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BreatheHis throat constricting.
His heart beating faster by the second.
Licking at his wounds,
He can taste the bitterness of panic.
The life he choose for himself,
Isn't how he imagined.
Everythings lost, or at least out of reach.
HIS love can't touch, burns when its tries.
A shell of the man that he dreamed of being.
Is what is left in it's wake.
Am I Lonely?All the bodies, all the hands
They try to grab what they can
Touch as much as their sticky fingers can reach
They always seem to miss my heart
You don’t notice,
When I start to wane from the high
When I really need someone
At least thats what I tell myself
If you knew and didn’t care, I don’t know if I could take that
My head slumps against your neck
My face is pink, skin sticky with sweat
And hot just like the crook of your neck
Our clothes are like a second skin
I huff against you, trying to catch my breath
You shiver as goosebumps race across your skin
I feel as though my skins burning
But my chest hurts
I want you to touch me
My hand drifts to your chest
And i cuddle as close to you as i can
You cover my hand, squeeze my fingers
Its strange when you don’t let go
Almost foreign feeling, your hands
“Did you want to leave?” I ask
You shake your head and let go of my hand
I shut my eyes so as to not see your empty ones.
InfatuationI don't know you.
I don't know your name.
But i see you,
I can feel your presence across the room.
My eyes can never stay far,
always darting back whenever possible.
And i can feel whenever you look back,
my eyes darting away when they meet.
I'm always waiting for a smile too,
or a laugh I'm too far away to hear.
And when its over, its far too soon.
The room starts to pack up to leave,
classroom chatter muted as i listen for your silent departure.
With my head down, I watch you from the corner of my eye.
The air lightly brushes past me when you walk by.
I'm alone now,
and i wish you stayed.
Untitledi don't know when it happened
that all these books,
tattered and torn,
have turned into you
my emotions are mirrored back at me
the words cold and taunting
im tired of filling these pages
the covered slide kingHe stood slouched, faking nonchalance
Craving a taste of something chemical
Black jeans clinging to bone legs
Empty-handed he settles, sucking on a cigarette
The wind is nipping, turning his knuckles pink
Burrowing inside a tight black jacket
The cars and pedestrians race by
His only shelter in the form of an empty playground
the only letter I've ever wanted to burni.
if you want to give someone the silent treatment,
the first step is shutting up.
things made much more sense
when I was younger.
I thought there was one path,
each choice a stepping stone upon it.
in reality there are a million roads
intertwined like rope.
I got lost
I chose you.
promises are easily broken.
I knew that,
but it still hurt
spending friday night
shivering in the rain,
choking on cannabis perfume
in a dirt parking lot
your face never graced.
and I hoped against hope
you might appear,
but I wasted my wishing
on ungrateful you.
you died before taking your first breath.
I took a chance
and I should've known better.
you can give somebody all you have
and nothing can stop them from
throwing it away.
you've made this bed,
now lie in it.
you slit this suture,
you're the goddamn reason
I gave up on the month of april,
and soon enough you'll fall on your own blade
like some drunken samurai.
if you want
Die AloneI take apart her heart
And lay the pieces down
In a circular form.
Let her bleed a work of art.
I forgot I’m crazy.
I’ll whisper my secrets
Only if she promises
To die here alone with me.
.What do you want to be when you grow up?
They ask it like a dare.
As if letting your unlikely dreams
slip from the safety of your mind
could bring their own
a little closer to reality.
car crash on an empty roadit happened before
we did. it was more a person
than you or I or that boy
in the park trying
to convince us to
stupid. it happened
before your smile
cracked the sky in half, before
our laughters slurred into
a dissonant song, before
your fingers traced the stories
lying on my face before I knew
just how many pieces of sunshine
were trapped in your hair before
the walls became the ceiling and
I wasn’t claustrophobic.
things I remember:
the red blur of your room like
God was experimenting with the
symbolism in modern art, the
tri-tone shimmering of your eyes
like the surface of the water, the way
you defined perfection as a scale of
women ending with a less than sensible
me, the way you always moved like
you were dancing and no one was there to
RelativityLooking in the mirror
through the mirror
seeing a stranger,
My chest swells and my heart lurches
This girl isn't me, not at all
She looks like someone
but not me.
A movie star, a homeless person.
Even when I look at photos
no memory comes up
no allowing for the thought that I have a body
Or that the cold of my fingertips,
the throb of anxiety inside my ribs
I see my arm, an armband
A scar, a vein, a ring that has no meaning
But it did, to this girl in the mirror
Even if memory fails
Existence is relative
What Writers AreWriters are people from
both ends of the spectrum.
Those that know isolation
and the thoughts that follow.
Those that know enlightenment.
And those with nowhere else to go,
but deeper down the rabbit hole.
Writers are smiths of the word,
using imagination, experience,
and emotions to temper the
glass and steel we are given.
We fill the page with pieces
And writers are Gods.
Broken or whole or
barely scraping through.
We make you see our world.
We make you feel and care.
All with a bunch of lines,
which we have given life.
Hope in my Lawyer's Paperclip JarMy lawyer's desk on a normal Wednesday afternoon
is flooded with sheafs of white legal pads and errant staples.
Today is Wednesday, but the clouds outside
his twelfth-story window are shaped like loss
and the lines around his eyes seem crater-like in the shadows
and nothing about the last three weeks of my life
has been normal, so I don't know why it surprises me
to find his desk cleared of debris.
I wait for him in a silence that ebbs and flows with my heartbeats,
the zipper on my knee highs tapping against my leg like rain.
When he returns, hands filled with coffee
and the paperwork for a restraining order
against the man he set me up with almost a month ago,
I blurt the first thing that comes to mind.
"There's only one paperclip left in the magnetic jar.
It's bent like a swan."
I can tell, from the awkward shuffling of his loafers,
that he's wondering if he should have brought the Kleenex, after all.
He knows women often cry at things such as these,
reminders of the men they've love
Dizzy Girl,you can't cure sorrow. The drops
on the windshield are swallowed
by this traffic's color and you
are just the driver.
Other people pass
with paint blearing,
though I do wish
there was an ending,
questions spark in halos
of low street lamps as you veer
toward the center,
recollections are ceaseless.
She will be at your left and the gust
through the tinted window
will be humid,
you taste her last spirit
in the smoke and
DamagedWhats it like to be pure
To be blissfully ignorant
To not know the ugly dangers of this world
How I long for my stolen innocence
I am broken, filthy and hopeless
I pray to the darkness to steal my breath away for good
like these countless men do every day
I pray to be given just one chance
at a happy white nothing
please please please
Eat me up
Wipe away my mind
I don't want to think anymore
It hurts me so
I want to be free
To get away from it
No such luck for the forsaken
Her CatalystAs she walks through the maelstrom, the words trace upon the tips of her fingers and press into the stone. Every brick, every crack in the concrete, every crossed and angular stroke in reds and blacks and oranges. The drips of the gasoline pool around the base of her boots, slosh as she steps over the burst pipes and the rubble.
So much rubble. So little outcry. The silence of the city grates on her eardrums and the mantras she'd been forced to memorize. The Seers demanded they observe thirteen years of recitation before they attempt to weave their first World together.
But who other than the Seers can claim the incantations that knot the skeins they twist and pull on like reins hold fast? When have any of the Sisters recorded the visions they traced upon space-time and recited them, left them open for critique and discussion and debate?
Which is why she walks through the chalky soot of the smashed city around her. This all
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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