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you gave your dreams to the starstell me again, daddy, how you gave your dreams
to the stars for safekeeping many years ago.
but you forgot that the stars couldn't
keep your dreams forever.
the stars got tired of holding something
that they weren't meant to keep
and your dreams crashed, burned
and fell to the earth.
I found them the day
I knew you were disappearing.
I cradled the broken shards of
what once was
in my hands
and cried myself to sleep that night
because I knew
that some things that are lost
can never be found again.
dead wordsthe poets and novelists are dead.
dead poem analysis
dead novel deconstruction
on a dead tree sheaf
stained with dead food
and possibly being contemplated
by a dead mind.
who is to remember the words
of the now-unfunctioning,
only for those who have breath?
“you love literature
because of what it is,
not what it does.”
oh for the love of intrinsic value.
the poets and novelists are dead.
but we are alive to connect
to their worthiness of writing.
clockthe clock on the wall has stopped
we will be talking about the atomic bomb
for eternity because
the clock on the wall has stopped.
it could not stand the thought
of time's destruction.
unfound non-existenceTo 1755 Patent Line Road:
in my mind, you no longer exist
(noteworthy: ignoring things
is one of my few talents).
your trees and grass and emptiness
you are my childhood,
inexplicably connect to something
I do not understand.
your black, broken mailbox,
the ditch that I stared down
while waiting for the school bus,
the dying tree that became
our childhood time machine,
the swingset playground where I stood
on and touched the sky -
even the rotting trailer which held
my bedroom of refuge
are no longer on your grounds.
these things are gone,
and everything echoes with silence.
When my feet step upon your grass
I am very far away.
My voice opens with nothing
because I am an alien to myself,
a foreign substance in foreignness.
I have been found after being lost for
all of my life, but I was not found
among your fading death.
late springdull sun, dull light
against a smoke-smudged sky.
bitter, dried fingers
caressed by the cold.
are inhaled like smoke rings
color come to the world
in the crunchy grass
of a late spring.
Character Sheet: MaximPhysical Qualities:
Name: Maxim Harell
Apparent Age: 35-40
Weight: 145 pounds
Skin/Fur/Feather/Scale Colour: White
Hair Colour: Sandy Blonde
Eye Colour: Light Brown
Significant Markings/Scars/Tattoos: N/A
Non Physical Qualities:
Main traits: Maxim used to be much more arrogant and prideful than he is currently – a personal mistake caused his attitude to change. However, he is still prideful of his knowledge of magic – he has an in-depth and detailed knowledge of magic. He has a quiet demeanor and is very guarded of his private life – especially his past as a battle magician. Once someone has proven themselves to be trustworthy, Maxim is much more friendly than his initial grouchiness might indicate.
Sexual Preference: Female
Marital Status: Single
Religious Beliefs: None
Fears: Anyone who r
last night i dreamed i kissed you.
broken boy, you still
infect my poetry,
tangle my vocal chords with your half-meant promises.
there are scars on my fingertips where i touched you.
my mouth still burns with the doubt i tasted on your tongue.
you have to miss me sometimes.
you have to miss the way
i smiled into your kisses
as if they meant something.
you have to miss me because
a month after i woke up in your bed and realized
it was for the last time,
i keep your "i love you"s hidden somewhere inside me,
folded and folded and folded in on themselves
like notes passed in school,
creases frayed and ink smudged into illegibility.
we were never good for each other
like the cigarettes we passed at midnight
as we leaned on the church's locked front doors and
pretended we could save ourselves.
we were insane and reveling in our insanity,
half mad and in love with our madness.
but broken boy, you've broken me, and
last night i dreamed i kissed you.
Cat's CradleI used to play ‘Cat’s Cradle’
At the tender age of ten
But now I think I’ve lost the knack,
Because I’ve not played it since then.
Knobbly fingers are not nimble,
But they do remember touch,
The feel of children’s and lovers’ skin
Perhaps I think too much?
From this bright window,
Where I sit, I look outside,
Reminiscing on my life
From toddler to a bride.
Many years ago I was a nurse,
My hands tended to the sick,
My hands were white and smooth then
And now they're red and thick.
My daughter came to see me,
Can’t remember when at all?
But last time in her pocket,
She took out this small ball.
It was actually a ball of wool,
Round my fingers, wool was tied,
I played Cat’s Cradle with my daughter...
