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Pen and Highlighter: A TragedyPen and Highlighter had the purest kind of love. They went together like peas and carrots. All their lives, they knew that they were meant to be. Pen drew the lines, and Highlighter brightened them in yellow.
One day, Pen was being used to write an essay. She was tired--it was nearly midnight. Owner had procrastinated until the last second to do her homework, so she was frantically scribbling Pen over the paper. Pen was in no mood for such shaking and trembling; she was certain she would be horribly dizzy once Owner finished up for the night.
Eventually, Owner put Pen down and grabbed Highlighter. Highlighter was even more exhausted than Pen. Owner tried desperately to color her note yellow, but Highlighter was too sleepy to obey. No ink came out. Owner shook Highlighter violently, muttering profanity and something about "stupid deadlines".
With a sigh, she tossed Highlighter into the garbage bin beneath her desk. Pen watched the scene in horror. Highlighter bounced off the side of the
Tobacco and PeppermintWe wait in the car outside,
my hand dangling from the window,
my fingernails kissed with fog.
Silvery curls of smoke
rise like a dragon's breath
from the thing between my fingers.
You look at me, horrified,
staring at the black and blue
stains upon my tongue,
the marks of damage
cutting deep into my skin,
deep beneath tissue,
deep enough to corrode my bones.
I'm living in someone else's death,
borrowing a pair of cheap, shriveled lungs
that rattle loosely like leaves
in my chest.
I exhale a fresh, decaying breath,
and though I try to be diplomatic,
I know in my heart I'm just mocking you.
"Those things are gonna kill you,"
you tell me, all sage wisdom and disapproval
and sudden concern for my well-being.
"It's six bucks for a pack of cancer."
I try to laugh, and cough
then laugh some more
at the fact that I can't breathe.
In a greasy ashtray, I stamp out
my last flimsy cigarette,
ash and sorrow lying dead
in the dimly lit embers.
If only I could stamp you out
as easily as I've stamped
Tongue TiedI rewrite my poetry twenty times over
Because the words in my head always sound smarter.
Even when I find the best adjective,
A little raindrop of perfection on my tongue,
It doesn't match exactly with how I feel.
Like my emotions are a complex puzzle,
With a thousand pieces I've lost long ago.
I've always known, since I was young and naive
And still innocent enough to fear the monsters in the closet
That words can't always work the way you want.
They can slither and slip away like serpents,
Or cut into your skin and haunt you for days.
But I've always tried to match up things that don't stick.
I've done it a thousand times in a thousand ways.
The problem is that my heart and mouth only connect
With a terribly uneven, shaky little line.
In my mind, I'm a poet, but in the daylight I'm a coward.
So I grab my white, crumbling eraser and go on,
Leaving smeary grey streaks where there used to be everything.
I apologize, but I can't change the way I feel
And I certainly can't change this poe
After the Weddingsloppy honeymoon kisses
smearing red lipstick
against white lace
in unexplored places
this bride is a
good old fashioned
christian young lady
somewhere sits a couple
of leftover wedding guests
alcohol miraculously fresh
on their breath
and they're laughing
like nothing is wrong
besides the fact
that they're both so
mascara is trailing down
the cheek of a bridesmaid
who's so green with envy
she feels it curled up
inside her like a well-fed animal
and she does nothing but
bite her chapped bottom lip
and imagine the groom
with his hands on her body
they're sweeping at this time of night
cleaning up the party debris
stained linen and trampled streamers
and confetti caked into cracks in the floor
the janitor sighs heavily
as he loads his arms with
baby's breath that bow their heads
and piles of white, wilted petals
that he dumps in the trash
and as they hit the crinkled black plastic
that lines the garbage among cake crumbs
and discarded drinks,
Shedding Skinthe day you left me,
i collapsed inwardly, like a building
choked by its own bricks,
like a paper dove down a cobra's throat.
"i hate you!" you cried.
"never speak to me again,
you pathetic bitch!"
and maybe you were right,
maybe i've always been your throwaway excuse
for wasted time and dehydrated love.
after all, i was born to be
a lipstick smear on your pillow.
did you ever consider me worthy
of things bigger than bedroom cigarettes?
i have become a prisoner in my own body,
barricaded by bone and tissue,
tangled in blood cells and hair follicles
past the point of recognition.
the only time i was beautiful
was when you smiled at me.
you liked my nails long,
liked to feel them tear down your back
while you committed treason in your sheets.
now they are my weapons of self-destruction.
once and for all, i'm reborn,
delicate in raw, tender flesh.
after i peel my outer membrane,
i can step from the doorway of my skin
and create a new body of heartless iron:
too heavy and cold to be abused
reasons to love a shy girli. men fear strong women,
but she's far from strong.
this wisp of a girl
doesn't even need a hurricane
to fall apart.
she'd glued and re-glued,
old bonds wearing thin,
but if you ask politely,
she'll let you touch her scars.
ii. her lips are fettered in rusted chains.
you'd need a crowbar to pry up
her whispered secrets.
you are not worthy to hear her voice
just as she is not worthy to give it to you.
she told me everything she knows,
and i shut it away,
kept it safe.
i tied the threads into double knots
just to make sure
they wouldn't curl away from me,
twisted up like a dead spider's legs.
iii. she is hewn from shadow,
woven from grains of sand.
you might think she'd flow,
breeze by on a sparrow's breath,
but she's never been good at
anything but sinking.
she is buried treasure, and all
the things you wish you could forget.
iv. you found her washed up on the shore,
drawing pictures of her flickering soul,
and knew she was too unsteady to love.
