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What ifWhat if there was a way
To escape all your problems
Care about people every day
Have them care back
What if the price
Was just your life outside of you
You could just get sucked in
You would be invincible too
Who cares what they say?
Who cares what they think?
What it you could be confident,
And the price was only ink
What if it wasn't hard
To bury yourself away
Who cares what they think of you,
If you're closed off emotionally, anyway?
What if you could forget
At least for a little while
And the price would only be
Just a bit of your soul
Buried away inside of it
Right there where you can find it
It wouldn't be hard really,
No it wouldn't hurt, really
What if you could escape
Run away and not look back
What if the price was only
Opening up a book.
Shoot StraightSo here you go
Thrown into the deep end
Do your best,
Everything is riding on this,
But no pressure."
Here I am
Time to pick
What I've tried to avoid until now
What do you want to do with your life?
You only live once,
Live it well
What if my dream is just to stop
And disappoint everyone.
AgainI think it will happen again, I don't know why I looked it up
Melancholy once again, can I really survive another time?
Surely this time I will break, but maybe I'm already broken
Carefully, carefully, I picked up the pieces
Already I knew, I think I felt it
Repenting and feeling, though I may be wrong
Entirely certain that something was changing
Do I have to worry again and again?
Sans TitreJe me mets à écrire, c'est pas comme les histoires
Y a pas d'encre ni papier, tout est électronique
On entend comme la pluie, légers bruits du clavier
Comme la nuit, quand je n'arrive pas à dormir
Et ces vers qui m'étouffent et me sauvent en même temps
Et me font rêver aussi, quand je lis Corneille
Lui, par exemple, ses vers l'ont rendu célèbre
Et le doux bruit s'arrête quand je dois bien penser
À ces alexandrins qui animent la magie
Et des fois, quelques fois, en plein cours de français
Je lis un texte qui est trop beau pour être vrai
Ou comme Annie Ernaux, Ce Qu'ils Disent Ou Rien
Ses mots m'on semblé venir de ma propre bouche
En vrai je me trouve moche, j'ai envie de sortir
J'essaie de voir le futur et de réussir
Mais j'ai peur que en vrai je n'y arriverai pas
Et que mon avenir bientôt s'effondrera
Mais il y a une chose dont je suis bien certaine
Ça me fait
Hamster I must be the first claustrophobic hamster. I mean, the cage is bad enough, but would you really want to squeeze through those tiny tubes that are about half your size? I didn’t think so.
“Oh, he’s so cute!” one of the girls shrieked. I’m a she, genius. I glared up at my owner, Cindy or Mindy or something like that. She had a friend over, and they were presently cooing over me.
“His name is Lightning,” my owner said, whatever her name is. I mean, seriously, that girl has no imagination. Could you think of a dumber name than Lightning? It’s not like I asked to be named that.
I’d get the name if I was black or maybe white, but I’m golden brown. How does that get me the name Lightning? The other girl, whose name I also forget, stuck a finger through the bars of the cage and waggled it.
I was tempte
VioloncelloI sit down on the chair
After such a long day
My entire body sighs
I pick the cello up
I know its shape by heart
Elegant amber curves
Beautiful polished wood
All carved so carefully
I pick up the long bow
The ivory horse hair
Turning gray at the edge
Honey colored rosin
Dusting the bow lightly
The smell I learned to love
I poise it on the strings
And I begin to play
Sometimes it's hard to do
For each and every day
My cello is sometimes
My bitter enemy
Can't play anything right
Giving up is tempting
But for most of the time
We're real accomplices
I dust it off each day
And always tune the strings
And together we sing
Soaring high melodies
Or lugubrious tunes
They all sound beautiful
Played with the right, smooth bow
And every single time
I get up to perform
Or just finish a piece
If feel like all is good
And now I know for sure
That all these six long years
Were really not a waste
Far from that, actually
For I am a cellist.
Starting New New school, new beginning. Or at least that’s what I’m telling myself. How old am I now? Fourteen. How many times have I moved? This is numero six.
What should I pick now? The girl fresh from France that makes the boys drop at her feet? The shy girl who buries herself in books and has only one friend? The football coach’s daughter who’s swimming in money? The emo girl who talks to no one but is hurt by her dark past?
I chuckle, remembering the look on my dad’s face when I bought all black clothes. I’d gotten a whole bunch of friends who were all pierced up, and punk. Last year was not a good year.
Then I moved again, ripped from my roots I’d just barely grown. I never really attach myself to an
Boulevard of Broken DreamsReading the books
Watching the movies
Buying the robe
Wearing the costume
Waving a chopstick
To see if finally
Something would happen
Feeling my smile
Fade off my face
Hating my dreams
Loving them too
All I've never had
All gone too soon
Flying and magic
Some part of me
Anchored to reality
Just as I learned
To make lights flicker
Just as my wings
I wake up
And it's all over
Right there out of reach
But you can't have that
You can't have happiness
Screaming at the universe
Won't help at all
I needed to say this
"You screwed up big time."
Seeing a child
Prattling on, about
What used to be
Your entire life
You know you're lying
But somewhere inside
Is the bitterness
Of having had
Your dreams broken
One by one
As she smiles
You tell her these things
Fuel her dreams
Make you live again
Because no one was there
No one told you
You had to tell yourself
Why your dreams
Ashes of the WorldChoking on ash
Dying on their own
Suffering in silence
Or maybe it's the destruction
Raging mutely on
The barren, frozen
All that's left to live on
How did this even happen?
