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Rainy DayAs I sit here and stare out the window, waiting for the skies to clear, listening to the silence drive on. Something starts to fall, rain. Water from the skies above. What is this noise I hear? Such peace from all this chaos? No wonder the trees dance with this music. I walk towards my door, it opens suddenly as my hands pull on it. My body no longer listening to the reason of my mind but following the music of the rain. Out I run! Splashing water up into the air with each step to joining the countless drops already falling. I stare up into the sky of clouds and black of night. My cloths, of little I had on, stuck to my body like glue as I stood still, feet cold, heart warm. Bright flashes of light dance around me as I walk on, my eyes closed, hands stretched out in front of me, they are my eyes. Sight did no justice to the beauty of the sound, the feeling, the smell, the taste of it all. God must pity me to have given me this joy, even for a night if only that. A bright flash, all aro
WickedMorgana, in the cowering darkened city; neon is dead. Theatres all play the same movie, over and over again. No one watches; they’re all in their basements or ancient fallout shelters. Morgana’s heels clack pavement, and the echo goes on forever.
Feast on your tins of peanut butter and crackers; Morgana feasts on minds. Minds like yours, soft like veal. Everyone said this night would come, but no one believed it would be now. How could it be, when just yesterday the playgrounds were filled with sunlight and laughter?
Lightning cracks sky and illumes devastation, wretchedness, emptiness. Lions have escaped the zoos, and roam the streets hungry and fierce. The wind howls your name as you sit in the darkness wearing your foil hat. Morgana laughs, and laughs, and laughs.
And the echo goes on forever; like carnival music at a funeral, like a grave robber’s laugh, like handbills flying down an alley for a play that was never produced; like a child lost in the crowds, like t
the atlantic ocean is big enough to hide secretsin that twilight period of summer turning to fall-
in that bend in the road from september to october-
i couldn't explain it but i so desperately wanted to send a piece of myself to you
so you would have something to look forward to
i said, if there's a force to change the tides and turn the earth
and people think it's the most essential force in this world,
then i know they've never met you.
'who me? little old me?'
yes you, little old you,
you have enough resonance in the beats of your heart
to make armies march,
you have enough light in your smile
to make a blind man see,
you have enough magnitude in everything you do
to cause earthquakes to destroy the world,
or maybe just me:
i would die in your hands if you would only let me.
the beginning of october is stunning when the colours
are like fire engines and fireflies and fireworks.
bright flashes of everything that is beautiful and nothing that is hurt.
but after an immense burst of light;
The Story of a Boy. [An Original Poem-thing]
The Story of a Boy.
This is the story of a boy.
Who had lost his mother.
He had a father.
Who did not a care.
The poor little boy.
He never had friends.
All alone in a town.
Which was almost a barren land.
At the age of seven.
Something new happened.
A family moved in.
Into the barren town.
They had a little girl.
With her lovely dark curls.
And new friends they became.
The lonely boy and the bonny gal.
But the boy, he wasn’t.
What he seemed to be.
In his head there were demons.
Demons, waiting to be unleashed.
When the day arrived.
And the boy lost his mind.
He tortured the young girl
to her death.
Oh, it was such an evil crime.
The girl she returned
in her reincarnated form.
She was only four,
while the boy was eleven.
Shocked at her resemblance
with the girl he once met.
He tricked her yet again,
and again, she was killed.
Again she returned,
as her soul never rests.
her mind doesn’t remember
but her spirit deman
An Infectious DiseaseSome will say hope is a killer; an infectious disease that plants shitty pipe dreams in the mind, but hope is a good thing, sometimes the only thing that keeps us going. And it comes not from the pipes that won't play or the dreamer's gaze, but from the inside. All you have to do, is find it.
Mr. FrostThe cellar, is far more suitable than the attic, but if they prefer the attic, let them have it. It makes no difference to me. Even when they come rattling down the staircase after dark, running dried chalky fingertips, along split cracked walls, or standing motionless behind closed doors with only blackness in their eyes. As if salvation lay on the other side. How amusing they are in the beginning, but their echoes become fewer and fewer as the days grow long. Until they no longer speak the name, Mr. Frost and I know, it's time to kill again.
