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Turning The TideI just wanted to know the foundation would be solid
I longed to feel steady on my feet in this
ever changing world - where the ground constantly
shifts and there's no certainty of tomorrow.
I would take that leap of faith, to live among
the clouds, rather than constantly staring to the
stars in hopes of my dreams coming from above,
but I can only hold my head up high and keep spirits.
Dismiss everything that holds you down, the weight
of the world becomes all too apparent when we
try to take on the full burden of our doubts
with the hope of having everything that makes us happy.
Oh but what really makes us happy in a world where
everything is about that very next step, and
the collection of things instead of experiences and
relationships along the way, I'm still just waiting now.
I'm still just waiting for my heart to tell the truth,
for some awakening within to guide me to the place
where the aching of my soul is no longer consuming
and I'll know that fear is just a thing of the past.
The Real MonstersWe always believed as kids
that pulling the blanket
over our heads
would protect us from
evil, from the creatures
that go bump in the night.
We pulled the wool over
our eyes, and cowered in
youthful ignorance, hoping
with every ounce of our being
that our problems would go away.
I'll tell you something, kid,
something the world will teach
you anyway - oh please listen
to each and every word I say
the monsters under the bed
have been in the mirror all along
you are your own worst nightmare.
We hold onto dreams without pursuit,
simply willing them to be without
wanting to put in the blood, sweat
and tears - in a way, succumbing
to those same childhood fears,
even after all of these exhausting years.
There's just one thing we forgot
to take into account, over all of this
voracious self doubt, that there
are other ways to make your voice heard
than to just scream and shout.
Even when the whole world is against you
show them they're wrong,
through word and song.
I'll tell you
In Spite Of FaithThis is the way we live our life. Our hands in our pockets,
our heads to the skies. Tell me again my way of thinking
is wrong, oh the inherent nature of your judgement, contradicting
to the core. I'll forget about the naysayers and continue my sins,
living my life in spite of promise, not awaiting it's reward. Oh
the good inside of a man, with the vision of paradise at the end,
how the hell can you tell us we are bound for nine circles?
I await the tide, with my feet in the sand and the sun on my skin.
All of that time wasted hoping for something better, we fail
to make the status quo something we can be happy with. So desperate
to replace our misery with Elysian fields, we'll abandon our
brother if it means stepping foot past the gates. Well the only
pearly whites I need are the teeth behind my smile, and a kiss
every once in a while. The only promise I long for is the promise
of love, not the promise of forever. I am at home, I am comfortable
with the end, because I didn't sit around
Tell Me Which Way To GoAt times I feel this world is all too much,
and it's in these lowest of lows
that I need your hand just to pull me up
before I sink to the bottom, the bottom again.
I need a welcoming voice, an ear to listen,
the simple warm embrace of a friend, fuck --
Where has my confidence gone? Oh how I used
to long for something better than this,
for something to take me far away from here.
And now all I can do is scream at the
top of my lungs. How can I do this alone?
Well grip my hand and make sure you hold on tight,
we're in for a wild ride, and every low will be
followed with exciting highs, as we raise our arms,
youthful eyes closed as we reach for the skies.
I know, oh believe me I know, that this moment
of weakness is not all that I'm meant to be,
I know that these doubts won't get the best of me,
because the world has yet to see the rest of me.
If These Words Were My LastMy calamitous calling, a cringe beneath this crippling
crisis of conscience - always tugging, gnawing
right beneath the surface. A dull throbbing, becoming a
quaking yearning, a voracious desire to find an outlet
for these fleeting thoughts. All of these trapped
strings of flowery language, words circling and dancing
in the depths of my creativity, locked far away
from my access. How I wish I could purge myself of
all of the things I need so desperately to voice, if only
I had a voice to do so. My abilities escape me, and my
insecurities berate me, at times sedate me, when all I
want is for the world to praise me. You'll never be good enough.
