Message From The Stars

I could look at the stars and never tire,

Perplexed by their light, their gas burning fire. The air is crisp and the sky is clear,

When the stars above, suddenly appear. 

The night is silent and the stars they shine, as I stare curiously, from this chair of mine. They speak to me through a flicker, dots of morse code. And tell tales, of being stars of no fixed abode. "We travel through space and never stop burning, 

Until our time has come and our clock hands stop turning. We've seen many people, who have never taken the time,

To look up at us Stars and hear our words of rhyme. A life is special and of love should be full, as there are those who live lives, so dark and dull. We shine the best we can, with our humble lighting. While down there, people continue the fighting. If you all took this moment, to marvel at us stars,

there would be some peace for a moment, less death pain and scars. 

                    

   By Paul Broughall. 

I'm just me!

I may not be perfect or like all the rest.

I don't have nice hair or always look my best. 

I don't live in the city or go out every weekend.

Or have 40 friends to make me look bang on trend. 

I'm not always happy and sometimes I'm down. 

But after awhile, I discard the big frown. 

I don't have a fancy job title with degrees out of my ears. 

Or gym everyday and talk about carbs with my peers.

It can be lonely at times but I will not conform. 

Until I find someone, I have my cat to keep me warm.  

I like who I am, if I'm single, that's why.

Because if I change for somebody else, then who am I? 

By Paul Broughall.

The Little Red Bow

After Christmas the old bow goes back to the box, this little bow has had quite some knocks. It's colour faded from it's once bright red, it goes for a year to it's boxy bed. Battered and torn and falling apart. Nothing at all, like the new works of art. 

In an old ladies box of things for her tree, lay this bow waiting for twelve months to be free. Torn apart, it lay there all year, 

what if this was the end? That was the fear. The light flows in, as the woman plucks them one by one, 

from the old dusty box that once held glasses long gone. The bow was left aside as she used all the rest. She took a needle and thread and began to stitch it back to it's best. She sprinkled it with glitter and gave it a kiss. 

Then said "don't worry m'dear, not a Christmas you'll miss." So high on the tree she placed the little old bow. And as people passed by, they saw that it now had a glow.