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inadequate science.and for you, i write.
there are three times when the clock stops and my eyes open.
there's something i want to say to you, but it stops in my throat and i can't form the words
remember when our skin created valleys, and hills on the bedsheets?
i counted your freckles and you smiled because I was too impatient to finish
my throat finally clears and my lips begin to form, but you're always gone.
if i could tell you something quietly
it would be that i've never seen something so beautiful
my skin pulls towards yours and i crawl over your milky bones
you were on top of me, then my eyes closed,
i can't remember if it was you or the drugs that made me feel so high
and that was when i told you that i loved gravity.
i was in 8th period and chris was talking to me
about some shit of how certain insects are attracted to light
and they can't help but pull towards its beauty
about how the light could be miles away, but the pull is too strong to resist
you are my bright
you never deserved to be shoved under the bed,
like something that was worth forgetting.
i want you to know that I can still hear you singing in the bathroom
it haunts me like your smile does,
remember when we cried our first night there?
as i got better you got worse.
i knew that you weren't okay,
and i should of said something to someone.
but i was selfish, and together we were pretty and sick,
together it felt okay, to not be okay.
your mother stopped calling me when i had run out of things to say,
the day i had no words, all of you dissolved from her mind,
and i wanted you to know marla, that you are non-decomposing to me.
i have a journal of everyday we spent together,
on our last day, if i'd known,
i would of hu
Untitled.I sat upon a mountain top and held an empty jar. I waited til the sun came up, the trees burning like fire. I stood on my tip toes and held the jar up to the sky, I shut my eyes and trapped the rays inside. I drove slow the whole way home, holding the sun close to my heart. My whole car was glowing, the horizon in a jar. I brought the sky home to you and placed it in your hands, but you could only see the grayness, you said the world had no beauty left to give. That night you held the sunshine tightly while you slept. You can always lighten darkness, don't you dare forget.
R.there is a man that lives inside my bones.
he tunnels through my ribs,
and he slumbers in my heart.
his eyes cut through me like ice.
his fingers play the same two chords,
my fragile veins are his keys.
he whispers into my ear while i'm asleep
there's a sadness in his voice
i can feel it in my joints.
he rests his tired eyes,
in the hollows of my clavicle.
he traces the freckles with his fingertips
i can feel the moisture from his eyes
drying into my skin.
the bath tub fills up with water,
and he sits on the sink.
he already feels like he's drowning
and the ivory is too lonely for him.
my eyes are blurry from the steam
i can still see him crying.
there is a man that lives inside my bones.
he comes to me when he's lonely,
because I am his
charlotte.it was halloween and charlotte was dressed as an obnoxious pumpkin, because her mother tries to make her a normal child.
(and charlotte will whisper that normal children smash pumpkins, not wear them.)
when charlotte was seven she decided that she would swim far out into old pine lake, and hold her breath until the colors in her eyes turned purple, like the bruises that slid down her thighs and touched apon her fragile feet.
(and it was then that charlotte realized, that no one would be around to save her, and that just wasn't the point.)
charlotte decides to be called "char" because it sounds like something silent, and distant. when you say a word so many times in a row it just doesn't sound the same anymore.
(because charlotte wasn't the same,anymore.
charlotte's first b
her.she is one hundred percent alone, minus him.
she has milk white skin, and jagged bones. her eyes are pale and soft, and could make you surrender under her breath (and they will.)
every night she goes to sleep with a man who touches her, and she feels sick. and she wishes he'd just leave the hair in her face.
(because it's easier to hide tears that way.)
she dreams at night.
her milky skin is spilling over unfamiliar fingers. the freckles on her back match the ones in his eyes, and she feels safe. she offers him her heart, and he closes it into a box.
(she wakes up feeling ninety nine percent alone.)
she's in a nightmare
monotony.we went to vegas. you drove and i pressed myself against the side of the door and breathed out pictures onto your window. you planned to make it big, and i planned to make it a memory. i fell asleep through the city of lights, and it was then i decided that christmas didn't feel the same, and your hands were always cold, even through your gloves.
i sat on the hotel bed and thought of how many people sat exactly where i was. you were in the bathroom buttoning up your shirt. i clenched mine so tightly closed my back pressed through the fabric. this was when i decided this is what suffocating was like. you were talking to me but i only remember the crying of a girl in the next room, here is where i considered the fact, that i just can't cry anymore.
i told you i feel my flesh tighten when i wear dresses, but you insisted. you hit the elevator button and as the door closes, my stomach sinks. i study the man next to me and wonder if he slept through the drive here. it's then that i decide t
mertha.i like to seperate my thoughts into names, to keep them in order.
my lonliness is named mertha, and she'd like to meet you.
mertha sits by me on my bed and we draw pictures of tulips and snails and wonder when that math test was. she takes my hand and grips it slowly, while singing that song my mother use to sing when i was 4.
