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I. i dream of nightingales, I.
i dream of nightingales,
soft whispers on the wind
ready to crescendo,
to fall and maybe rise up again.
my dreams are nightingales.
She liked nightingales, and,
my sister remembers Her alone,
my dreams are nightingales
and i am not yet ready to leave them.
they used to be robins
with their soft red bellies;
too dark to be rust,
too light to be blood.
He used to be red,
cotton armor clanking, sword raised
to the cobalt blue sky, ready
to strike like a hawk to its prey.
a crow to its nest.
there used to be a girl
that would weave poppies
and roses and lilies, carnations and azaleas
into a tangled braid.
She did not like nightingales.
still my flighty, flickering
dreams are nightingales.
i want to take their hands,
boy of blood and girls of song.
i would rise again, laugh again
to be with them and be happy.
we wanted to win, to play
a game we were meant to lose and revive.
to retrieve and reconquer.
and when i saw Them, when we were
together i laughed, and
Petrified ICrimhildianas of the Niedlan house always hated Record Days. Record Days were days spent inside and behind a desk, reading through the journals written by the dead in order to cleanse themselves of sins. But Crimhildianas couldn't stand that part of her usually fantastic job. She was practically raised outside and under the sky, fighting monsters and darker mejik users before she could even spell her own name. Admittedly, it was a name quite difficult to spell, but all her family's names were of the sort. They were created to intimidate enemies, even though the sharp, bloody spears and the multitude of scars adorning their showing skin usually accomplished that goal. Her house, the Niedlans, were a group of nomadic mercenaries and hunters. She was one of their only women warriors, at least until the day she was captured by her enemies, decapitated, and then disemboweled in a ceremony for their gods.
Crim, as she was called only by her most trusted people, shifted against the hard chair
HolesEach little lie, or hidden ambition
Hides in a hole, as is tradition
Riddled with dreams, and fearful obsessions
That once were loved, in someone's possession
All the broad smiles, each a facade
With monstrous trinkets: knit, torn, and odd
Still broken treasures can easily lie
To thoughts so forced they can't seem to cry
Though cloudy with tears, and false memories
Keeping a hope that fades to the breeze
As such locks can try, but still cannot
Forget what was already hastily forgot
By those that are troubled by labourous pasts
As thinkers attempt to help them at last
Claiming their tales and lies to be so
But what do imaginary people know?
PetrifiedIn its grandeur, a petrified heart can be beautiful.
You say it's not so, as its blackness covers all features,
Shading over each crevice and vessel
Normally colored in vibrant blues and reds.
But can wrongdoings be acceptable?
Most say no, though it may be in human nature
To follow tempting thoughts to a false freedom.
Still, are sins not condemnable?
Especially if unknowingly committed?
For who can say how. Say why.
But is there true sense in darkness measured
By actions and never thoughts?
Yet the idea of petrification could be fascinating
In due time, and over a perfect mastery.
Because it truly is a deceptively sweet smile
Masking devilishly sweet thoughts
That can make up a perfectly deformed human.
Yes, they make up each twisted and shaded heart,
But are such hidden hearts truly dark
Or is it just from perspective?
And who knows just who has their heart petrified?
Dragon's StandCan you remember dragons slain
Over your meek, petty gain?
Do you remember birds caged
From a war silently waged?
And can one inspire change
Over a vast, twisted range?
Still yet, to be simply felt
As kings forced upon one knelt!
Called to battle, arms kept raised
Waiting justly to be saved!
Yet freedom rings, through the night
Without care to those that fight.
Natural states can be achieved,
Through remembrance just to brave
The fire of those believed...
The Princess and the God 02Dearest Carmine,
You write of darkness
At such a moments occasion
As a first letter!
A time of new beginnings and cycles
Before life takes its toll.
I have tried to write
As well, but I find it so, so
What is inspiration?
I ask myself this everyday.
But I find myself recalling your words,
And I smile.
Am I but a princess,
And you a God in this time?
I must agree, though, with your mind to stars
As they are wonderful bursts of light
Do they not waltz hand in hand?
I wish to hear the music, if they do so dance...
I'm so, so regretful I could not reply
At a sooner occasion.
It has been a suitable amount of time...
With fluttering thoughts,
New Note, New TabNew note,
It taunts me.
An empty page.
It stays, plaguing my mind so riddled with writer's block.
I wish to write just what I feel;
If only I could take up my pen or keys
And simply record everything.
My ideas seem to push words forward,
Yet language holds all that I wish to convey far, far away.
If only I could reach up and pull the words I need
From nothing at all except an over-active mind.
Still, I am bound to what I know
And have yet to experience.
Please fill with words and phrases
Intertwining and possibly rhyming.
If only it was simple to write...
Lady of ViennaO Lady of Vienna, why do you cross your smiles and lock away your gowns of lace and silk from times you would prefer to forget?
You used to waltz with pride as you seemed to enrich the entirety of the ballroom and its candlelight with your glimmering smile, tantalizing others with a glance as well as in your partner's strong arms and nearly calloused palms that have never thought of holding another, but he is all you knew and still continue to know.
So why choose to throw away untold riches accumulated over thousands of years, treasures that your people willingly created for you alone, with honest and true intentions gracing their thoughts and generous gifts that matched in an adorable fashion, a sort of simple elegance you were never able to master nor grant to anybody, especially him with his foolish, light gestures you always and easily misunderstand?
Take up your arms so distantly locked away, O Forgotten Lady that wanders through the folds of an untaught history that was never rec
Unpredictable StormsStorms have never been ones for pleasantries
As flighty spirits with unstable desires
That simply wish to bring destruction
To all those that cross their enraged path
With all crossroads leading to an uncertain fate
Because storms have always been
In ways that a mortal cannot comprehend
As their urges are insignificant
But still mirror those of the storms
As they are shaped in a lost image
Once taken to by the ancient summer's day
To shield their pastel figures from the darkness
Cast by sullen clouds over ruined fates
That were beyond the reach of restless fae
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.
VisitingThere is a place
I will never go
But I seem
I close my eyes
It is a place
Where I can
Never ever go
But I always
Can create it
Because it lives
My open mind
Will you join
In this place
Where I can
Still not visit
I wish to see
You standing there
Next to me
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