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poetry is dumb. (fuck logic)maybe you'll read this, maybe you won't.
i have a feeling you might.
four hours since the pieces of glass hit my stomach
after my heart shattered.
you did it,
you cheated, and you lied.
all i wanted was for you to tell me the truth,
isn't it what i deserve?
yeah, i don't write in rhymes often
but fuck it, it's still poetry;
broken hearts make great pencils,
i guess you learned that today
if you started writing your own.
six lines this time,
because anything less is overused
like your excuses--
all i want is for you to say you're sorry
and admit what you did
but i don't think you can.
and it's too soon to say i don't love you anymore
oh look, i cheated.
this stanza isn't seven lines. it's six again. fuck logic.
and all my friends say you're a manipulator,
a puppet-master if you will
and i trusted you.
cerebrum.if it's midnight already and i can't feel you anymore,
it's because you're savoring the taste of someone else;
or maybe it's because you're just lost in all the shades of blue,
the word "farewell" comes in so many colors.
if you've climbed too high and still haven't found a signal,
it's because my thoughts are lost somewhere in jupiter's storm
or maybe it's because i'm asleep on a train
heading far, far away from you.
i took a metaphor literally once when i cut you out of my life
with a pair of rusty black-handled scissors and every picture that i had of us.
it never seemed to work, i could never chase you out of my head,
and that was when i realized that you lived there.
you're everything and nothing i've learned in history class,
about guillotines and revolutions,
and if i know one thing, it's that you're surely not a Saint
and no sir, i will not love you.
butterfly kisseshe told me he played tic-tac-toe on his arm
with a razorblade once
and showed me the scars to prove it
i grazed my fingers over his forearm
marked with faint white lines
that made me scared i would lose him someday
and i thought back to that one time
when he was drunk and i could hear
the urgency in his voice as he stood on a ledge
but all i could feel was his heart beating faster then
when i touched the stories permanently inscribed
in his skin
and his left hand tracing the outline of my jaw
and even the tickle of his eyelashes against my cheek
as we sat in the backseat of his nissan.
it's raining outside, and i know our future.blue eyes, grey skies,
everything's going to be alright.
fascination.clearly i've developed a fascination with cigarettes
and hand-holding and cheek-kisses,
something about thinking about him on starry nights,
when i can draw lines connecting his initials to mine
because he was a cancer and i was a cancer,
and my horoscope told me to keep him close to my heart
so he could peel back my skin and my ribs and my lungs
to steal my words right from my chest
he smelled like Newports and hours-old cologne,
but sometimes it was his smoke mingled with a fresh peppermint
that drew me to his lips and made me wonder
if i could get addicted to the taste of his nicotine
he made me want him next to me, to lay my hand on his chest
while our minds soared into the ocean of clouds and birds above us
and we stared at each other with our eyes closed,
letting our lips speak in a wordless rhythm
that somehow contained three syllables.
against the grain.i've never been afraid of ghosts,
though sometimes when i removed the black-framed panes of glass from my eyes, i saw them. spots of light pulsated softly as my eyes struggled to focus against the blackness of the sky with smeared stars and harsh streetlamps marking the edges of concrete. i was afraid to blink and my seven-year-old mind was convinced that behind my eyelids i would take with me these demons.
i say there is no wrong in choosing to blind yourself to this world and open to one without lines and i am on a straight shot to joining the latter. i am the kind of person that clings to make-believe, not glasses and handlebars – i get caught in the beauty, and for a moment i forget that bright red means "stop, you're going to die." reality fizzles out like static and i'm left to see the ghosts that so entice me to leave what i know.
we leave our bodies far too soon to become part of the smudges that hide in flickering neon signs so i close my eyes as often as i can because i
here in your armsyou asked me for a hug
"just a goodbye hug," you said,
and i had to refuse
because i knew that if i let you wrap your arms around me
i wouldn't want you to let go.
