I Dreamed I Was a Star
A poem about a dream
I dreamed
I was a star
I dreamed
All night
Of you.
You are the one
I love.
The one
I want.
So, I became a spark
Sparkling in the darkness
Twinkling amongst the stars
Gazing down at you.
I saw myself as a rich lady
Fame flowered upon me
How I wish it were true
But it seems I was only
dreaming of you.
I dreamed
I was a star
On a wonderous
Gazing starry night.
I dreamed
I was a star
An actress
Or a singer
Just like you.
I dreamed
I was a star
A flimsy fickle force
A shimmering frame
Spontaneous but lame.
I dreamed
I was a star
A bounce of joy
In front of you.
If I was famous
I could finally
Be with you.
I dreamed
Of your richness
Of your stardom
Talented and graceful
How I want to be
Just like you.
I dreamed
I lived with you
How I wished
It was true.
I dreamed
I was a star
A glimmering glow
No fame or richness
But a being of light
Lost in the night.
A falling beam
Of brightness
To gain
A blissful life.
©️ Denise Larkin 2021. All Rights Reserved.
Also published on Medium.com
About the Creator
Denise Larkin
A writer with a BA in Arts & Humanities (specialism Creative Writing), studying for an MA in Creative Writing, writes poetry and fictional short stories. The author of Time to Run, The Island of Love, Darkness, and The Non-Human.
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More stories from Denise Larkin and writers in Poets and other communities.
Clinging to Childhood
The playground is empty, as it should be past sundown. There is a warm breeze, and I can see everything despite the late hour. What time is it, anyway? It could very well be past midnight. I can never keep track of time, especially in the summer. A prickly piece of popcorn hides like a stowaway in the left cup of my padded training bra. I stuffed the tissue in last minute— a decision I’m beginning to regret, based on the events that are unfolding rapidly before me. To my left, laying non-chalantly on his back, is my date for the evening. He is two years older, could probably grow facial hair if he wanted to, and drives a secondhand Honda. He may as well be a Man. I, on the other hand, feel like a fraud with my too-short short-shorts, sparkly lip gloss, and makeshift push-up bra. I keep my arms pinned to my sides as I feel the dreaded circles of sweat beginning to manifest on my brand new Abercrombie top. I cup my elbows with my hands and stare down at my hint of cleavage, praying that the tissue doesn’t pop out like a white flag surrendouring my lack of womanhood.
By Marti Maley6 days ago in Fiction
Comments (2)
Lovely words in your poem.
Beautiful!