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sick of being sick and tiredi'm done
all through the
making my arms
i just got back from the butcher's
for all i've done
wrong and that
which i haven't done at all
this is my confession
be mistaken as a prayer
this is a dream
anything i consider fair
dear midnightmy earthy mattress tickles my neck
as i lay down to stare at my love,
but i am not looking over;
i am looking up.
power lines scar her stellar
dark-blue face, and city lights
pollute her skin like a thousand
spotlights on an over-powdered model.
but i am not concerned about
her blemishes; no, tonight i am here
to find flawlessness beneath
and so i gaze
the stars are the freckles
on heaven's nose, and the clouds
the hair of Venus herself.
i reach up to try to sift my fingers
through her wispy white locks,
but find she is too far away.
a single star drifts across the dark
cheeks of the night, and i fear
she is crying over our unrequited
distance. i can see her
clear as crystal vision,
but i am merely
a speck on her spectacles.
i turn my head and see
the harvest moon cradled
in heaven's arms, her craters
frothing over like chilled strawberry
wine, and i
i am drunk.
her shooting star. once upon a time...
there was a girl.
she never danced along the milky way.
she never trapped any stars in her web of hair.
she never ran away with a shooting star.
[although he's tempted her to]
there she was, probably a lone space rock
floating in space, living her days beside other
moons and planets that outshined
her, she's been waiting.
drowninghe offered me his cigarette, try it?
i hesitantly reached for it and put it to my lips. i remember my mother telling me that i should never try smoking, but i felt myself wanting to. it was probably partially because he did it.
i inhaled and felt a burning sensation in the back of my throat and in my lungs. i coughed a bit and scrunched up my face as the smoke came out.
he laughed and took it out of my hands.
i shook my head, gross, i coughed again
and he just grinned.
its one year later and here i am:
tall, thin and alone. my messy brown hair falls unevenly around my bony shoulders. im pale, but not the pretty kind of pale, the ugly kind of pale you get when you are sick.
but its okay, because i am sick
sick of hearing all the apologies that are being shoved down my throat.
im a chain-smoker because cigarettes are all i have to remember him by and i drunk-drive cars, secretly hoping that ill crash.
Lonesome NoteA lonesome note rests upon your desk
Written in scribbles from a half-filled ink pen
Or is it perhaps half-empty like the glass from which I drink
Your poison that burns my throat and nose
and no its not the same sensation that burnt when your were near
Nor the one that erupted when your lips were pressed against mine
It is the same sensation i felt when you ignored me for weeks on end,
When you refused to listen to my questions or ask about my day
So now I'm gone and you should be glad
because now you don't have to keep up that charade that everyone is eating straight from your hand
Don't worry though, your secrets safe with me,
I'll just portray the bitch
when i actually set you free
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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