but later i gave in to my fears,
we stood outside in civil twilight
underneath a yellow streetlamp
and you asked again,
a gentleman as always,
and i wrapped my arms around your neck
like i did a thousand times before.
and i closed my eyes
and tightened my grip
as you kissed my neck
and whispered, "i don't want to lose you..."
i felt your tears on my shoulder,
you felt mine on yours
and we didn't let go
until i was too afraid that our embrace
i looked you in your brown eyes,
deep-set from cigarettes
and red from fear like mine
you told me you'd still be there
and that it wouldn't be goodbye
until i wanted you gone.
poems unsent and love untolda single ant carries a single grain of sand
and drops it in the waterless oceans, goes back and does it again
until the ocean's pits are but sand filled dunes
and this is but a millisecond of how long
i will love you.
eyes of the ocean, an ever-changing hue,
just one reason i love you.
a smile to melt the coldest night,
a kiss so soft and hug so tight;
the list is endless like the stars in the sky
but one thing is sure, i'll love you until i die.
i'd drop a tear in the ocean blue
and until you found it, i'd love you.
grain by grain, the ant carries the sand
'till water is sand and my life is returned to land
i'll love you.
fourteen years.for seconds, or minutes
under each honeydrop skyline
respite became only for the weary.
the women and children,
either too pretty to touch or too far out of reach, were
examined like a piece behind museum glass and
now were rotted and old.
years became eternity, and
eternity became impossible
as the lonely click-clack of conversation
remissed into nothing
somewhere along the line.
Love LetterDear ______,
I never thought I would fall for someone.
I've seen people in love, and I've seen them go through the pains of heartbreak and rejection, so I promised myself I would never set myself up for that kind of wound.
I've seen people in love go to the other extreme, where they get stupid, get taken advantage of, get sappy to the point where none of their friends want to be around them, so again I promised myself I would never let my judgement be clouded.
I told myself that love, especially teen love, is fickle, false, and pointless.
And then you know what happened? I met you.
I met you. So simple when you look at it like that, one tiny sentence, three little words.
Amazing how much it changed.
It was not love at first sight. Love at first talk might be a more fitting expression.
Once I got to know you, I found you to be funny, smart, simply radiant, despite all of your problems and all of your pain.
Once I got you out of your shell, I was surprised, even taken aback, by how livel
Indefinite Tidesshe speaks in vinegar riddles
and bides her time in shipwrecked
ticking off days for the boy
with stormy eyes who promised
he'd be back in a season or
two. he, who was
crafted from the leftover bits of the moon
and the meandering sky with runaway
stars lurking deep beneath his ribcage,
waiting to fall whenever he spoke
like a saint, whose divine sacraments
parted land and birthed lives; like a
sorcerer whose words launched a
thousand sunken ships but
now, she pops pills like reminders,
stabilizers that last 4-6 hours
depending on her ability to forget
and she's lost in herself
again, among faltering brainwaves
and wavering heartbeats and the
whimpering echo of her own worst fears
like: he's gone and he took all
that's good of me with him,
my weighted bones and my bated breath
and my lingering hope, too
that thing with feathers that
cries when it's plucked clean,
skeletal and bare and smooth
enough for me to rest my weary head on.
see, the ocean cracked and regurgitated
the flies are in the food, again.
festering, feeding- because i sewed
shut my lips when you warned me
they were a gaping wound.
silence is the best kind of infection;
you can't know what's kept inside
i carry little girl dreams
of dying and coming back
diseased, depraved, an atrocity;
at least then I'd be something
worth writing home about
i deserve more than what
i am- i am selfish and
greedy, but not strong
to steal a life worth living
(look at me now, mom
i'm growing into the
ugly thoughts i birthed.
i think this is what it must feel like
to finally follow through)
there are things you never say:
no one ever wants to
face their mortality
i will die and i will bring
my rotting mind with me;
the sun will rise again, brightly,
a little less burdened
the worst eulogy, it seems,
is a finger pointed towards
a world unwelcoming:
(look at me now, mom
i'm something worth writing
home about, i finally
there's a skeleton's breath
on the back
Uncommonly BeautifulThe stars are coming out tonight. A million, billion sources of light, stretching into infinity. A million, billion suns, each shining down on their own worlds. The moon is full and uncommonly beautiful. It will wax and it will wane, going from a bold, brilliant source of light nearly as powerful as the sun to the barest wink of silver in the sky, and then disappearing. But it will always return.