And afterwards I cried.
walk on your own, into the sunDear sad people,
I was raised to believe that the sun turns purple when humanity learns to glow
but lately, the warm wooden library I sat in turned cold.
In the summer I'd pick up the heaviest explanation of evolution and smile at it like a proud amphibian,
in the winter I'd write thickly about praying to a stagnant universe.
In the winter, I'd forget I'd evolved.
I once dreamed that Jesus gave me a tour of the Old Testament heaven.
The ocean water slapped itself onto the course sand,
which rose into brown dripping bones that stood tall like the rod that cracked open a footpath.
"It's up to you," he shrugged with sluggish eyes.
I wondered if I belonged in your world.
Why do you write so many letters
to your pills and lovers and priests and ghosts?
In one deep sleep, sloppy Jesus gave me a choice,
and I chose to write my own letter to a raised razor nightmare, running and raw
that peeled down a woman's cheek as sh
CardiganI liked your cardigans because they were as soft as your skin
and they seemed to match the atmosphere when we would sit at park tables,
eating our words with silver spoons
and sitting next to each other rather than across because we didn't like the rules
of platonic relationships.
You were left handed and your fingers and elbows would sometimes
accidentally collide with mine and you apologized
and I said that it was okay
when I really wanted to beg for more.
The truth was that I only ever wanted to know you and
touch your jaw and your fingers
and your elbows and your collar bones but that was not
appropriate for park tables and silver spoons
and you only wore cardigans around people who you thought of as just friends
and nothing more
2013 December 15th 2:10amshe tied threads around her fingers,
hoping to remember.
she cut her fingers off,
hoping to forget.
-I want to be the cigarette coerced against your lips
Inhale me deeply so I can return to the cavern of your chest
Tainting your heart and making it love me again
I depart blissfully through your lips as I kiss them with my toxicity
Spelling your name in wisps of smoke
Let her taste me on your tongue and your clothes and let her coldly resent you for it
You cannot quit me
I rest in your veins
Where I belong
with a space between*
my sister worries i carry too many loaves of fresh white bread
when i speak of you
she says they keep falling to the floor
and it's a waste
she tells me they love you so it would hurt more when they leave
and that i shouldn't feel so much
it's a sickness of the lungs, my sister says, that quickly spreads to the arms and
you find yourself holding on to things until
your nails bite through the skin
and you get blood on your hands
sometimes it's theirs, sometimes your own
always always this happens
and the days curl around your body like rusted pipes
and you suffocate if you ever try to laugh again
my sister says i was born without a rib cage
and that there is nothing guarding my heart
she says she sees dents in my chest where your hands have been
and asks with disapproval if i still feel your fingers between my lungs
if the concave is here
because you are still here
and last night i dreamt i was loving your lover
i woke up coughing up her spit
i tried to tell you that Marley was a ghost,
but you wanted to walk with wings
across gleaming midnight.
How marvelous, this stone stands
sturdy and musty; this glorious church holding up a ticking sun
that slowly cracks the trippy stained glass.
you drilled way below the church stone,
and found dried palm leaves and old joints
like clues to the map of an exceptional life.
I love this torrential literature,
I love a racing heart.
i cannot sleep, i keep dreaming,
ezekiel's visions leave me breathless.
Take it up with the Big Man.
Surely the cannabis creator
must exude a presence that lingers on synapses.
i've lost my ability to fly.
a tender sky with reddening clouds,
the sights of death give birth to no life.
Well, I'm l
C-can I show you something?
She asked so tentatively; her words grasping my heart with sheer anticipation.
My answer was uncertain. Confusion struck my mind when she conjured a knife from no where.
It's a Scottish knife. My uncle gave it to me.
The swirls on the handle coincided with my stomach's churns.
we were both so young
when we first met;
I adored you - but didn't know this yet.
who knew that I'd commit such a sin...
...or that really you wanted to wear my skin?
Hey, can we meet up soon?
I loved her. Seeing her brightened my life... like the metallic blade of her knife.
Sure. How about Saturday, in the park, in a place where no one will see?
we were both still young
when we met at the park;
by the time you arrived, it was ever-so dark.
We were down by the lake; no one could see,
yet I noticed you staring intensely at me...
Are you a lesbian?!
School was hell. Amelia and I
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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