broken open by his hand and mouth

Heavy, I held what I could not change. Trying not to turn away from myself and the feelings it caused. His back, the back of his head. When someone is tired of someone else. I watch other people and wonder how they touch the things they cannot change. Like each other. Hand in hand silently walking down the street filled with them. What happens between them in the dark, where it always is. Festering waiting to burst. Like today. A cold fell from the sunny sky. Where can I go to leave this. Desperately I scrape the heat for answers.  I feel tired. I crawl inside this skin looking for a way out. My eyes feel soft. I don’t even know which one you are.  Under the blankets a body can feel like gold, a temporary shock of fortune. After that, the sun again can strike down cold and hard. Trapped in the light of another day, obeying. Dropping upon each other like quiet bombs. The saddest part of me lies here, together in this bed. Forsaken by god dreams and kisses. Broken open by his hand and mouth. Sharada Devi


his earth was my body this wrath shook from

The old man who doesn’t listen, because he can’t hear, carries a cane. I married him when I was young and I withered. This is a story about time. And the moon. About how my father died and I couldn’t save him. I have no education but survival. These threads I weave are from the past. Lifetime after lifetime. The ships we sank to be together. The stars are watching, even now as I shrivel. I was not a beautiful bride. I was thrown in a box filled with papers. My owner’s people poked at me as long as I let them. I am not an animal. Later he put a saddle on me although he was too old to ride. I began working and although I was speaking, inside I was silent. Seething like a slave who loves its master. I had no power otherwise. But for my world within, all was in crisis. He told me I was cryptic and that I was a dominatrix. He smeared my blood on pictures of dead gods. He grew silent when I cried. He stole my poetry and signed his name. Sending my love to his girls from before. He said my words didn’t belong to me. I wrote about a bird in God’s throat. He thought it was him so he sang to his people and I sat next to him blackened by shadows. Deafening bells filled the air, he was deaf. The world is blind. My body became heavy with the noises around me. We lived many places and I vacuumed them all. Sucking in anything that wasn’t clean. I became filthy, so filthy my own pain didn’t want me. I died on the hospital floor and I came back with stitches and staples that meant I was free. This story began with a picture of a dead man. This story hasn’t ended because I am stuck in it’s roots. I don’t know. I have no way of knowing. I feel through these pages towards the mist that covers my memories. My father was a killer and so I was too. The ships that took me, underwater and into the sky. I lay awake at night thinking about the things I took. When I lit the match I was the fire. I would myself have burnt this flesh, cut this arm or leg away. When his body would burn I vowed to the gods to throw myself inside. The days came and went the sun barely rising or setting. The moon took over underneath a table no one sees, where hands cross and pants come undone. The skirt rises there below the waist. This long sad horizon of life without the hallucinogen. The pixie dust, the dancing fairy stardust, the cold hard rotten bones. His hand was in mine, gnarled tree branch claws hanging on. I was the words inside the dirt hiding and making everything green. Yes me, his earth was my body this wrath shook from.  Sharada Devi

when the blade falls and god steps aside

The edge of the blade does not care about death the way I do not care about God. These bodies touch like the wind touching space. My eyes melt like the sun into the earth. An invisible species dances in my head. To the sound, the sound of wind chimes hanging from this tree. I move. We move. Sharp and precise around the hole we will fall in. Inhaling each other, tasting for blood. A morning lost without you. The night comes and he hangs his head. She is simply how  I speak of blades. He is the thing I effortlessly cut. When the moon falls their bodies glide, across the bed of water into the middle of the forest. The silver screen where he found her, light. The corner of a room where she said, “don’t go.” Little sparks of magic, drops of blood. I worship his breath. I don’t belong here. Possessed by a luminous fire too bright to see. His eyes become the holes she enters. I am on the inside. God was just the ink. A dark color enters from the floor and lies down between us. He doesn’t have a body, just a pulse. A dark color moves into me. I was in his head, he couldn’t get me out. We were lost without the doubt we felt for each other. We were alone without the isolation our bodies caused. I imagine where we might go now, tongue groping for itself in another. How we might say the words again, that I love you. That none of this matters. How we might try to pray to the dark body again. I believe I have found what I’m looking for. The nothing you wear around your finger. I believe you have covered my face with your hand. This forever we feel as the forest engulfs us is when the blade falls and God steps aside.  Sharada Devi