Tomorrow morning, the sun will rise and paint the sky with color. It will give light and life to the world all day, as it has done for every day past and will do for every day still to come. Even if there are clouds and rain and storming, the sun will always be there, just behind it all, waiting to shine through again.
It will set in the night, going out in another blaze of beauty, and the the cycle will begin agian, and will continue to go on, no matter what happens to each of us, little souls going about our little lives of pain and pleasure on this little blue planet.
No matter what happens
She asked for an explanation, she won't see itSo, I'm back here again
I thought another visit to my writing desk
Would make it easier to remember
Exactly why I wanted to forget you
The ink spills onto paper, forming words
It can't reflect
The black and white you invoke in me
Or even the shades of grey.
But, see, there's the problem
I'm not black and white
or some mix thereof
I'm a darker blue than dusk's sky
A brighter green than the leaves outside
A deeper red than the slash on my arm
After all, being monochromatic only
Brings out the colors that people despise
But I digress. This was supposed to be an explanation
Or maybe confession is a better term
So many times, I've tried to explain this
But those three words don't seem to get to you
Maybe if I could find a way to say them
That nobody has before
But I can't
I suppose that makes me a shitty poet.
I guess I'll settle for another message
Sent from the bottom of my heart
That you'll read with another boy's taste on your lips
admittance is defeatthey called you beautiful
with porcelain eyes about to crack
and cigarette skin crumbling
away, a knotted spine and
you were never gracious.
you're slipping underneath, this
virulent smog masks a paper sky that
never allowed a dream and
you're afraid because it's soaking in
your pores again, unattainable and unoriginal;
the meaning of life never meant enough-
you were never hopeful.
there's a getaway map on the underside
of your pillow, and a lifetime of secrets
on the underside of your bones
you're a walking travesty:
your chest ticks, dull
your wrist beats, dying
time is keeping you but
you were never patient.
you lie large enough to make us believe you
don't entertain nightmares, but what if
no one could hear you scream?
remarkable, it seems
caged birds really know how
to sing out
(you were always beautiful)
softenedthe sky whispers,
ribbons of crystalline quiet,
same shade as the angel dust
you shivered every time we were
in the darkness, we were
sorry birds searching for
open dawns. you, the
swan, me, the
black as night and
just as hopeful.
and there were poems
written in your skin, universes
blooming in your hands; your eyes
were a December sunrise saving me
from any sleep.
I’ve decided that
people are a composition of
all their greatest memories—and you,
you were always the most
beautiful piece of
ColorblindI gave away my name today
and it might be a metaphor, but I think
we only remember the quietest suicides
the walls are thin enough to listen
as the angels try to scratch free;
bloodied fingernails and God says everyone
screws up, sometimes
I'm waiting for a silent night.
I only ever believed in solid ground
and depressions' tides, and sometimes,
those little wounds I nursed deep
within my vocal chords (because
my voice is dying, too)
I can see the beautiful people, now
overdosing on their own opiums of
self-acquittal and dissolution
they ran out of ways to ask for help.
I'm fragile, but my glass ribs
aren't holding much
and I'm through trying to find something
different, because it's scary to know
what exactly's the same
yesterday I was someone else and
tomorrow I'm further into inevitabilities of
who I promised I'd never be--
I'm waiting for a happy ending,
but if you love something
you let it go.
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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