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The fact is, I never wanted to be a movie star.

quote by Piper Laurie
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I Never Wanted to Die (Tombstone Blues)

You probably think I'm a flirt,
That I'm only after a bit of your skirt -
You're wrong about that - let me explain,
There was never much pleasure in my love affairs,
No, indeed, there was plenty of pain,
I'm only attracted to girls who hurt,
And they hurt me again and again!
So if you look in my eyes
You'll see an expression of deep surprise
That you haven't punished me yet,
I haven't walked home alone and upset,
I haven't even broken down and wept
In front of you because
You are too kind,
Too sensitive,
And perhaps a little bit blind!
How strange that I should find
Someone so sympathetic,
Perhaps you'll visit my grave
And put flowers there
And mourn for me and shake your head,
Not quite convinced that I am dead,
Perhaps you'll shed a tear
And wonder why
You cannot really cry,
It's because I've used up all the tears already,
I never wanted to die.

poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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But the truth is, I've never wanted to be a movie star - and I've been pretty clear about that.

quote by Ethan Hawke
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Everybody says, 'You impress me as a guy who never wanted to be a movie star.' I say, 'Everybody in the world wants to be a movie star.'

quote by Rip Torn
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I never wanted to be a movie star.

quote by Radha Mitchell
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I Never Wanted To Be So Pale

God is God
God is God
God is God

I am I
I am I
I am I

Nothing was Nothing
Nothing was Nothing
Nothing was Nothing

Anything was Everything
Anything was Everything
Anything was Everything

I never wanted to be pale
Skin like the lace on a wedding veil
I never wanted to fail
At being such an open book for sale

God is God
You are You
I am I
We Are Us

poem by James Merchant
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I Never Wanted A Rich Man

I never wanted a rich man
Just someone with soul
It was on the day I met you
I vowed to never let you go
I never knew much about romance
Always used my lucky charms
I learned it all in just one lesson
When you first held me in your arms
Open up your heart
Let me inside
If you listen to your intuition
Well have a chance tonight
Keep me in your heart
And hold on tight
If you read into my intuition
Well find a way tonight
I put away all my heroes
And all the lovers I have known
Even though Ive had my share
Ive spent too many nights alone
Dont need to look for fame or fortune
I have found my paradise
Youve got the whole world in your hands
And a fortune in your eyes

song performed by Belinda Carlisle
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I Never Wanted

I created myself to be on my own
But I didn't expect to be alone
Did you create yourself to be on your own?
These are the reasons things should be unknown
The days won't let you know
Days won't let you know
That all I never wanted was to be there with you
All I ever wanted to know anywhere with you
No one creates themselves unless they try to
Shut up the caution that made them lie to
All this talk but no one will tell me
Where and when I need to go
The days won't let you know
Days won't let you know
That all I never wanted was to be there with you
All I ever wanted to know anywhere with you
There is no reason, there is no reason, there is no reason
For that now
There is no reason, there is no reason, there is no reason
For that
All I never wanted was to be there with you
All I ever wanted to know anywhere with you
(It's with you so)
All I never wanted was to be there with you
All I ever wanted to know anywhere
Ever wanted to know anywhere with you

song performed by Idlewild
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(I Never Wanted) To Be A Star

I was seventeen, you were working for
Matthew and Son,
The Beatles met the Queen, and I wrote
I'm gonna get me a gun, yeah, yeah
It was like a dream in the star machine,
oh, no, izitso, izitso?
I never wanted to be a star, I never wanted
to travel far
I only wanted a little bit of love
So I could put a little love in my heart
I never wanted to be la-de-da, go to parties
'avec le bourgeois'
I only wanted to sing my song well,
So I could ring a small bell in your heart
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
I was on the road, sleeping between lorry
lights, oh no
Stone-drunk and cold, heading into a bad
night, yeah, yeah
Just another bean in the star machine, hi ho,
here I go, here I go
I never wanted to be a star buy my mum a
Ferrari car
I only wanted to run my own race,
So I could win a small place in your heart
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
Nature found a way, it picked me up off the
dark side, yeah, yeah
Showed me another day, it made me sing
'I think I see the light'
Not another bean in the star machine, oh no,
this time I won't go
I never wanted to be a star, I never wanted to travel far
I only wanted a little bit of love
So I could put a little love in my heart

song performed by Cat Stevens
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The Truth, The Lie And The Fact

The truth, the lie and the fact have met.
Let’s listen to their chat!