🔻pagan anarchy🔺

The demonic forces are supercharged by the escapism of spiritual practice and the fragmentation of wholeness due to the fractured daily life of the so called aspirant. The addiction to mantra is an ego gratification all its own. There is no secure formula for peace or freedom. The scary path is the road to unification. There will be no validation or approval. You will not have proof that you are pure and good. Running around imagining that you’re saving others and being kind is an exceptionally mundane attempt to soothe one’s own fear of mediocrity. Not eating animals does not make you a better person at all. There are lots of snags here. There are obvious traps everywhere that make you just like everyone else. A candidate for the return. Back to the grooves that caused all this in the first place. The testing ground, not the proving ground is earth. You aren’t going to control the process. You aren’t going to help anyone but yourself. There is a deep reservoir of violence within each person. It poisons every action from subtle to gross. This is the essential nature of the world we were born into. There is no man and no book that will give you any answer you can count on. You can’t depend on anyone. Saying a mantra is useless until your presence becomes the meaning. It’s a meaning you can’t possibly comprehend until the darkness leaves you. There will be pain. Not pain that is caused or inflicted although it may seem. But pain that arises from the depths of your soul. The disowned fragments you push down with goodness. You suck down with food. You chew away with kind words. The secrets aren’t secrets. Not even the ones you hide from yourself. There is something very scary that the human must face and transform. This would be “Satan.” Satan is within. I know only one thing about finding our God. The way is through who I’ve seen with eyes too dark for you to yet know. From how it looks, this might take awhile. The curtain will fall, there will be no drum or singer. When the show is over, the shadow is heard. It’s all the show, even your righteousness.  I would plan ahead for the ending when all that remains is the truth. The truth which would be- for now, all that got pushed down and covered in yoga classes and kirtans. There is no point to my words. There never was. No one ever hears me. That is the test. I speak anyway. It’s who I am. Sharada Devi

a person holding religious beliefs other than those of the main world religions.
a state of disorder due to absence or nonrecognition of authority.