(and i wonder exactly how she knew the words.)
mertha walks with me in the rain and understands that i don't like to be asked questions in the morning. sometimes when i'm sitting in the bathtub with no running water she won't leave me alone, and mertha knows that she is unwelcome.
(but she stays because she knows i'll come back to her)
she hangs over my head when i'm getting dressed in the morning. mertha pulls on my flabby skin and reminds me t
reflections.I watched you destroy
by destroy, i mean explode
and exploding is the easy way out.
I'd rather burst into flames, the heroic way.
i made a puzzle out of our faces
i glued it together, i could never put your eyes together
nothing ever fit there was always a speck of something reflecting in the pupil.
but it was never me.
i'd hold your hand
but you told me holding onto someone was needy
"you hold onto life" i said,
or did you?
i picked up your favorite marble and threw it across the room
i watched you sit there, and stare at it rolling farther and farther away
i watched you let it go
you'd let me go, but no one would have to throw me.
smiles are for happy people
moments are for people worth remembering
puzzles are for people with too much time
reflections are for people who you want to see.
but it was never me.
i'll keep you like a secret.There are a lot of things I can't tell you.
Not because I'm keeping secrets locked behind my teeth or because I'm afraid I'll say something you don't want to hear. This isn't like the last time or the time before. It's simply because I'll never have the exact right words to explain all the ways you make my heart rise and expand and skip a beat.
There aren't enough words to describe how quickly the blood rushes through my veins when we kiss and I'm on tiptoes to reach your lips and your hand is cupping my face, brushing your thumb across my cheekbone and I feel completely at home.
And they haven't even invented a way to portray how I feel when we're driving too fast in the streets of our hometown, and how I can get lost somewhere that is so damn familiar because I have the chance to explore it with someone new someone like you and you're singing along with the radio, letting me fall asleep in the passenger seat, because you and I are enough, and we don't need words to fill
it's a quick drive to where we live.I know you don't believe in beautiful things. In fact, I know you don't believe in much of anything. I swear that's okay, because what I'm asking of you isn't meant to be built on blind faith it isn't meant to be a split second decision. I'll give you the time you need.
Everything is brighter from the passenger seat of your old four door sedan with the black paint chipping off the front bumper, rust eating through the edges and corners of the doors. I've never seen so many shades and tints of green as I have curving around the sides of these country roads with you too fast, too slow, too here then gone. When you drive fast enough, the entire world disappears. It took us a weekend and all of Wisconsin, and you still won't tell me where we're going. It's okay though. You could be my home.
Lake Superior always comes in cold. The water laps at your ankles, freezing your skin, sending a quick chill through your bones. It reminds me of you with your too cold fingertips against
i only have nonsense.the tip of my tongue has never tasted a tragedy quite like you.
by now, i should know better than to do these things. but i don't.
so i will. the only sense of right and wrong i have anymore is
trapped between the edge of my teeth and the curve of your lips
and i'm losing it. fast.
not all of us spark when we kiss, but you've started the fire that's
raging down my spinal column and through my heart. i'm burning and
it hurts everywhere. i still can't bring myself to mind because at
least this way, i still get to feel something.
last night i promised myself that i would never say another word i didn't mean.
so hopefully, the next time i say i'm not in love i'll mean it. because
i can't take another minute of watching you fade in and out of my life
when i'm just ashes on your fingertips.
i remember when i wanted you to completely destroy me and then put me
back together, but you only ever got halfway there. my heart still skips
beats even after it's been burned and i still fall asleep alo
i'm never careful enoughThe roads here wind in ways that I don't expect.
Sometimes, I think that dashed yellow line is the only thing that keeps me moving the right way. That keeps me going. Because one wrong move could send me barreling off the highway and the freefall feeling that would come next is not something I'm unfamiliar with. It's the same thing that happens every time I think of you. I can't get over how much this place reminds me of you. I can't get over how little room there is between full-fledged fear and being in love.
Sometimes, I think maybe they're the same thing.
