I’m a new season—
a new color, and I won’t
ever say what shade;
and every time ‘reality’
turns real, I crater easier
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lessons in surrenderi.
She wished to be dressed in poetry
but she didn’t understand that
imagery fades and that metaphors
are too easily forgotten.
She asked why I didn’t utilize my
alliteration eyes—why I hid the tag
‘ hello my name is: writer ’
beneath San Francisco bays
and rotting ink grenades,
still in dead crusade.
I broke pencil shavings in
skybound veins, just to taste
and I bled like a sinner
for mere dreams of some redemption.
“I’m only a poet of capitulation”
MotheatenIt's louder still
but you don't hear it
(and that has to be okay).
Darkness holds me close again -
so safe like warmth and
I am hypothermia
Then it gets louder.
My ribs overflow with moths
they devour all my light.
It is the fearful thunder
shooting down my arms,
too uncertain for one place.
It vibrates blood and scars
until my fingertips are earthquakes
cracking open famine soil, and
I curl them tightly -
control the fear.
Then it gets louder.
It starts small -
the little things -
stabbing away at the vitals
of what ifs and could bes...
it's always just the little things.
Pack-a-dayA diamond queen
smoking pack-a-day dreams
for 95 cents more than
zirconium-falls in slim nicotine
(but the cancer in ashtrays never
stops anyone from trying.)
There’s truth in gusts of sleep,
while I struggle in the
security of windbreaking
as heaven opens up to scream.
comets in my head againThere are bruises on my legs again.
Maybe I tried too hard for the stars - struck hemispheres of dreaming too big - while I count one, two, three, four, five shiners on my legs, ten lookers on each arm (your jointed peals of rage) and, probably, forty-four on my heart – though it’s not like I ever counted the number of times you beat me down, before.
It never did matter if I was enough for the 16 years - or for the Escitalopram - because I was never a star jumper that could trade in comets for the cratered, disfigured life of meteors.
There are bruises on my legs again, and I think I should stop dreaming.
spiders and flieswe are not children
who pinwheel through my mother’s garden,
who blur reality before we’ve even known the bliss.
we are not children who forgive easily
(like hearts aren’t robin eggs)
or who’ve never tasted the assurance from pinkies
and rattle-sore lips. and our sandcastles?
they will not house rapunzel but tumble before the sea.
It will not remember our footprints.
we are not children, though we may wish
to turn time like the three stirs in exciting, grown-up coffee,
like daylight on my father’s old clock, the one that
ended days too quickly
because we made chameleons of feasted lamb skins,
(because time was stolen, and time was precious),
and as hard as it is, we must adapt:
make-up masks and push up bras, to appear
inexperienced, but desiring, of a pleasure,
because although we’re deceiving, we can’t dream of blending.
You should know best of all,
that after everything, we couldn’t.
A Poet's RomanceShe was the quiet sort,
within her eyes,
to pottery skin;
she would mold herself
into moonlight butterflies
and glist'ning calla lilies,
pure and white and
and when night cast
itself upon her in
heated, hard'ning flames,
she’d smash herself
upon the rocks
and in morning start
Hysteria QueenMy spine is a code
for you to hack
open like little
white moon flowers
( I was never good
except when I
couldn’t be. )
I keep falling down
and nothing seems
clear enough—good enough,
while you sit and smoke
without realizing you’ve
Mankind likes it brokenMadness slipped inside of me like a hand beneath my blouse—thieving and too truthful—while i find myself in fetals, wondering where Autumn went… crushed beneath someone’s shoes, as i feel crushed beneath these memories?
i’m nobody’s treasure (just a no one in a body), and though this mouth is paralyzed, i scream these words ten fingers, to grasp at everything i’ve lost. But what’s the point? i rise from moondust graves when the sun peaks my head in halos; and i hope, and i pray, that this day is one of life… but every time, i am sent to death in stars and in the shadows of the dark. And i fear i’ll only be disasters, thrown down the stairs ahead of life, while i try to learn to fall in ways that will not break my neck, my arm—my spirit…
but every ‘wild’ needs a ‘broken,’ and i’m afraid He’s beat you to it; mankind just likes it broken.
Cancer has a smell.Old classics,
the half cup of
peppermint ice cream
sitting in your freezer
for weeks, and cat litter.
He won’t eat anymore,
but there are
piles and piles
of dirty dishes
sitting in the sink.
before your eyes.
You can wrap
your whole self
around his tiny bones
You can hold him
like he used to hold you
all those years ago.
And you are angry.