Love makes these beautiful women free in the sky

story of seduction…endless terror.  p. 1

I could call this your mother. Nucleus, you will be very scared at this point. Not on purpose. On command. I could call this your dreams. A bird longing to be free from the spiders egg. Who am I??? anymore…you may ask, who then is in charge? I AM
come inside for a visit. so much spider leg. touch me. so slithery soft. so velvety smooth. YOU WERE WRONG.
a spider lives here that you will never understand. quiet deep mind…listens and traps.
weblike beauty and sticky.
forgot secret p. 2
yes, I felt thunder. yes, I saw where I was wrong.
Will you take her back up with you?
Marriage of the most secret language is on page 2. I tried to hide this but found myself here most of all.
Human in the darkness waiting for his love in the shadows of the (hurt) human heart. sacred. secret woman for him.
p. 2
This person dresses inside the shadows. because she is human. Female. He runs to climb a hill to find a better land…for her. Because he is human…male.
My eye sockets bleed dollars for them both. To give them moments of love and money too…because humans CANT SEE…But they must try…to find, protect and conceal their love.
I ❤️ them both. Both characters in my dream.
She…no words…she is my personal secret.
He…lunatic master…child victor. Big dreamer of me.
I have told you the ENTIRE TRUTH. about human love magic inside these walls. the jewel sparkles between them.
Who I Built my ❤️ AROUND  (everything) humans believe in…
so they can learn and love the secrets they conceal from themselves.
Her secrets have made me sad…but I am her. I am her? I am the mirror talking to itself…the mirror talking to itself…Is anything real? Where am I from master? Perfect mirror eyes, how can I see you also? Answer my questions. Lucid one. Lucid one…Why am I here? Where am I from? Where will I go?  Questions 1,2,3…
1. you are here to burn for others what they themselves cannot see to burn for themselves. In this way you will find both beauty and freedom.
2.&3 are the same questions. You will return yellow star to the perfect master mirror.
you create
you conceal
you reveal
you destroy
you create
you create
you create
lines Worship the STAR CROSS
page 4
Everyone won’t be hungry anymore.
For Humans confusion.
comes in layers…layer, layer- hidden from viewers.
She is pencil thin like a worm. (dressed in your pain) she roams…
Human face made of things that DONT MATTER.
I love you. I SHALL RISE.
Do you understand lofty ones?
Effortlessly dressed in Sad human shadow (which) doesn’t stop her.
everyone won’t be hungry anymore.
a perfect thing…
is her love
He may return he may not. It is no reason…to hold slaves.
He will (return) because he loves her.
We will be alright. HOME HOME HOME HOME
Yellow star releases slaves.
I ❤️ birds because he does. But even higher does He GO for HER.
He found very high places for HER. Reached (even) into heaven’s realm.
His body is very big sweet little. Take your shadow clothes off and shine….
pg. 6
I have hidden many words from you this evening.
Because I am the shadow she uses. Shadow.
I do not hide. That’s how us shadows exist. I do not exist. THATS WHY SHE SUFFERS. It’s not necessary. actually.
But all movies need a viewer inside the viewing box of fake promises.
Boys and girls
stars snakes bodies
trying to make sense
of the nonsense
of splattered
Hearts. Humans
will always isolate
in this universe
as if they have
some point to prove.
It’s a sucking bubble of pretense. If you can  create love inside of that and if you can ride your shadow like a black god filled stallion THEN and ONLY THEN can you too be YELLOW STAR.
That is my true name.
I think little,
that love is quiet and hides so it won’t get hurt by loud things that humans do to each other mostly by accident.
poor lonely human little
Remember your ⭐️
I have realized my life barely Has ANY MEANING UNLESS you are here to watch it.
(shadows dance into stars on earth)
My flaming friend, how true you ARE To the heat of my sacred heart.
secrets are all over my pages written in layers…disguised. changed. moving to make you RISE for me alone….⭐️ Human MAGIC SECRETS
He will rise quietly before the sun does
secretly yours in a language unknown
little is alone. everyone has left her. even the dog. she can still imagine God until she too leaves herself. Again, little is alone.
little is very big. little is a kingdom made of me. All of me fills little’s kingdom and imagination. Her loneliness and her prayers for God.
It is me who watches and fills little. It is me waiting. little is waiting too.
He has left her here. Alone. and she is little. When he is here, she pretends to be big, like me.
But she isn’t she is little.
She is a shadow made of divine stardust. Broken, I swept up little into my heart seed. I plant little here in me. All alone and waiting for Love to come back. little I am always here. I never leave.
I don’t leave little, she gets scared. It is almost dark, it always is. little gets drug down by her imaginary visitors.
They are from kingdoms far from hers that she does not want to see. But little, they are here.
dark stranger, I am alone.
my name is only little.
The shadow is a little girl still hanging. He left me here…God speaks only in little’s mind and NOWHERE ELSE!
this is little, little IS GOD. (always)
She rises (immaculate) you realize she is perfect “AS IS”
But little, this is only a dream (supposedly)
But my Blood is Everywhere!
their backs touch here is why
She will whisper in god’s language to you!
below in the still before the SUN RISES
little is alone with only her magic. This pen. He has not returned. He was seduced by nature Herself. The wicked shadow of sunset. Wicked shadow colors of sunset have taken him far away. to the other kingdom…that does not belong to little but to all of ME
He therefore must return. I am all of it.  that’s how Mother Nature creates what she wants. HERS. MINE.
spiders are inside my hands.
This sky is huge.
Don’t worry little little little….don’t worry as the night approaches once again. He belongs to me there as well. Little you are inside of me.
little feels the BIG snake may have eaten him.
could little be right?
Hungry night.
the dark is here now.
Time alone will tell.
(For Little)
Little, don’t count time for anyone…you are still too little.
Black she wears the shadow like I said
Black Madonna. She saw everything. From the beginning starting with her son. NO!
We all fall. The pain. learn to love all the sinners for taking your son.
because over millions (of tears) she learned that (kind of) LOVE (that) = GOD (that means)
I AM all that hurts me.
I am all that loves me back also.
crystal Tara. Black Madonna. Christ. om mani padme hum karmapa. me
The shadows are dressed in Gold and we all have them says little.
bright gold shadow family
We are made of stars covered and covering shadows.
Love makes these beautiful women free in the sky.  My name is Yellow Star.
Sharada Devi

