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undertake the thoughts from my
mind, strung along a
line to dry
like laundry; dripping
of ill sense. try to
piece them together
in a logical sequence and
from the fumes of
a decayed mind.
watch your sanity
you're a recluse,
is your sanctuary.
supernovai'm scattered, i'm awestruck; i'm blinded.
i'll wander through this city while dreams unfold in my eyes.
eerie faces peer in,
but my thoughts are cloudy to myself.
everything's happening, everything's living. but me,
i'm just existing.
dimmingwhen i was a kid, i always believed the first star in the night sky was the moon's best friend. innocent, cheerful. eager. it shone so brightly for such a small body - the glimmer in the eyes of a smiling child.
as i grew older and my realities changed, i began to look through different eyes. time alters people, more than merely physically. i began to think what it must be like to be that star - constant companion to something so vast, so there. what it must be like to be suspended in that celestial canvas, visible but lacking that luminescent lunar presence.
the sandmanit's gonna be a long, long time, my mind said conversationally. you'll go crazy, you know.
"then i'll go crazy. but in the mean time, i'm going to build a sandcastle. i want to feel these minuscule grains cling to the in-betweens of my toes and i want to enjoy it. i want to enjoy going crazy if it's the only choice i have."
i looked out, ran my fingers over the glass that encased me; it chilled my fingertips, left a dusting of frost.
you aren't fooling me. you're terrified.
i tilted my head slightly to the side.
"i've got time," i replied.
and i did.
rantit really fucking sucks to not have a best friend. it really fucking sucks to not have a person that i can turn to or rely on constantly. i don't have that nonstop, completely reliable companion. i have friends, which is more than some can say and i realize that i need to be grateful for them - and i am. but no one has ever been there for me, regardless.
i don't have the person that can understand how i'm feeling not by asking, but merely by hearing the sound of my voice. i've not had the person that can tell i'm upset and demands to know what's wrong, no matter what. i don't have anyone that can see through a fake smile, or notice that i've been unusually quiet. everyone backfires eventually, or everyone has someone else. it really sucks to see facebook statuses, etc., from friends of mine describing how wonderful that person's weekend was with their best friend(s), so and so.
i've never had someone care like that. not once. i don't know if there's something wrong with me (and if ther
something happenedrain used to always make me feel at home. i loved the sound of those crystalline droplets splattering onto the shingles of the roof. i loved how the dark gray guise of clouds swallowed the sky whole, the way an eager child swallows a piece of candy. it comforted me, drove away my tears. perfection, peace, serenity; those were my synonyms for the word "rain."
then something happened.
god, did something happen, all right...
i thought i knew pain before that night in october. i thought pain was fighting with your parents, or finding out your supposed best friend was the one spreading those damned rumors about you, or coming home to see your dog ravaging that pillow your dead grandmother made you years ago.
pain used to be something that could be dealt with. pain has always hurt, of course, that's why it's called "pain" - but the scars never went so deep. the scratches scabbed over, healed. a few words could make everything seem better.
then everything changed.
the october sky was crying e
The Quiet Thoughts of Butterfliesshe says "I'm worried if I breathe
too loud the silence will
I watch her hands press butterfly
wings between the pages.
does she know that
I'm the queen of silence?
my corpse lungs and
graveyard lips; a decomposing
tongue lurking behind white-washed
tombstones. paint me with sunbeams,
I'm still the same.
[death warmed over]
her tropic gaze rakes over
the bone-white snow. "I keep
swallowing the snow-flakes. they
remind me of frozen flowers.
their dead sweetn
blue lighti want to
live in your
i want to
i want to
KissingMy lips are still fresh
from our fevered kisses,
even after they slowed
to a steady flutter;
matching our erratic heartbeats.
My lips are still raw
with the urge to kiss again.
ExOhExOh .Blowing smoke into my eyes,
seeking someone to confirm your importance.
Craving to fly and escape the clutches of yesterday.
Please don't stand so close -
I can taste you on my tongue.
Like a pill that once took the pain away, an
rehab failed to get
completely out of my system.
I want to slit, slit across your wrist and down the road,
to hear the river whisper
Creeping up my over-exposed thighs.
I want to fuck you up, I want to hold you down,
I need to creep into your veins like acid.
You stand like you're one of the chosen ones,
but you're a rebel just to feel intact.
You breathe the same air everyone overuses.
It's the sex, and it's complicating,
ripping me in two - take me higher.
Let me taste the pills left on your tongue.
Don't forget to call me, will you?
Or is your name the only one you know?
SpiceI taste like lemon zest.
The air around me swirls with cinnamon and cardamom,
My irises have flecks of tangy-sweet caraway seed embedded in every streak of yellow.
I am six years old, or maybe seven, standing in the kitchen over a bubbling, flowered white pot on our rusty yellow stove. I clutch a wooden spoon in one hand and a fistful of thyme in the other, which I then drop into the pot, flinching from the resulting splash of hot water. I stir once, then hop down from the blue-painted wooden chair I am using for a perch and run to the spice drawer. Mustard seed, paprika, and cumin are mixed in my spice-dusted palm, then brushed off into the pot. A pile of cloves join them soon after and rest on the top of my multicoloured stew like floating candles.
His name is Zeke, short for nothing. He owns three pairs of blue jeans, splattered with paint, and he is in love with colours more than me. He carries a paintbrush in his back pocket at all times, as though at any moment he could b
Autumn LoverShe was the November lover
but Autumn was always the season
of the dying, and she found only
coldness was left to greet her now.
No more flowers were in bloom,
while the flame within her heart
began to fade she fell, it seemed endlessly
among the fire colored leaves.
While the trees appeared in shades
of crimson just like her dreams,
the world spun as she closed her eyes,
bitter the early frost upon her breath.
It may be the last exhale she ever breathed,
while the color dissipates from her waning cheeks,
only those bone chilling biting winds
are left to touch upon her flesh in subtle mockery.
She died for love on the cusp
of the season which whispered of decay
but her grave would lie beneath a shroud
of natures beauty, beneath the gloomy skies,
as melancholy of the last beating of her heart
she was covered in all the shades of the sun.
The Rules of PoetryPlacing way too many
And cutting the next few.....
That then drag on and on and on and on and...
Then suddenly stop.
Rhyming lines like time and incline
(just 'cause they rhyme)
Then no rhyming lines in time or inclined
('Cause we're not writing a tongue twister).
Uneven stanzas with long legs,
Jumping from one subject to the next.
LARGE, BOLD, ITALIC WRITING
then tiny little scrawls
with no real purpose.
Expresing elegant, lovely, heartful emotions,
And weaving the wonderful, beautiful words together
Then cutting jagged, horrible, holes in the middle,
Breaking, smashing, crushing, hearts and hopes
That can never, will never, never ever be replaced.
Then writing in general,
(After going over-board on adjectives),
From both the heart and the head,
(for what fun if you write with the heart but no logic with twists
or with logic and twists but no heart?)
ControlGliding spider-like fingers along your spine-
I took pleasure in the way you s h i v e r e d .
I kissed your eyes, one at a time and back again.
You swore you saw the s t a r s
forming constellations behind your lids.
Please slipped between your gritted teeth
as you b e g g e d me to sacrifice you to the heavens.
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More