fear.
You see, my son, the cloak of death,
Is just as warm as the love in my heart.
So let me reach up to the stars,
And know that that’s okay.

Why I write poetry...

I write poetry.
Not real poetry;
Nothing beautiful,
Nothing thoughtful
Or profound,
Nothing that will make you look at my soul
And wonder how I happened.
I can't write the stars
Or pour my soul into words;
I can't make you believe in peace,
Or love.
I can't make you go out and shoot your neighbour,
Or hug your friend;
I can't make your world a better place,
And I can't make you feel hopeless.
Nor desolate and despairing,
Nor joyful and at peace.
My poetry is not real poetry,
It's nothing beautiful...
But I write it.
Because that's what I do.