People can't really say
Are we even people?
Pieces of human decay
Ashes of burnt things
Carried by a dusty wind
Everything's been covered
Animals run around
The ones that haven't died
Patiently await their turn
The water is contaminated
Chemicals are everywhere
Chemicals are in us
Killing us from inside
People have named it
The death of all and any
It is the Apocalypse.
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.
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.
Beyond LoveYou say 'beautiful' like a mistake -
like it slipped out unwarranted
from those dark parts of your mind
that you don't want me to go to,
you say it like that.
You caress like it's worship -
like if you pressed too hard
or took too much, you'd pay the price
and I love those urgent times when
you're willing to pay it.
You teach me love like I'll die without it -
like if you don't defrost me
and my frozen image of myself,
then I might stop breathing
and extinguish beneath my own icy damnation.
You kiss me like you have to -
like we're sharing an oxygen tank
in a toxic, broken-down universe
and you are trying not to breathe
to save me.
You kiss me like that.
You love me, like that -
how am I supposed to resist
a man who loves me beyond his own sense
and senses - beyond love ?
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.
Stereotypical SuicideSuicide is not a stereotype.
Not everyone has a family,
Nobody who lives for their care,
Nobody who wants them around,
Nobody who helps them through life,
Suicide is not a stereotype.
Not everyone has friends,
Not a person there for a simple hug,
Not a person existing for a reassuring look,
Not a person around to leave the words,
Suicide is not a stereotype.
Not everyone has a home,
No place to live and feel happy in so,
No place to live without leaving again,
No place to live to avoid the truth,
Suicide is not a stereotype.
Not everyone has a love,
Nothing there to hold them in warm arms,
Nothing there for a kiss to remember,
Nothing there to be a greatness in life,
Suicide is not a stereotype.
Not everyone has a someone,
"Don't do it - for your family
They mean nothing to me anymore,
"Don't do it - for your friends"
Friends? What friends? They don't exist,
"Don't do it - what about home
sunset soon forgottenin a single moment all her greatness collapsed,
her soulfulness small and full of absence.
i am wild
with infinite shades of yes -
and a careless smile
so kiss me quick
under the sun
(just until the pain leaves)
DunesOut on the dunes, you could be walking on the moon
Maybe you are, maybe we are; see that planet in the sky?
How much more can be said about body heat, about
Sucking the marrow from bones in a vain attempt to quench?
Disheveled by dust-storms in an ocean of sand, we walk
Blank-window eyes searching for what, some sort of life?
Our feet are heavy, the ground wants to eat them; no moon, this
Now the sky is the color of sand, and there are no stars to wish on
Sweat and dead weight, we wait for the coolness of night
Fatigued, delusional, we see a rusty car approach; we get in
Beautifully BrokenA tidal wave crashes
Hard against the front of my skull,
Spewing fountains of hate into the air.
They are not beautiful.
A shot glass in one hand,
A pen in the other,
I drink alone in my room
As everything about me falls apart.
I can't heal mistakes.
The higher I am,
The prettier the fountains become,
But they really still look the same.
The world sees such strength,
A stoic warrior in a landscape of corruption,
But inside is a black, charred heart,
Shrouded in secrecy.
I am not beautiful,
Because hate is not beautiful.
PompeiiI will lay my body at the base of your columns
Waiting for the flaking of your warpaint;
This could make all the difference.
The whore-babble language of your oracle
Heard from the great taproot
Tastes like sodden wool in another's mouth
This is what I have to say in the dark
With your hand smothering my hip and side
Like a cloud meant for Pompeii,
And the fires are never drenched.
I have collected your warpaint
Swept and scooped from the base
In flakes no bigger than glitter
To adhere to myself
Like sticky snails to leaves.
The eternal tremors will knock them free.
A DeskA laptop humming quietly
Its soft glow like purring
Pencils strewn around
Like by an invisible tidal wave
Bits an pieces of things
Feathers and paper clips
Swept away hastily
To make room in the middle
A cup full of pens
Perfume and scissors
Sharpies and scotch tape
A headband and a sharpener
A flashlight I never use
Pushpins and rubber bands
That I should put away
A lone hand sanitizer
A small red lamp
A bigger white one overhead
Charging to one side
Looking like they're sleeping
Lighting up once in a while
Books I'm reading
Books I wish I was reading
A cutout cardboard Eiffel tower
A valentine's day snow globe
Scented candles I don't know where to put
Underneath it all, a shiny red table
Still looking new
Under its shield of plastic tablecloth
With black and white cow splotches
A Week Of KissesA Week Of Kisses
The first day I told you I loved you,
I imagined kissing your shoulder,
Well before I thought about your lips.
Because I don’t know what I am doing, firstly,
But more importantly,
It’s because I know things can spiral quickly,
If things start shifting
After we lay down the concrete.
So I kiss the foundation,
Before we reach the soil.
The second day I told you I loved you,
I imagined kissing your elbow,
Because it holds together the touch
And the flex.
To exhibit it,
I must kiss the joint that bends
And combines us together.
The third day I told you I loved you,
I lay my lips to your temples,
As I learned about the temple of reform,
For the Youth in North America.
Kissing you there signifying I will protect you,
As well as your temple,
As we re-form, into something more.
The fourth day I told you I loved you,
I’d kiss you softly on your forehead.
Because that’s what holds your brillian
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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