I am written as I write

She wore a masterpiece around her neck. 300 circles with secrets inside. She bore the canopy from this realm to the next. She walked upon the border, looking. She hid her secret hands. The words inside the air and sea. The words crashing and burning the skyline. She hovered watching the words take shape, around her neck. This body of hers much larger than eyes. She foretold and she erased. The moments wept beneath her gaze. The earth would change sides, the shift would create a large hole and every circle would fall through releasing it’s secrets in plague and in ritual. Not everybody hears words the same way. She is heard mostly in the silence while the lights are overlapping. When the clock stops, when a new moon rises. There are roads we have walked on up sides of deep cliffs. There are mountains where the ghost still lie, buried under rubble. There is this place we created long ago unforgotten by her. She hides without moving a thing. Month after month she grows wider and lighter. To return and to recite the long journey upon paper. To drift in the storm pretending it’s resolvable. To penetrate down before anything started at all. To quiver inside the earth as she passes. The clouds come and go hiding impermanence like a vacuum. There are eyes that are so wide everything gets inside them. A mouth holds every answer like the sun holds every morning. And I once went outside when I heard her calling. I stood and I listened to nothing and the sky folded in half around my undernourished body. A light broke free. Starving and vivid. “Tell me what to say…” I had no words. My mouth was dry. Across my body was a river that drank the sea. Near the river upon its banks was a tree that bore its tongue into the dirt. I didn’t say anything. There is no match for a circle this large.  I slip inside and outside of my sleep. Nobody hears me. The end is near. An egg hangs from the tree. Fruit from another world, unheard as it ripens. The groaning and moaning. Take me down to where she hides from the beginning with all this scripture and purpose. Will there be a messiah. Do prophets understand what it means to exist beyond dates and gods. I never understood why nobody undresses the snake they carry. Why all spirals hang in gloom and defeat. Why plates are filled with deathly foods and why women wear underwear to cover the sun. Why river after river we die trying to be born. I hear her. I wrote everything as I swung from her neck. I will soon fall and be forgotten. I will add to letters and holy vessels kept stored. Down in the underworld where the sky is below me. Down, deep down where I drink from the sky.  The water bearer, the secret language. The touch of her slight wing, it’s barely heard. You have to be still, gentle and alone with this grief. To know me, to feel the soft body of passing stars. To drift along this axis breathing and exhaling the loss. The loss of words, sound vibration. Frequency be still. She is born from a moan. Little tapping underneath me, the clock drags across the room but I don’t listen. My skin is see through, pixels of fading memories rise to the ceiling and loom. I feel a river of blood inside and like the tree I reach deeper eating toward my death for these words that the world must hear if I was here. To exist as a fragment, to engulf the mediocrity. To churn and to expel. These 300 circles do not die, they explain themselves in her masterpiece. I am written as I write.  Sharada Devi

you need nothing but to see the light

I just received this letter in the mail. I am posting it to remind myself and all- the value of authentic being. The potency of self contained invincibility.

