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waterloggedThe rain hasn't stopped for days
a continued onslaught to this waterlogged heart.
It creates an orchestra outside my window
of pitter patter plop
that makes my bones sigh.
The gentle doldrums ease me
into the darkness and the best sleep
I've had all month.
The rain hasn't stopped for days;
I'm beginning to think
it never will.
There's a place in the middle of nowhere
where dreams go to die.
I visit it in my sleep
covered in the veil of the city rust
a velvet cloak of despair
anchored to my scapula
with wire and bullet-holes.
Surrounded by an ocean
of life on the cusp of bare metal and steel,
I am buried underneath the haze,
a sea of high pressure torment
filling my emptiness
with pollution and filth.
The cavitary holes eat away
I am left grasping,
unable to gather the unraveling
threads of ribbon and metal
that led me here.
There's a place in the middle of nowhere
where dreams go to die.
And it's beginning to feel
Tip ToeSometimes I feel like I've lost
that part of myself that clings to sunrises
with poetic verse dancing on the tip
of these tired and twisted fingers
eager to capture every breath that is lost
in the cracked light, breaking upon the morning sky.
There are many moments
that these eyes and this heart will never forget.
They are not big moments like other people's moments
full of white dresses, swirling moments, and kisses beneath the bedsheets.
But do not be mistaken,
there have been so many moments that have passed
where my heart has swollen,
pushing against the confines of these ribs.
My hands have held, soothed and hoped;
these hands have done all the talking
yet cannot translate to paper
the joy that it all brings.
If only they could talk
they would tell of late nights,
of paper cuts and coffee,
of gunshot wounds and car accidents.
They would explain the stifling nature
of the operating room,
gowned with two layers of latex,
removing organs and cancers.
The feel of cold metal instrumen
I've seen you from afar
the way avid bird watchers
glance through windows and binoculars
to see the fleeting passing of some obscure bird
they had only seen once in a book.
The day you talked with me
my heart fluttered
a bird with broken wings in my heart
unsure of whether to smile or frown
at this twist of fate.
Now left dreaming
too afraid to step forward
and upset the balance,
this delicate dance.
I enjoy our time
this lyrical rhetoric of medical banter
knowing it will not last
so I step back.
because some birds are just meant
to be enjoyed.
button it"button it"
put a button on it she says
as if it was that simple
to sum up the world on a button--
a few words to stick into shirts
pants and bags.
what happens when we mis-stick
and the button reaches
somewhere below the skin?
will we even bleed?
is there no hope left for the world?
what would my button say?
would it be unreadable 1 point font
too many words
to fit on the front of the button
or would it be a single word
like confused, misunderstood, or way too damn busy
as if that's all i had to offer the world.
forever the world embraces
the labels of buttons--
the superficial words of those who refuse to look
beyond the outside and go deeper.
so dont tell me to put a button on it
because it will never be that simple
and give me a call when you finally realize
and live further than just
she dances softly
the starlight in her hair
if only she could believe
how beautiful she really is
instead, she tiptoes as she dances
afraid to wake the black
of judging eyes.
if only you could see
her dance a whisper across the stage
maybe you'd understand.
the sun rises and sets upon my heart
in equal joy.
the yellow mist of the sky
catches my eye briefly
and fills my heart with wonder.
perhaps we are the forgotten
the laborers of love
who breathe life daily
finding the beauty in a simple sunset
or yellow canary
everyone else would care to ignore.
life has become a traffic jam
in a city with no power.
we hesitate to move
the lack of the simplest change
of lights from green
i turn around
and am confronted by
a yellow light.
and we hesitate to move
or stay behind.
things continue to change-
the lights flash above me
and we move quickly
to catch a glimpse of something
to take our breath away.
this city is always changing
that yellow sunset always looks the same
no matter which rooftop
i stand upon.
we have missed
hundreds of sunsets
as if blind--
i never really could see them
until love found my heart.
and now all i do
is watch the sky
and the gentle morph of the clouds
from white to red to pink
i look to the stars
and i can only hope
you are looking at them
right now, at this moment.
if i could, i would catch them
to light your way home.
a brother removedshe stands strong
but she's crying inside.
i dont want to lose him
with him never understanding
how much he really means to me.
she stands so still
but she's dying on the inside
the last time i saw you
the last time i heard your voice
did i tell you i loved you?
she looks so hopefully
but she's worrying on the inside
the sound of mom's voice
when she found out
nearly made me die.
she fights back the tears--
will you please hurry home
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'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.
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.
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
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
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.
SafeI clasped my hand tight shut around my mothers.
I was a possessive oyster wrapped around pearly fingers
bitten white by the freshly whisked air.
We braced ourselves against the frozen metal frames
that, although unmovable by infantile hands,
were not a substantial enough barrier against a tempest.
The sea lashed out its limbs in a fury
and the sky’s face paled grey with worry
at what that grasping anger might achieve.
It rose to greet us, stood on mighty churning haunches
and collapsed heavily around our shoulders
with the dramatic violence of a dancer
crashing down upon a splintered Tibia.
It drenched us, filling mouths and ears with water.
My mother’s hand squeezed mine, comforting,
and as the sea drew back again,
preparing to strike out at us over and over
until its very exhaustion point – and over once more –
As it readied itself to slash our raincoats,
with the force of an evening spiralling into true darkness,
over and over –
for a moment the smell o
Barefoot beachBarefoot, these soles beat across the sand
dancing a mystery of footprints
that disappear in the coming tides.
We jump, soaring above--
for a moment, there is a mix of body,
reflection and shadow.
Upon landing, we relish the warm water
that greets our toes
swimming in the laughter that echoes
in the crashing surf.
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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