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embroideryhis fingers were needles,
stitching thrills into her skin and
with words of scarlet thread:
trust no one.
it's excellent handiwork,
she clings to an empty loom
with bloodied nails and
spring scatterscradling cherry petals in
i cage sun rays with my lashes,
breath deep, and blow away
satin bits of pink;
they are farther from
because the wind never took them
from their planting grounds.
statuesquei glimpsed you in moldered limelight,
marbled-marvel Sun God mine.
your stone-glazed gaze is ingenuity.
strategist to millions of men--
life or death in a word
crumbles crudely between that
frigid, fright'ning sneer.
if i could knead blood and brazen glamor
betwixt your granite-knit
trapezoids and pectorals,
press power to your stone-honed
thighs, and sigh histories golden
into your roar-rugged lungs,
would you stand on shattered feet
move, and crush the world?
we have forgotten what
grace and gratitudeif happenstance prevents us
as we sowed flaxen fields golden
with gales of child's laughter
singing from our older hearts,
forbids this tender touch
clear as branding fire
that shapes my pulse to
your name and vocal chords...
said the moonspring sings coronations,
her bosom blossoming
fragrances and petal-thin crowns.
bejeweled in dew-drop daylight new, they
harmonize melodies with her zesty gust of
summer smiles toothy, cirrus wonder.
blazoned like a great beached whale,
he gleams sunshine-grins on wind-tanned skin
drawing diamonds of sweat-salt fun and
washing it all with a roar and evening
autumn ambles towards his rest,
shedding sheaves of crimson-spectrum.
To Youcountless rays on countless days
tickle me from sleep;
i never wake up wondering
how many mornings are
treading patterned outskirts of
my daily life and thought,
will you leave as you came?
to-the-point, but mild-mannered
despite your circumstances;
you're like a secret
a lovely one, but
sad, so sad.
the sort of silent matter
coined instead by masterpiece musicians
or preserved in wordless scenery
that takes one's breath
beyond the other-worlds.
so, i hesitate to write of you.
this is to you, instead:
you could never be a past-tense
despite your fond farewells.
i've learned too much
thought too dearly
from you, of you,
to be a good sport in this.
i've never heard you speak,
nor seen your especially "wide"
smile [but i pray you smile as much,
oh, as widely as you can until you can't].
your words i took to heart;
they dropped there like
heavy, hot stones
weighing on my mind and
keeping my heart warm.
they needn't have been big or small;
those words we
lost my voice.I wrote "I love you"
in the sand at the beach.
The tide swallowed the words
and drowned them
before I could speak.
HauntedI see her there with
Coal dust carved
Into the icy skin
Under her eyes,
And on her lips
Dance a chorus
Of bitter lies.
A skeletal hand of smoke
Claws at my neck
Until I bleed;
She tells me that the pain
Is just what I need.
And her blood
Zooms in her veins
Like speeding cars.
She looks at me
At what I am.
She’s a snake,
In the guise
Of a lamb.
‘What happened to us?’
Of what I used to be.
‘I may be you,
But you are not me.’
The sun comes up:
Yesterday is gone
But see it this way;
The past is part of the future
But the future isn’t the past.
You choose which bits go,
You choose which bits last.
How to love a poet: Expect them to be flawed,
a field of wild flowered-
& an inability
Love them anyway.
Know that when they look at you
they are noticing the little things.
I Saw a Burning ManIn front of my house, he sat.
Skin burnt off, now charred and black.
Hesitantly, I walked outside.
And he followed me with his watery eyes.
With steps as nimble as the snow,
I hid my fear and continued to go.
Now before him, the Burning Man.
I kindly offered him my shaky hand.
No malice nor vice leaked off of him,
rather sadness and agony which simmered below his skin.
I could feel it around me, the pain and despair,
yet, physically the man was nearly repaired.
For his scorched skin was not his problem,
instead the bottled emotions that devoured all of him.
“Would you like to come inside sir, and stay?”
In which he replied by looking away.
Again I asked, and received no reply,
and was startled when the man began to cry.