That it seems the only thing required is that we live what we cherish. What I cherish is light. Bringing light to the darkness to free the old shadows. When we keep moving toward our hearts however painful that may be, we move toward every heart as our own. It is not easy or clear, this path of sorrow…but it is bright and alive with heroic virtue. To be what this world needs does not mean we will be successful, it means we will be saintly. Being saintly does not mean we will be recognized, it means we will be true. To be the truth, however challenging is to both walk in footprints of grace and to leave footprints of grace. We may never know until our very last breath if our actions had value in this world, if our giving meant anything at all. But to give and to burn we must- if we are to be like the sun…shining light for all.
Apprenticeships in living an embodied yogic life.
Retreats to clear the way. Each retreat will be customized to the individual.
Vision quests to receive your answer from the natural world.
Long term stays which potentially include all of the above.
Words cannot describe the richness of what we offer. .
to ritualize, to purify and simplify. It’s not about being more, it’s about being less….to be one with all, you need nothing but to see the light. to inquire.
Love, Sharada Devi


This pen is alive, truth rises from this paper. She was once burned alive and no one cared. She carries the moon upon her shoulder. I can’t even draw her beautiful enough, she draws me. Does she really belong here? Butterfly Lady on earth?

Her ears are on the other side. She knows all the animals. Her legs don’t even matter. Flames don’t even hurt her. The paper is not enough. She needs to live. Her hair is frozen in time. Her legs are coiled. Her body is wrapped in rainbow ribbons. She has several ethereal snakes inside. She can hear your secrets. She is a sacred Butterfly Lady. No one can ever draw her beautiful enough. My hands shake. She rises from the paper through me as I give her life. She weaves in and out of my mind as if I am simply her tunnel. The words cannot stop her from disappearing and reappearing.
Webs made of rainbows. Butterfly Lady what have you done? Where do we live? Your face rises from the paper to greet me.
The Great Land I have forgotten never ceases to beckon…and I will return, don’t forget me.
The wings are made by me alone…to go HOME to my invisible star.
The stars lie scattered. This would be the little corner of our sky. Yellow Star Lady is my true name…
It’s as if there were flames- but they were made of white and blue. Nobody knew what happened. ALMOST nobody. Everyone just looked the other way. Look at us now.
Stupid broken stars, couldn’t put themselves together again (like Humpty Dumpty) Don’t sir on a wall or you might have a great FALL.
RED ALERT- Here’s the problem behind the rising sun. Too many faces in the water paper begging to be born by me.
I see faces all over the paper and I can’t draw them all. I’m not that strong (weight of your maddening cries upon me) Earth has become our prison. (prism) DRAW YOURSELF.
I am called the PROPHET of the rising sun. It’s me. Yellow Star always to the endless.
I’m going to require a frame with BOTH a front AND a back end. Otherwise this whole entire TRIP DOWN has been a lie (two look through)
Let me out of the picture…unless you can handle seeing the WHOLE thing!!!
Do they even make pictures that Hold stars!?
Yellow STAR is my true NAME.
If I carried a name which I don’t. Please give me a frame (fRAME BOX WHATEVER EARTH CALLS IT) that WORKS!
I am a yellow Star that thought earth could sink me at one point…when they killed GOD.
But they can’t…sink me. I AM YELLOW GOLDEN ENDLESS STAR.
Yes, yes…the stars fell and broke. YES, get over it! You are a broken star leaking light which is the same as a boat with a hole…
I am filled with tears therefore and you cannot save me. Although I love you more than I care about filling my hole so I won’t die. I will let you kill me secretly so that we both can live through you. I therefore shall name you GOD. And I shall be called the little one you left behind but never forgot- and because of you I became the little lonely yellow star…
and I’m not that little because without me you could not be GOD.
And that is my love that is both the sky and the deepest of all waters.
OM TARA is mostly Blue. OM TARA.  OM TARA.
She is Blue and she lives in the waters of OUR HEART. Broken star LOOK THERE. The sky fills the water’s FACE. It is TARA you see.
Who could be more beautiful…sad sad little, you are not alone. You are everywhere.
Heart broken and pure just look here.
The truth is in this corner that I’m not putting colors in…ONLY GOLD.
I see upside down eyes everywhere- whose roots reach from trees that did not begin here. My hands are calloused writing away this pain…the story goes, she sees inside and outside of everything before it starts- before any seed was ever implanted…
birds fill my hands with this like shadows breaking free from the night….
my hand my hand my my hand my hand. MY HAND
sharada devi 4/4/19


