A bookstore I would be

Written by my daughter….I love this piece. Read more of her work at Interstellar Poetry

If I was a store,
A bookstore I would be,
Hidden on a corner,
Of an aged and tired street.

Not polished and proper
Where customers flock,
But quaint and comfortable,
Like an afternoon’s walk.

My shelves would be brimming
With stories and tales,
The books worn and used,
Scuffed with loving details.

The room would be filled
With a lovely aroma.
The smell of old pages,
Wings of a paloma.

To some it’s a comfort,
To some a found home,
A space to curl up,
With a book or a tome.

If I was a store,
A bookstore I would be.
Where lost souls are found,
And like birds we are free.

By Stellar


Hold On

it cuts into the soul

the heels of darkness

her tracks leave scars

like cracks in the earth

on our hearts

filled with water driven to drown us

no witness to the rising tide within us

drowning is not what was meant for us

Life cries into the cracks as she reaches for us

……………Hold on

Anna K Peters


knowing and controlling

...it’s liberation

when you can’t hurt them anymore

…it’s liberation

when your madness can’t destroy every second of every day anymore

…it’s liberation

when you’re tired of searching for answers

…it’s liberation

when it hurts to breathe

…it’s liberation

when you’re looking in the eyes

of the lives you destroyed

and the past is the past

and you can never go back

…it’s liberation

when whiskey is the only way

to get through the day

…it’s liberation

controlling how and when

the pain will end

…it’s liberation

death has its privileges

Anna K Peters


it burns at first

the whiskey she drinks

their empty bottles line

the corners of her closet

waiting to be tossed

she wonders whether

they’ll find them when she’s gone

what they’ll think

of her

and then she remembers

by then

she’ll be bured somehwere

and she doesn’t care

death has its priviledges

Anna K Peters

worn down

The tread is worn
it bleeds
though no one sees
her certain collapse

Her death is heavy
yet flat. They ask why and how
still missing it. Missing her.
Wasted life.

She lived til she didn’t
shades of gray
ate her away
til nothing but death

was left.

Anna K. Peters