Unsure of what to do, I walked away,
Yet I’ll never forget what happened that day.
Be it from pain, or mute, or undisclosed desires,
I watched as the man was engulfed in fire.
I stood back in awe, with my mouth agape,
and feared that he had fallen into
little victories.when i was younger,
i thought i was the strongest
little girl in the world
because i could easily
beat my older brother
at arm wrestling.
it wasn't until years later
that i realized
Loving A Guy Who Cannot Love Himself.Firstly, tell him that he doesn't necessarily need to be the “strongest” man in the world,
that if he cries, you won't look down on him for it,
that you won't call him weak.
Tell him that he doesn't have to like sports, or fishing, or football, or any of the “mainstream” things that boys are “supposed” to like.
Let him know that liking art, or dancing, or singing or acting doesn't make him gay, doesn’t make him any less of a man, it just makes him who he is.
A human being.
And for goodness sakes, tell him that blue does not have to be his favorite color, than he can indulge in pink, or purple or even magenta!
And to the girl who take on the task, remember please, that it is not always the Knight who saves the Princess.
No, this time, the Princess may need to save the Knight.
Do not pour your problems onto him, rather, balance each other out.
Be a shoulder to cry on. A friend to be there. A love that never leaves.
Perhaps more than often,
And There Was Lighti.
He was seventeen when he died.
I never went to the funeral
but I walked past it the day of
the service. His mother
was in the backseat of a blue Dodge,
door open, head in her hands.
"My baby," she kept repeating.
"My baby." It would go from sobbing, to
screaming, to a soft whisper that
I could only hear being carried
on the wind.
It was a Wednesday afternoon that they found
his old red pickup truck parked
out front of Slim's, two beer bottles in
the back and the windows cracked to let the stale
I heard that his dad told the police he was
gonna take that old truck and fix it up, because
he had promised his son before—
because it's always in the before—
And in the after, his mother never had dry eyes
and I'm pretty sure my mom told me
that she saw his dad at the bar every night,
drinking his sorrows down because some people can't
handle the stress.
Some people can't figure out why their son would
"Some men just want to w
You Ever Felt ItHave you ever felt it?
When you lay there broken
And feel yourself so guilty
Eyes gushing red
And you want to sleep in a coma
Your brain swelling with thoughts
At the same time empty with nothing
When you can't suit yourself
And see yourself a place among the demons
that moment when you control your life
The moment when you choose between life and death
And then you yourself can decide either way
It's when you're on the edge
And want someone to pull you back before you make another step
A hook, to rip all the insanity out of your body
And suck all the madness that is growing black dead trees
Have you ever felt it, have you known depression
Did you ever seek a source of help, and did you ever find it
The Boy Who Never Knockedhe found her alone that night
the boy who never knocked.
she lay curled up on her side
in a web of fabric and feathers
and twisted threads of restless sleep.
tears adorned her lowered lashes
but went on to stain her sunken cheeks.
even when she was at rest
it seemed that fear pursued her
causing her to catch her breath
a cruel and unfair hunter.
when her unseen guest knelt down
to whisper in her ear
she did not hear a single sound
but his words still dried her tears:
"through better or worse, i promise
that what you once held dear
will once again be precious
the smile you've had to make a lie
will shine strong and pure and true
that weakness helps you find strength
in the hearts of those you never knew you had
and finally, that good will always come
no matter how long you're sad."
he bent to her he loved so much
to kiss her tears away
though she felt not a single touch
to verify his stay
with a sigh not ever made
by any who drew breath
he went back to his watchful grave
the boy who lov
EasterRemember what you love,
you with sand in your teeth
and the feral burn of hunger
in your eyes.
God sends his regrets.
He made you grasping and slow,
in a late hour
when the wine washed low.
Remember what you love.
Fall to your knees in the toss
and the swell, quell
the appetite of the cold black sea.
Beg blessings for your home
and the salt-sick trees.
Reach what lies near:
the fat-faced child, the sweet-soft lamb;
tether the tantrum, trickle the blood.
Offer psalms to what is holy,
whisper the name of what you love
as it bobs in the bleak mad sea.
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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