The truth told to the fact: Everyone lies.
The fact answered: Here is my advice:
Don’t be in a hurry with the conclusion
As everything in this world is an illusion.

The truth said:
Who will remember me?
Whose conscience will gnaw?
Will the lie accept a nondiscriminatory law?

It’s hard to tell the truth,
It’s easier to lie.
You have to forsooth,
Otherwise I’ll die.

The lie was near by listening.
What nonsense your are saying!
I am so important in man’s life.
I help in a strife.

The lie was graceful.
It was beautiful and playful.
It was not jealous but sweet,
So, darling it was, indeed!

From it’s sweet lips
The words flowed like the streamlets.
All those flattering words
Everyone took for the truth.

It lied without blush.
It tried everything to hush,
But so many men had problems
If the lie they welcomed.

People would like the lie to banish,
They would like the lie to vanish.
They would like it never be near,
Into their life to interfere.

And the lie has quickly decided
To make the union with the truth.
It was so nicely guided
By the cutest sleuth.

So, today the truth and the lie
Over the whole land fly.
Where is the truth? Where is the lie?
Can anyone tell if it’s so well?

The fact was left alone.
Only by God it was well known.

©Larisa Rzhepishevska
April the 1st,2011

poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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Never Wanted To Work That Hard To Be Beautiful

Never wanted to work that hard to be beautiful
inside or out, be the rare fossil of a mirror
in the red velvet drawer of a jewellery tower
that slides out like a tiny coffin in a morgue.
Not out to prove that waterlilies have the bones
of astral hummingbirds. Love flowers,
but not in cults. Love the moon enough
not to make a religion of it, life enough
not to resist what it's trying to put me through
whether I'm howling in pain, set afire,
or mystically exalted by vital bliss
or about to scatter my ashes from any of the bridges
that arc like grey rainbows of partially kept truces
with the lies of the lines in between.

Sometimes I'm mining mini black holes
inside the solar system looking for
new motherlodes of metaphor inside
the eye sockets of a skull crawling with Aztecs
like red army ants attending to their gods,
or go panning for stars well beyond the heliosphere
the way I used to catch fireflies as a boy
just to watch them glow a moment and let them go
like an intimate insight into what I still don't know
but never failed to be enlightened by upon their release.

People outside my open window, laughing, talking,
setting up giddy long shots like sexual moves
on a hot summer night with a beer in its hand,
and the drunk demotic of a little English on the cue,
and alarmed car horns throbbing like ear aches in park,
and it's all so intriguingly silly it's got to be human
and I wonder if a thousand years from now will think
this is what we had to be like. And as soon as I
glimpse that, the whole scene is deepened by time
in the eyes behind a veil of eternity I lifted
while I was alive to see that everything here is indelible.
There's a perpetuity in our apparent randomness
in the passing of the moment, that spontaneously
preserves us for greater things than we can imagine
like the Conservation of Data Principle
that holds good even in the singular depths
of a black hole listening like a poet through an open window.

A smudge of life on my poem, but I don't mind
the fingerprints at all. What's a star without planets?
What's a shepherd ushering moons toward
the high blue grasslands without a black sheep
that wanders off by itself once and awhile
to check out other things along the way?
My poems pick things up in their flowing
like rivers pick up leaves and tributaries
and small flotillas of blossoms in the spring,
the occult alphabets of calligraphic oil snakes,
and mingles them all into the picture-music
of the mindstream, the motifs of a symphony,
or the themes of a play, that picks things up
and puts them down again like the moonrise
of a rock on a beach. Few of life's harmonies
are symmetrically balanced crystallographers.
Nights when I look into the eyes of the stars
and even the lenses of my telescope break into tears.

You can take life out of it like a fly in the toilet bowl,
a bumble bee in a jar, a star out of your eye
a spider on a long-handled broom, or the crumb
of a leftover dream from the night before,
or you can leave it in if it wants to come along for the ride.
I've heard for so long from people who say they know
that everything is one, I don't worry about disconnections.
It's the fallible continuity of life that sings
like a nightbird from the dead branch and green alike
most beautifully to me, the way the light and the rain
and love when it's real, make unions of disparate things
that depend upon each other for life like metaphors.
I revel in the crazy wisdom of the oxymoronic contradictions
that bond me to the universe like the small volcanoes
of the ground wasps that erupt between the fault lines
along the continental plates of the sidewalks
and apprentice me to landscaping with lava on the moon.