And that may be the absolute truth, but as the time
ticks away and life passes me by, I am consumed with
the need to raise my voice and at times my fist in
firm opposition to the crows circling above - I'll
slip into delusion or come out of it some day and make
a great feast for the conflux before me, the horde will take
me, and I'll rot kn
I've Got A Story To TellFriction, it's my most sincerest depiction,
of the obstacles draining my conviction. There's
just something in the way, even though it
was never supposed to be this way. Every ounce
of me has something to say, yet my desire goes astray,
and tends to stray away from the point or the meaning
in what it is I'm trying to say, like all of the seams
binding it together are beginning to fray. And it seems
as if these dreams are no longer attainable, like my
nightmares are starting to work in teams, the smallest
layers of darkness are enveloping the largest of beams.
But if there's one thing I know, it's that I've still got
a story to tell. But a writer without inspiration is like
a salesmen with no product to sell, in the way that every
demon in my life was once an angel who fell, like when the
worst of sinners can account for the bad and avoid hell,
I hope that despite my trials I can figure out another way
to accomplish something in the realm of a fairy tale.
My whole being is consumed by t
It's All but LostI've been contemplating for some time now
the idea of leaving it all behind,
from the bursting cannon fire in the
pit of my stomach, to the aching of my spine,
with feelings of yellow fear and green envy
consuming my ability to rationalize an end-
I'll hang onto sobriety as a last attempt,
but creativity has long escaped me.
I dared to try, dared to dream, and now
I can't even muster up the courage to piece
anything together, words and phrases, prose
and poetry, it all is lost on me now- once
coming so easily, so naturally, so rhythmically,
I've orchestrated my end so masterfully. I peaked
long ago, and I feel now that I'm facing an
uphill battle, trying to reach such incredible
heights as I once could compose with ease.
Clearly, it's self imposed, and maybe
my means have not suffered, but my confidence instead,
but either way it's got to stop -
All of these doubts and insecurities,
I'll line them up one by one and
take them in my sights, in hopes of
never missing again.
Give Me An AnswerOh, that stream of conscious. How I've yearned to return
to a time where inspiration poured out of me, and there
weren't enough outlets in this vast world to fill all of the
things I had to say. That need, ardent and voracious all at
the same time, no longer surfaces. Buried deep beneath a
shell of a sleep deprived anxious hull. I ache for the
ability I once had - the ability to just create. To
put words together, to string along the melodies of
my heart and soul, into poetic and prose fashion. To
just empty all of the pint up emotions, or put together
completely new ones. That ability to be the voice of others,
to put into words what they would never be able to,
having never even experienced their trials on my own.
Where has my inspiration gone? Where do I begin to search?
I can only keep reaching and hope my grasp is near,
for I fear the end draws neigh and without a kick start
I'm headed for a collision.
Bohemian GardensDeep, deeper than any murky depths below storm battered surfaces, beyond cavernous openings to what one could confuse for the gates of the inferno itself, lies a compound. A collection of society’s outcasts, dregs and saints, recovering or sinking further into delusion, the hopeless and those still strong enough to hold onto grace. The whispering of wind, bellowing from tree trunks to tree tops, drifting across huts and tents, an orchestration of utter desperation, melodically playing the symphony of the end. The trumpets sound, almost to announce the ending of an era, that all expected to never arrive. To the outside looker, prying into the shanty, it appears as hell. For the inhabitants, this place is nothing short of paradise, the answer to their bohemian calling, a miraculous sprouting of freedom and acceptance. Regardless of the stage in their transformation, every individual in the populace calls this place home.
Rows of trees hug the humble abodes, wrapping limb and leaf a
Six Second Poem"We're all the same," she said. "Friend, tell me," she asked, "how are we different?"
For six seconds I paused, then I said:
Some of us ..
love more than we hate,
laugh more than we cry,
work harder than we play, but
live before we die.
Some of us don't.
And that, my friend, is how we are all different.
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.
I willI will love you
all the way to the place where ladybirds go to die,
to the lushest corners of the earth
that hold the secrets no man was meant to see
and we will find them, and know them together.
I will love you
all the way to the place where bubbles are made
at the bottom of a glass of cider
that blisters the glass with condensation
as we trade hats and laugh at the way the air smiles.