when you reached for her heart,
The Art of Ownership .it is disgusting
how much i want to possess you
keep you in my pocket
and seal you between my ribs
in the place
i used to keep my treasures
as a child
i had a dollhouse
and i was dictator of the
delicate little figures
i controlled them
bent their fragile limbs
forcefully made them
i have a habit of breaking things
my past littered with
shards and splinters
of things once whole
somehow i tend to ruin
the things i like the best
because what fun is it
to play with something
that is perfect
now i have you in my sight
and you're the flawless candidate
for me to swallow down
like the greedy child i used to be
you're just like a doll
it would be so easy for me
to snap your porcelain neck
lowercasei carve insignificant poetry into my tongue
and hope the world will pardon the lack of
bated silence, for i write in nothing but
despondent screams and uppercase;
i've forgotten how to let everything go
and i'm tired of my incessant howling,
because it seems to me that the quiet
words are the ones that are the most
Carpe DiemFaces flushed,
skin-on-skin contact and
frantic kisses in the
Bits and pieces all
wrapped up in
(un)poetic lips, burning
hotter than the sun.
"I don't give a
damn. I never want this
to stop. Oh, god, please,
this can't stop."
No care for the dimming of
the stars or the
moans that could wake
An intake of breath;
exhaling and eyes fluttering
open, pulse racing and
Misery settling on quivering
lips like a pandemic gliding
on blackened butterfly wings—
it was all just in her head.
Every Line.I very often walk around,
With a pen behind my ear.
My notebook shoved deep in my bag,
To write down words I hear.
The words, most commonly,
Are those locked inside my head.
Where yes, admittedly,
I feel I'd be better off dead.
I put the words to paper,
Surely it's better than my skin.
Suddenly the words start flowing,
And my writing will begin.
Then the rhyming happens,
That allows my poetry to thrive.
My writing you will realise,
Is the reason I'm alive.
So Take your hate and shove it!
Where the sun wont dare to shine.
Because for all the hate you give me,
I'll hit back with Every Line!
SixAugust seems empty...
We parted in July. I loved you too much. I had not thought that would become too much for you to handle. And that we would part on a technicality.
It was a stormy eve. And the lightening broke us apart, so easily it almost made you glad.
I know. The storm outside matched the storm in your voice.
I'll always be surprised at what can happen when two people begin to hate each other.
We fought in June.
When your work was getting you down and your parents were putting pressure on you and your world seemed to be falling apart.
I wanted to help you. I tried.
You told me to leave you alone.
We talked for hours in May.
And you told me about your life, about the broken dreams and the mesmerizing aspirations that you once had. And I told you about my responsibilities and my hopes. We understood each other.
We thought we would have an eternity to discuss other things. Like a future and the distance and the friends who thought you were not good enough and that I w
Just HandsSometimes when I write, I pause to study my hands. It isn't the long pianist's fingers I see first. It's not the man cut, chewed up nails. Or the fact that the middle finger on my right hand sometimes gets a ghosting pain that I have never understood.
(Arthritis plagues my family. I'd rather not understand the pain. Cowardice is a bitter pill to swallow.)
It's the stains of ink that I notice. Black, running into bruised bluish purple on the intersections. Those are the older marks. The newer ones are black that looks un natural wherever it lands. It makes me think of the eighteenth century, of Austen when she wrote. Or maybe, of darker times. When they used to burn people for writing the truth.
(They still do. I just don't like to acknowledge it.)
White estuaries, gashes almost, run along the fingers, at certain, brief, broken points. Beginning and ending, just as abruptly. Some of them, I wear as badges, as the spoils of a war from my childhood. Others I hide in shame. They are more r
Your Former AngelWatch these broken wings,
As they fall dawn to the floor.
I'm sorry, it's just that,
I'm not your Angel anymore.
See the blackened scars,
That stain this battered frame,
The marks of pure self hatred,
Oh, Isn't it a shame?!
See the rope burn round the throat,
That you once so gently kissed,
But you don't really care do you?
This Angel won't be missed.
Don't you see you caused this,
By feeding me your lies,
Now you can stand and watch,
As your former Angel dies.
Dream GirlWhen I was younger, my mother called me her dream girl.
I remembered her combing out my hair, and doing it up
With little ribbons in the strands.
I remember her never quite remembering where the
lady bug hair clips had gone.
When she tugged at my braids one final time,
she'd say, "Look at you, aren't you beautiful?"
We'd walk together to grocery stores and I'd skip
by her side, holding her hand tight, humming a nursery rhyme.
It's my favourite memory. It's always been my favourite memory.
My mother wants my stories, my poetry to be about love, hugs and sunflowers.
I just want it to be honest. I just want to tell the truth.
I want to talk about how I disappointed my parents
I want to talk about how self involved I have been for being raped
I want to talk about how my mother and I don't spend time together anymore.
I want it to be known how I lay broken and bruised in a dark room
in a bed that wasn't mine, wondering how that ladybug climbed in
when someone had stolen my soul from me.
wild thingsthere are days i
want to run with wolves.
to howl at the stars because
the moon has never done
anything for me, and swallow roses
like their thorns never
but this cage -
it seems there's no way
and i fear it's
for anyone to hear me.
life is just a zoo full of
all our monsters, and
[it's our fault] we
My Story Can BeginGrab the blade and drag it,
Feel it slice across my skin.
Perhaps that now I'm bleeding,
My story can begin.
I've been in a battle,
Of hate, depression and despair.
And now I've come to realise,
There isn't a single person that will care.
I haven't done this much damage,
Since my heart was broken in two.
I don't know why I'm even writing this,
It won't matter one bit to you!
The feeling of being a cutter again,
Holds some comfort I must say.
I guess this is just life for me,
Renew my oath to the blade every day.
To watch the blood escape,
Seep out from the vein.
And know that with it, it carries,
All of my loneliness and pain.
Apply some pressure,
Try to stem the flow.
Know I'll do the same again,
If I make it to tomorrow.
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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