I don't know what keeps bringing me back here. But I find myself coming here more and more when I can't sleep. When I can't stop thinking about you. I drive the same familiar routes. Thinking the same familiar thoughts. Going to the same familiar places. I keep retracing the paths we used to take, thinking that if I follow them back far enough, I'll figure out where we went wrong. The absence of you is familiar. Almost comforting.
you with the writer's soul,hello. we haven't spoken for a while - how are you dearest? i've been busy, and i'm sure you have been too. after all, we're only human, and we all have our own little lives which keeps us on our toes. but really, enough of that.
what i really wanted to ask is: are you still writing?
yes, i know. life always seems to get in the way, doesn't it? school work, family, friends, bills, anything and everything. it always seems like you have no time left to write, doesn't it? and then when you finally sit down in that moment when you do have a breather, you find yourself drifting off to do other things instead.
so my advice to you, dear, is to keep on writing. no matter what.
write about anything. anything you want. anything which makes you think, even just for a second. things which make you happy. things which make you want to scream into your pillow until you fall asleep from the exhaustion. things which make you feel. if even if the feelings come out all jumbled and messy and raw a
these feelings should be finiteI'm terrified and I know there's nothing unique about this, but I'm standing here completely out of touch with the rest of the world, realizing for the first time that we all feel things a little bit differently, which is why this doesn't hurt for you at all. I figure the only logical reason for how you could do this as if it means nothing was if it really did mean nothing at all for you. It's easier to hate you this way. It's easier to forget you without the burn of your kiss against my skin. It's easier to stay mad if I don't have to remember the way that it felt. Most of all, I can forget this as if it's a memory in someone else's lifetime if I accept the fact that we're all different. I can be different like you. I can let this mean nothing.
I could mean nothing if you let me. If I let me.
You talk in big words that I get sick of hearing after awhile with big ideas and wide eyes and a small heart. I once heard that you can only love something so hard, for so long, before the feelin
he was a storyteller.We would sit under moon clouds
watching the sun sparkles disappear
from the crowded air. You told me
that every one word answer
had a story behind it.
[I guess you were a storyteller, just
not wanting to share your stories;
your first reaction to everything was
"Do you care?"
a. You spent summers in my attic,
refusing to let the dust kill beauty.
You would rhyme off Shakespeare, as
we would forget about the stars, and
count tree limbs instead.
b. You watched me catch lies and turn
them into truths. I was oblivious to the
flashing signs telling me to watch out
for the fall ahead of me. Maybe I thought
you would be there to catch me.
c. You would tell me, "shh stop talking,
you'll ruin it." I never found out what 'it'
was until you were on the front porch
begging me not to cry. "Just stop, you've
already ruined us."
"Did you ever care?"
these are the last things i'll say before i'm goneIf I had to give a name to what I'm feeling I would just call it disappearing. Because it's exactly like the way that you can know everything about someone one day and nothing the next. It's the quick death love has that leaves you wanting more or wanting it back in the best and worst of ways.
If I had to explain I would say this feeling is something like standing outside of your door at four in the morning, even though I know I shouldn't be here, wearing the same wrinkled clothes I had on the day before, wanting nothing more than to beg to come home, but knowing better, because following the motions isn't really the best follow through.
I won't admit how much I miss you I can't, but I can tell you this.
The thing about disappearing is that it doesn't stop me from wanting to be completely impossible to forget. And maybe that's a bit of an anomaly, but I've never made much sense to begin with anyway.
And sure, we're all different in the same ways, but I want to be differen
November ColdNovember sinks its icy fingers
Between my shoulder blades
And an ache blossoms inside of me.
I imagine a lacy white filigree of frost
Growing over my lungs,
Spidering over my veins
And up into my heart.
The cold crawls up my throat
So that when I breathe
I half expect snowflakes and hoarfrost
To fall from my lips.
I've got an ice-heavy heart in me
And I am breathing winter,
Wondering if my tears would freeze
If they even fell at all.
Help me shake November's chill.
Blaze passion and fire into me
And never let me pull away from the heat of you
Kiss away the rime of ice that coats me
Sink your fingers into my skin
So that cracks spiral crazily from your fingertips
So that finally, with a small shudder,
I splinter and sink into you
Burned and blackened,
I am only yours
And November will never touch me.
a pen at a knife fight.there is twilight in his breathing.
legs like spiders.
eyes of sinking ships,
holding onto the edge with shaking fingertips.
is the water cold?
cold enough to stop air from flowing to his lungs?
auburn hair and a heart too big.
a pen always enclosed in a thoughtful fist.
words spill out one by one,
haunted by ghost nouns and verbs gone wrong.
the thoughts roam from behind his eyes,
make their way down to his spine.
there they hang with poems unread,
while monsters and verses stay trapped in his head.
an empty house can say a lot
of harder times and connections lost.
there he strums a guitar alone,
thinking of the girl he calls his home.
where coffee is brewing,
and they sleep in the same bed.
where together they fight the monsters,
that dwell in their heads.
where coffee is brewing,awesome ending to this poem.
and they sleep in the same bed.
where together they fight the monsters,
that dwell in their heads.
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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