I will love you
all the way inside a branch where buds dream of Becoming,
where those one-day-flowers stir wooden hearts
into an uprising, into a blossoming life
and we will plant our ambitions there, in the blooming place.
I will love you
all the way to the square brackets that hold our boxes
because you are my best friends, and you will be
as we fold papery hands around paper-cut wrists and cry
and mourn eighty-odd years flown by too fast. Even then.
Even then, I will love you still.
I've ForgottenWhen she died
I tied a knot in my stomach
so I would remember
but I've been so busy
trying to remember her dying
I forgot how to forget.
how to let go -
and the doctors said
they would cut me open
and snip her out
a blade between the bows
and the pain, would be gone
but I've forgotten
how to let go -
and I still don't want to.
love didn't matter, but home was with youi.
there's still shadows left of you
even with the
little that remains. i wish
sometimes the light
would stop it's singing long enough
for them to grow,
my heart spends enough
time aching when
just the photographs
show their faces.
you took me
to a wedding once - it was a cold
night, and the
of stars in the sky made
it seem like God's
breath was reaching out
to earth. i don't remember
the names of the two who
indefinitely, anymore, not
when the wind's taken
in it's hold; but i remember crying because
love's just so damn
hard to find, and you
found me instead behind
the rosebushes that
were too stained to be called
me that sometimes
love doesn't matter, and
i (did)n't want to
you asked me once if anything
mattered, a lighter
gracing one hand and a
cigarette lining your
lips. i wasn't
sure back then
and i don't know
if i am now
(but i think i want to say yes).
my body never felt
unarticulatedtonight I ask myself:
where are you going with all these names
in your pockets? syllables that taste
unauthentic in the desperate American
repression is a series of images
earthbound angels breathing
flame, starving hands speaking
in tongues, glazed eyes
asking are you fucking okay
pale skin becoming moonlight,
reflecting and refracting and
the quiet understatement
The Elephant ManHe had elephant hands; swollen and tendered
by old age and wiping away childrens' crying
so they were leathered and carefully painted
with a veneer of the dust made by old books,
but when he read to me the pages didn't shake
and his throat didn't contract about the words
like they were enemies to be spat out, bloodied.
Lungs didn't shiver and eyes didn't milk, then.
Now, I see love ephemeral. I see love half-dead
and carving its riverbed path, slowly eroding;
until it can rejoin oceans once known in heaven.
Now, I see him ephemeral. I see him half-living.
I see the fear of burdenship as the only thing
that makes his eyes flicker how Pernod used to.
I see a beautiful, crumpled drawing of my hero
as my grandfather slips, wearily, back to sleep.
Diamond TearIn silence
I observe them
Laughing and having fun
While I'm in my corner
I feel out of place
I don't belong here
So I leave
And no one notices
Now I'm out on the street
A dark and silent one
Enjoying the breeze
Lost in my thoughts
Suddenly I hear a sob
And I look around
I see a girl
Sitting on a bench
A single diamond tear
Running down her face
I don't know her
No one else is around
I could just leave
But I can't
So I sit by her side and ask
Without looking her in the eyes
For a moment
And then she takes my hand
And we look
Into each other's eyes
And she whispers
Oxtails (Collab w/ TwilightPoetess)Somewhere between oxen and orchid,
where cattails and foxgloves wilt and weep
at the parting of another fleeing day
and stormed cloud-castles mutiny
against the weight of the rocksalt moon;
somewhere between flightless and fading,
where faery circles and dandelion crowns fall--
somewhere, beneath bark mosaiced with age,
you will siphon the remains of my heart--
churned smooth by false hope’s abuse--
into dehydrated dirt that groans for it.
I will clot the crumbling veins of anthills
with the iron debris that was once us,
until I become orchid or foxglove once more.
Pestilent PrincessEvery compressed oval or circle,
down to each obscure ingestion
I knew you'd never let me down.
Those gorgeous porcelain eyes staring
back up at me until the very last moment.
Tell me your final words, your dying wishes,
and I will grant them all, for you
provide the nirvana I so desperately crave.
My pestilent princess, I will slay
every dragon it takes to get to you
even if it means chasing it for eternity.
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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