Ragtime StreetsCrowded city streets
breezes turn to wind
winds to storms
and all that I can see
are strangely foreing faces
falling upon my lips
in misty shadowed eclipse
like drops of acid rain
and all that I can hear
are echoes of their voices
vibrating within me
like eyes of the hurricane
Crowded city streets
unkind ruthless walls of concrete
drapes of gray and halls of steel
no shapes, no trees, no air, no feel
only those strange foreign faces
ghosts of smiles from faraway places
I´ll never see
vibrating within me
Crowded city streets
and light is just a rare wishful dream
and night is just a trick
of neon quiver and toxic plasma gleam
only strange unfamiliar faces
of ghosts from distant forbidden places
blurred in the void
in emptiness of crowd
Crowded city streets
there is no reason for me
to stay to walk
to pray to talk
no place for me
in this crowds of colour and gaze
in this void of awed and amaz
Slow Your RollSlow your roll; take one day at a time. Life is easier to process in small doses. Do not be concerned, with the shit you can’t change, because that’s just a waste of time. Keep your eye on the prize, but don’t let it consume you, else you’ll find no joy, at the end of that ride. Do the things that make you happy, because you’re no good to anyone, without that.
The music we hear today...In my opinion, The true meaning of music will die shortly,
Since people only care of being big and famous and get money for their own,
And they never share their success unless they'll gain some glory,
But they'res some people who makes music to make people feel better,
or who explains what the world looks like in their eyes,
And the best part, they'll never be traitors,
Like the ones who betray the way of true music,
Those people were called emos, Satan's children, or just plain weird,
because most people's taste of music is getting more sick,
But, I'm one of their fans and that's what keeps me stronger,
And in the future, I want to destroy someone else's sense of "justice"
With the power of true music, and to regain our peaceful order,
Because, I don't want our future generations in pain or just plain shallow,
If I do that, I'll save the true music in no time~!
Sand slipping awayThey tell me that I have the world in my hands
But all I see is sand slipping away in the hour glass.
I let an hour pass just to watch the day wisp away
Before being sure that I can't control the way the wind blows.
Who truly knows where the wind will end up taking us
Once the day is done, the diploma is won, and we walk off stage.
We turn the page, a new act in life's grand play,
We know our parts by heart, but forget our lines anyway.
We all have grand plans, wanting to brand our names into history
Uncaring of the mystery as to why so few names are remembered.
Straight from the cradle, we are thrust into a new type of light.
As the dust settles, we feel alright, but we know something is wrong.
All along when we were with our fathers and our mothers,
We never dreamed of finding others to help survive these wastes.
Some follow temptation, finding salvation in wasting away,
But the rest of us continue to attempt to seize the day.
With the sand our caps and gowns drift away, we pick up o
I am an artistI am an artist. I create worlds and characters. I give life to that which was never born, doesn't exist, and never will be. I do this all for the hope that one day, someone will look at my work and be moved by it. Moved to smile, to cry, to laugh. Let them feel the rush of emotions that came from a heard that will never exist, that will never be, that was never born. Let them love and cherish my work, so that one day it may live on long past the time when anyone remembers my name. Let that soal I made with a pencil and paper be the one who lives such a live that even I would be moved by their stories. I shall take my time, master this craft and fill the empty space with worlds upon worlds until time itself has little meaning and the dreams and hopes of the little few within these world s are shared by everyone who takes the time to glance their way and see this live. This, is what I do. I am an artist.
mechanici want to kiss every aching wound you have,
bandage your heart every time it bleeds,
and patch up your mind over and over
because not a single tear deserves to fall
from your brandy-drenched eyes
but this dripping heart of mine can only feel
and the healing honey words it flames get caught
in the back of my throat and on the roof of my mouth
so i only have these passionate guttural cries
to tell you that i care all too much
and in order to fix you up again,
i would need to tear myself to tatters
and trade all of my working parts
for your leftover, fading pieces
but i just haven’t figured out how.
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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