You try to find
You hate doctors,
and you hate
You have to force yourself
to stop crying,
This is the one person
who’s always had faith
He’s read every poem
and hoarded every award
you ever won.
You ignore statistics,
paints with firethe painter
paints with fire & drinks teacups full of galaxy
letting light shows pirouette on her fingertips.
she spoke to the darkness with a smoldering breath
and a calming candlelight.
and black fingernails traipsed across burnt piano keys,
hoping to grasp something without the familiar singeing
of flames and black smoke down her throat.
she shot for stars instead of targetsdo you ever look down,
at your empty palms?
you were right?
waiting for someone to say,
"you did good,
even though you are not
certain you are
a kid anymore?
how lifeless are your
you have raised your
little one and
shut the door on their
wishing they will come back.
but what if
the galaxy is bigger
than any bird's nest you find,
because she holds so many
of her children,
as if she will be able to
swallow them whole.
the galaxy is not your home.
your chest is just as empty
as your arms.
your rib cage broken, scattered bones;
as if you delved your hands
inside and crushed your own
the ocean is calling.
Sleep Well My AngelI didn’t become a mother when I saw the two pink lines,
But something changed.
What I had suspected for weeks was true,
& in a moment of fear, I realized my life was forever changed.
I didn’t become a mother when I saw you on the ultrasound for the first time,
But something changed.
I saw you wiggling around, only about the size of a peanut,
& I fell in love.
That was the first time I realized how much I wanted you,
You were mine, and that was never going to change.
I didn’t become a mother when I felt your first kick,
But something changed.
You wiggled and kicked me at least a dozen times that first night,
I was completely enchanted & I fell a little deeper in love.
I didn’t become a mother when the doctor showed me that you were a boy,
But something changed.
I was so surprised; I had sworn you were a girl,
But I was wrong,
But then again, everything about you was unexpected.
I didn’t become a mother when I started getting stretch marks,
But something cha
To Wildflower TombstonesForgive; that of who bore us and
made our branches
equipped for burning
back into bones.
Forgive that of who let us decompose.
Graveyards give way to roots give way to
wombs and dandelions bloom.
Double Standard WorldWe tend to break it down to,
minutes, days, years;
to lengthen the torture and
to slow our growing fears.
It’s hard not to notice; the
broken souls wandering alone,
smiles acting as masks, and
desperate bullies looking for home.
We seek for our belief in the wrong places;
in parties and nameless pills in bowls,
in greedy money and unfamiliar people,
when we should seek within our own soul.
We all give reasons and excuses but
when others splinter our hearts,
the forgiveness that we expect is lost,
and logic is quickly torn apart.
We live in a double standard world,
where what we expect of others
is not expected in ourselves and
we no longer act as sisters and brothers.
Perhaps we are all prisoner to our pain,
manacled and bound;
and if you look there’s insanity in it all,
everywhere to be found.
small talk Iwe adorn ourselves with
"velvet" and "silk" (polyester).
try to catch the eyes of onlookers
as we stand, stranded at our
street corner islands.
we think—how much more appealing
we must be, sculpting our eyebrows into
perpetually curious glances, and
dispelling unique theories copied from
entry-level philosophy text books.
snowfall in a paperweighti bought a crystal ball today
and it’s like looking through
stained glass windows for lessons
in weather forecasts.
i think that i could start to
smoke and make my insides
look the same as they feel when
it is overcast.
or let the embers slowly
burn between my fingers
until i have left behind
and maybe it doesn't matter
and i will
crystal ball and make fragments
The God Thiefyou’re not used to your eyes
being starved of serif font words,
trying not to grab up the lost napkin
that tumbles like a library book page
you linger in the smirking midnight coffee and empty chairs
inebriated on dead poets and chemical highway headlights
hoarding misspellings in your lungs
rubbed pink with words
and wishing your name
was something worth remembering
but you've heard the razor's song
d r a g g i n g
and you've seen you no longer bleed ink
and you walk drunk
across the shadowed corners of your corneas
that are yellowing like the newsprint you want to forget about
like a terrible first kiss
you've fallen asleep inside
at the bottom of July
without believing this poem is any good
but somehow still believing,
while listening to siren chorus,
that chest and
are two separate injuries
you think about how
to some place on second avenue
while you trace the table edge --
I feel like I can't write anymore. Found this... felt like if I didn't try, I would lose my words.
and I feel like I can't help Them without changing my identity. But I won't ever tell.
(I can't keep track of myself).
(it's not any one of you, rest assured. )
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