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FatherI don't understand why he takes care of me
I am a burden and a mess
that goes from place to place
hurting and dumping her baggage on everything around her
I have disappointed him in so many ways
forgive me, daddy.
What ifWhat if I can't do this?
What if I can't grow?
because I'm so afraid
that I can't function
without someone to take care of.
I don't know how to want to better myself
it's a shaking that comes upon me
earth-breaking and lonely
breath comes hard
and softly goes my heart
because I'm tired
and I'm not even sure I know how to try
inspiringhe is inspiring
never have I heard of anyone
who snatches the air from my lungs as he does
who thrills me with the vivacity
like he can
as I heard each breath, shaking with the intensity
of his words
rolling in his mouth as rocks do
tumbling into my ears
with all the grace and noise and energy of puppies
I am swept away
I take joy in them, these messy words
cut and sown together
like Joseph's coat of many colors
there's beauty in it
i am one of you
I can hear his conviction
rattling like a cough in his chest
he sounds feverish
and his fervor is a strength
tongue lapping up the attention of his listeners
slamming doorsEvery time I hear them argue,
a chill (just a shiver) runs down my spine.
And every time I see anger
in their eyes,
I am a child again
I prepare myself - just a little -
for their voices, raw and strained, barraging my eardrums
for the thud of objects thrown
(although, sometimes they're only punches)
cocooned in blankets, locked in my room
I remember my father's impassive face,
the rage in my mother's words
the realization that my sister and I
will grow up to become them
Every time I hear them argue
I am afraid.
VaninYou speak a language
that I don't
it is heavy and thick
resounding from your chest
words forming in your throat
it has no rules,
but easily understood by those born
as you were
You speak a language that is harsh on the ears
and soft on the lips,
the syllables rough and
'round your tongue
you speak of ugliness and of suffering
in a clipped and angry tone
it's still so beautiful
when you speak
I feel that I knew you
before I knew you.
You were in my words and my thoughts.
You were hard to understand, at first,
but I grasped at you.
I began to know you
as no other has known you before.
and, even though knowing you
has changed all that i had known before
I don't regret you.
She wears a red hat.She wears a red hat, a small cap, the only piece of color in her grey world. A breeze snapped at her face, her bangs stirring. She kept her slightly curling black hair braided, over her shoulder where so that it couldn't trouble her. She sighed as her boots kicked and splashed in the puddle.
The park was where the girl in the red hat always went when she felt that she was unable to cope; sometimes it was hard to live with her mother. The woman had grown steadily more resentful of the man who had left her - resentful of his new wife, his new child, his new happiness.... But the girl paid this no mind. She knew the man loved her still, in his own way, but could not bear to stay any longer. She had long since accepted this fact - understood it.
Sometimes she would meet the man in this park without her mother's knowing. The two of them would sit together on a park bench in silence, enjoying the day and a hot hoagie for lunch - or take walks down the well-trod path. He never had been one fo
Tell youI'm afraid to tell you
because I love you so much
I don't want you to be disgusted
it wasn't my fault that it happened
so long ago
I don't want to have to tell you
to turn off your sense of humor,
to spare my feelings-
to tip-toe around the tender spots in my heart.
I just wanted to be okay
and I told you that I was
so that we could get on with our lives
and forget the past...
but you never forget
so, how could I tell you
that I'm still hurting?
CoolMind held in a paralysis
so I sit, while snow settles around me
And the plinking-plucking of the shamisen resounds
In my ears
The cleanest sound I've ever heard
A voice trembles
Carrying the music through waves of blue and grey
While twilight leans in, listening
To the crooning
Of his voice
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.
1969, and time goes oni imagine you
thief of space affairs, time would go on;
wonder if you'd manifest
to govern gravity’s empire
physically, just as aurally,
so to walk with a
winds at war
captivated by you; sunshine
gathered in the organized
chaos of your hair: eyes would
dance fires domesticated by
your fingertips, boasting wander-
world laws of light (reigned in
earthen measure). i’d
boast mountains by your name.
the exhaust for gods
of transience (north-
hazed) transmuted back
(for easy drawls from the east)—
i’d sip wine
from the wishbone of your
body of sea. plead
the noise of bedroom eyes
& sleepy smells to soften your
siren’s unquiet tease.
i imagine you,
thief of space affairs;
imagine you in 1969
where our time would go on.
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
IncensedI don't know how not to be angry.
it's the safest thing to be
when you don't know
and when you feel a friend leaves you, deceives you
and everyone tells you this is so
I don't know
so I get angry
For a few moments, I do want to die
because I've not felt this way in such a long time
never the rage
never the hatred
I always feel that I must go on the offensive
that words and silence aren't enough
I want to squeeze that white white neck
or break those wiry arms...
But I am taught to be civilized now.
To be patient and wait
while my family
and my heart screams for blood
so I can't talk.
I can't even be around- I make mistakes
and stumble over myself.
I can't be eloquent
in this situation.
I don't know how to not be angry.
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