The circle's wounded deeper into its roundness
once it's broken by a branch, the stillness more profound
for the stone that's dropped into it. Love, when it's new,
trued by separation. The earth itself, an alloy
of the elemental table. To be truly original creatively
is to seek the low place like the sea and let
everything run down into you like myriad streams
that are neither many nor one, pure nor polluted,
and out of that mingling which is the whole of you,
raise them like weather from the bells of the flowers
to the robes of snow on the mountain tops
and know that with every cloud, every raindrop, storm,
every bolt of lightning, and all the life thereby engendered
is you returning like a shape shifter to your own depths
and everything comes along for the ride as if
they were always on your side, like your eyes are.

poem by Patrick White
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Peeling The Fact

Maybe you peel the fact
You want to know
But if you cut in too deep
You’ll lose the best part of it

poem by Maria Sudibyo
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The facts is

the fact we should never neglect
easily gotten in and hard to get out
shorthanded breath just a place to shout

poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Sad Is The Poem I Will Never Write

SAD IS THE POEM I WILL NEVER WRITE

Sad is the poem I will never write
Sad is the poem of my own lost life
Sad is what we might have been
Sad is the sadness which will one day end.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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I am as old as the poem I will never write

I AM AS OLD AS THE POEM I WILL NEVER WRITE

I am as old as the poem I will never write-
As old as all I have never done,
And never will do,
As old as ‘over the hill forever’
I am as old as all I will not ever be
Through a lifetime of striving-
Old-
And not coming back.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Song Of The Beating Drums We’re Never Apart

The song of the beating drums we’re never apart
Overfills a dam just like a beating flood
The beating love for a beating heart
The beating song of a beating heart
Play the song of the beating drums
The love lust of the beating blood
Always together never ever apart
The beating song of the drums
Crashing through everything
We’re here for each other
Never ever beating apart
Just like a beating heart
Our beating hearts

poem by Fade Ward
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The Fact that You Watch My Back

Why would I question,
The fact that you watch my back?
Didn't you tell me,
It was every first Tuesday...
Of each upcoming month,
You had time for that?
Often you remind me,
We are the best of friends.

Why would you think,
I would doubt your loyalty?
In fact as a gift...
Why don't you take,
The entire next month off.
To ensure what you do...for me,
Will not for you become too exhausting.
Or complicate our tight schedules.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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All The Sadness I Can Never Write

All the sadness I can never write
And all the joy, I suppose, also,
It is more than what we can say
The feeling the endless feeling
The subtleties even of our pains-
We hint at them
We name them in general
But the feelings
The endless flow of feelings
They are beyond our words-

Even in exuberance
We are more mystery to ourselves
Than we can say-
And even in shades of names other times invent
We cannot tell the colors of our souls all truly-

poem by Shalom Freedman
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The truth

The truth is that I never got over you,
The trust was I really cared for you,
As if I were a bird to be free from this harmful world that had upon on us,
The truth is I never wanted to lose you,
I never wanted this love to be burn down,
You had hurt me enough,
My feelings for you have been crushed,
I been down,
I been crushed,
I been there for you,
The truth was you reminded me of how much I dated you for all the wrong reasons,
All I know was my feelings for you will never change.

poem by Jennifer Rondeau
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The Poem That Perhaps Never Should Have Been Written

THE POEM THAT PERHAPS NEVER SHOULD HAVE BEEN WRITTEN

Not the poem of yesterday
Nor the poem of tomorrow
But the poem of today-
What gives life meaning now.
Not the poem as it is read
But the poem as it is written.
Not the certain poem
But the poem that does not know
If it truly is a poem.
The poem that gives hope only when it is written-
The lesser poem-
The poem that perhaps never should have been written.
The poem I am writing now,
Perhaps for myself alone
The lesser poem
The poem that perhaps should never have been at all.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Worshipper Of Stone

until now
he refuses to tell you the object
of his affection

the god that he worships
on top of the mountain
his golden possession
that looks at him without any affection at all

if only you could see it
it is nothing but the most common stone
any ordinary urchin of the street
picks it up and throws it at anybody

some bang their heads on it
those suicidal fools
others merely pass by and
sees it without any serious consideration at all

look at him
he is wounded by the one he loves
he is scattered like dust
and falls upon the places that he never wanted

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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