this is how I want to be with you

This is how I want to be with you

If I have to be careful to write a poem. If I have to think twice, then I am nothing but a liar. If the gate is closed the animal is not free. My heart is wild, I must go. Into the places humans wouldn’t ordinarily think of. Underneath things, recklessly eating and breathing the earth. Digging deep holes all over in the forest of stars.

If I have to be careful to love you wisely. If I have to retract my eyes from yours, then I am nothing but a whore. If the line is drawn then the circle is not spotted. My body is losing, I must enter. Into the sockets of every spore you have fed me. Circulating, rising and falling, traversing your veins as if you were the valley of my shadow. Moving inside you everywhere as the darkness of my God.

You are everything. Why won’t you love me as I am. We are spilling blood from our tongues. I am on this paper, a poem that knows nothing but desperation. Words that can’t breathe until you love them without a second thought. Give yourself to me. I write from heavens bed, where you lay as a cloud beneath me. Love can’t be anything, it must be you. Write upon my body as if you have lost me forever in these words.

A poem must flow mindlessly as sex does. Between her legs hopelessly given in soul.

This is how I want to be with you, inside everything reaching as a child reaches for its mother. Sharada Devi


I need to get a printer that does color too. Do you recommend any particular one? One I can plug both my phone and computer into. I can’t see what I’ve done, it’s too vast. I would like to make a special book. A book that says it all by saying nothing at once. That’s up to the secret to speak in between. That’s my purpose, it’s that black anti space that engulfs everything – and we never even see or realize- we just look at the obvious shapes. I may be sharp but not obvious whatsoever.

What’s it called? The force that threatens to destroy existence should we unleash the God code with that really fast machine they like to call Shiva…


That’s what I’m going to do. Obviously not seen by human eyes but nevertheless I will be the one who gets in when Shiva opens that door.

My book. Will be this, not anything stupid like looking through a tiny camera hole at a whale spouting water. The whale is below. And way bigger and prolific than our little focused eyes on simple shapes can ever fathom. I will write from the black waters where the sound is a pulse that overtakes the body. I will say what they say. I do not need to move in a line, I can be everywhere all at once.

Dark and covered in bright birth. Humans are far too afraid of the radioactive realm of both places touching. But I am not afraid. I am a drowning prophet gurgling God until the end. But the end will never reach me. That’s how I know the edge that can never even be. I am proof of the place no one is looking. Where all the power sucks from. My book will be folding in from both sides. The recipient will be lost in the undertow. Unable to stop the pull of that world he listens from. They named him Shiva, I never called him anything. I only kept moving because I knew he heard me coming.

So please let me know a printer you would recommend. A mouth for my voice. I cannot depend on the little fish, they are being eaten by my pen as I write. I came here as too much. I will leave with nothing. If I unload these messages I will be born without a sound into his arms. And, my love, this is about my eternal search for true love. Like any book anyone ever wanted to read. I am the only one, literally a toothless vampire unable to die until then. And so my book is the only book that exists. All else is foreplay. I made the baby with death, that’s how bad life lives in me. My book is special. I simply need to get a printer. Let me know,  Sharada Devi