|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
sleep, or lack thereofSleep is elusive.
It hides behind 10:45 screams
And 'I forgot' showers.
But to say the Grand Canyon's faultless,
Would be to say the same of me.
There is no excuse for 3:14 wanderings,
More confusing and stress-induced to me
Than the same number in geometry.
Yet they serve the same purpose:
Sending me off in circles, which are only useful
I Imagine that sweet pure bliss which tires above all else
And still it helps none.
I yearn for summer days
When my head never hit the pillow
(To my limited frosh knowledge).
The shadows cast by 26 lettered keys
You could say keep me company,
If I ever bothered to glance down.
This problem, if I may call it that without some diagnosis,
Haunts me just as I now do the halls.
There is some desperate hope in my padded tread
Of discovery, because once known,
The process of finding a cure can begin.
Of course I'll never voice it on my own;
Sometimes it's takes the attention and care
To piece together broken fragments,
Which, right now,
babysitter there art thouMy babysitter's back.
To be my mentor, my role model.
[for my confirmation]
But doesn't babysitter realize that she's more useful hiding in the back of my mind?
I know she's swimming in that milky fluid that surrounds my brain, popping out and skirting along the neurons only when babysitter feels the need. Doesn't she feel the awkwardness in her gills, in the knowledge that babysitter's been resurfaced for too long?
I wonder if she remembers.
Babysitter's trading frozen pepperoni pizzas for pot roast in our dining room. Instead of receiving a, "you know what to do!" over a dressed-up shoulder, she gets a four hour long conversation about her. And life after college, babysitter's job, babysitter's boyfriend.
I don't mind.
I just wonder if babysitter feels cheated.
Babysitter's traded an eight-year old unknowingly asking racist and stereotypical and far too sexual questions for her age for a fourteen-year old who eats cookie after cookie [calorie after calorie] for something to do while
words trump actionWhen I'm wheelchair bound,
you can bet you'll be around
'Cause I don't have to shout
to drown out my actions
I never need to use my touch,
just a still whispering hush
Echoes in our connected eyes
although we're frozen in time.
Motion to typed text in haste,
those heavy footsteps have a space.
Our library's always cramped,
but there's no house for the mimes.
Words open your mouth in awe.
Fights dislocate your jaw.
But you know words can break
what a punch never could.
Further respect laden silence,
than epitomes of violence.
Bloody misunderstandings what we're left with
when we refused to end the quiet.
So when I'm wheelchair bound,
you can be you'll be around
'Cause I don't have to shout
to drown out my actions.
Secret Santa 'shh'moon's the spectator for an ethereal world
brings frigid gusts
adds vampiric cloak of midnight
almost as a suggestion
the sun chases the shadow
blinding it with fiery passion
scorching the frost the litters its sky
and outshining the twinkiling smoldering stars
flaring brightly, it seeks to diminish all the moon's
yet there is that split second
both trying to outdistance the other
that the sky becomes a home for two
dear my wishesdear you,
i didnt wish for you at 11:11
but i was thinking of you
does that count?
im watching snow float haphazardly
holding my breath until it safely meets the ground
feeling like ive intruded upon its dance
the streetlamps' reflecitve glow its stage
no earthly mortal seated in the audience
am i watching you right now?
the frozen water's so pure
i can feel you, see you, taste you
imagining it's you divided into
these destinationless flurries
because it could only be you
i want to draw you into my hands
and protectively, singuarly listen to the silent lullaby
your decent is making
your observer, admirer, friend, constant
love from me
the snow's hidingi can only snag glimpses
of reclusive snow
in the glare
of flourescent streetlamps
the best show residing outside
my blotched line of 15/20 vision
isn't just words 'scoff'love isnt just words, they say
its the way you say them
the way im changing the pitch of my voice
moving it up and down like a pencil on paper
drawing a hand cradling your cheek or
capturing the runoffs trailing out from your palm
when you talk it's jumbled erotic nothing
every word excited splatter painted breathlessness woven with
spontaneous blotches racing to escape
but i'm content in this finger painted masterpiece of a maze
that's love in words
a carved beating musclethere's something so primitive about the jagged bumps
the way it ran off course and was reconnected later
around the time you fended off my onslaught of tickles
im oddly possessive of this assymetrical thing
bending down to reverently kiss the flaking wood
it took you moments to doodle, (others would say vandalize, youd say screw them)
but i can still feel you in the map you drew of my inner metronome
simply because it came from whatever you once were
whatever we once were
dont take your fights seriousanother's fighting with me
hoping to change me
draw out a reaction
it's not the conflict that impacts me
it's who with
youre just flattering yourself
trying to imitate her method
to make me care about what you think
and a year, a year and a half, two years later
hers are still carried by me in personally-signed anniversary cards
to me, from me
i'm still snap-shotting, freeze-framing my failures in
your awkward pauses
full of things you wouldve, shoudlve, could have said
before i cracked us
so i'm copying my failures
presenting one to you with resigned flourish
everytime i spill the milk
and we still dont know what i'm trying to prove
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.
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
Dizzy Girl,you can't cure sorrow. The drops
on the windshield are swallowed
by this traffic's color and you
are just the driver.
Other people pass
with paint blearing,
though I do wish
there was an ending,
questions spark in halos
of low street lamps as you veer
toward the center,
recollections are ceaseless.
She will be at your left and the gust
through the tinted window
will be humid,
you taste her last spirit
in the smoke and
please PLEASE pleaseplease, please
i care and i cant hide
screaming sounds tortured
maybe i am
cant you see?
im tired of being
just please realize
i WANT to be here
like crows, black ghosts of nightmares
fly on wings of dreams, of fears
the dreams arent theirs
the dreams yield to no master
the crows own nothing
thier cries are still the inspiration
for our own.
we command, we control
now if only the same could be said
for my life
if i could see where it led
i dont want to burn
feel the flame, lick, crack, taunt
your face appears
laughs, walks away
as everything peels away
the layers vanishing
i become nothing
just the same as i always have been
gates close, golden chimes receede
the flames claim ownership
i burn, you watch, and do nothing
my screams take the form of the crow
nightmares of mazes
screams, crows, mine, yours, intermingle
i run, but get farther away
not running away, but not running backwards
just deeper into re
Keep in Touch!
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