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Scarecrow Green W. Body ImageSCARECROW
the trees are still green.
ive got a boy in each ear screaming in a strained falsetto, "find god, then fuck, rub war paint over your collar and choke those dreams of adolescent fancy!"
maybe not in that order.
i feel that those might be reasonable demands.
if not, ill stay a virgin forever and stop posting my barely lucid projections on cross walk buttons so the world can join me in confusion.
ive decided to marry myself to this moment, a rubber band ring on my finger and everything.
i cant tell if theyre asking for a fire or a union.
all i can hear is sex and murder, a whisper of masturbation.
the feral cry signifies a busted climax so maybe these boys are in love and the songs merely rut against each other.
its a valid enough theory.
a part of me hopes that they become beautiful monsters when the lights go out.
for them my heart goes.
today ive decided not to believe in love.
its a silly little thing, not suitable for children my age
"just jealous 'cause we're young and in love."
im jotting this down overlooking stairs to the concrete people playing evergreen games until the grass hits and feet sink against the movement.
my fear is the position to topple into bodily harm, she told me because my statements were laced, hardly contrary to the truth. and my knees are buckling, body sways forward and panic spray paints my senses 'til they're all bright yellow. i fall backwards on my ass, knees pressed tight to my chest so i can breathe normal again.
luckily no ones noticed that its happened for the third time tonight.
it might be a bit cliche to proclaim myself toeing the edges of our small existence 63 percent of the time.
eyes closed and learning how to meditate, recite the best poem ever written to the better half of my memory that sits in the dark until special moments when i wish to remember how to make decisions based on my mistakes.
this is different.
im listening to someone else's favorite song, strike to my ski
Sunglassesi look down and my hands are clasped, the light washing over them in broken stretches, intervals like broken clockwork. fingers interlocked atop the plaid fabric draped down and around my hips.
for the past hour or so ive been writing in my head.
about boys and girls.
those who i have, haven't, should've and desperately want to kiss. im 16, so honestly, theres nothing else for me to write about.
i wanted to start this with a sentence in my mental draft that would state, more or less, 'i tell him i love him but im not sure by what definition i hold it, perhaps whichever he feels it to be.'
something like that.
its about a boy who ive kissed despite knowing just how much i should not have. because my decision making skills are just about as flawed as my parents' are.
i guess i wouldve gotten all poetic about it too. about the songs hes sang to me and how hes just a stepping stone that i paused at, knowing it was merely 'til i truly get what i want (sniff, i say, 'what i had'), but no mat
Blackbirdthe sound of breathing over labored guitar chords.
he says 'rooftop', i think E minor, maybe binary code.
its just that simple.
with an arpeggio inhale and the positioning of awkward fingertips.
now hes humming something i cant discern and the song is supposed to be about lonliness, he says, a thin mouth tilted up in the corner.
'lovely melancholy' i say to myself.
but i hear moonlight and silver glinting off earlobes, hollowed in the dark.
dont believe theyre lonely, more but reaching out from the edges.
scribbles in the corner of papers with outstretched arms, to use figurative language.
a tendency to ask what i am writing, always thinking it be about himself (8th grade memories floating like notebook paper, i remember, small smile and bright eyes.)
right now the sound is repetition, shifting soft and to a feeling--green grass like comforters and arena seating.
and i can hear what this is asking for, a mirror imaged and a sideways glance through crowds.
to break his concentration, th
Counter Topi need to make that night seem more poetic when i write it down.
inject some sorry romanticism into those few moments.
felt like i had no face and even with the lilt of eyebrows, creases in the corners of my forced smile, the expression wouldnt have mattered anyway.
they dont explain it to you in those middle school classes.
the overwhelming sense of power found in sometimes hazel eyes, bright in dimly-lit rooms.
yet crippled in knowing how these things tend to mean nothing.
how my knees give out and quiver.
how in the minutes before, my lips mirrored the action, trying not to weep for the need of piteous decisions.
and voices are obsolete.
but breathing means everything.
i might actually call that my own, unless imagination runs wild and my skin goes blank for an open canvas---close your eyes and see anyone else you want to hold.
theres nothing at all beautiful to see when i let myself be picked apart for the sake of wanting someone i cant have, even when hes looping his perfect finge
Criss-Cross Designthe light has then adjusted
some twenty times since
weve been staring
with hair caught behind cold ears
and the irises expanding
for there is no way
to go blind in these rooms
with white-washed vision
blotting out dark figures
as they might rise slowly
in some distance
but you might switch these lines
to different angles
looking out windows
see the dull drone
of brown eyes
against brick walls
im writing your movement
as i stare at this pen
conjuring some demon
kill you dead
with the unrelenting desire
of this swirling madness
out the tip and over the page
so i could draw the distance
of just where you migh
be looking and write
those lines back to my eyes
and my mouth
because they are both open, staring
as you look anywhere but for me
Adenei've got a safety pin fastened through a collar and a name i dont know fit under the swollen rasp of my dry tongue.
the name like peril, little girls in sunday dresses, celestial in the songs they sing.
as if i knew that definition.
maybe stringing descriptions along branches and stuck with metal points, rusting red through the sides.
spelling out letters with stick tips in teh dirt and memorizing lines on her knees, with her hands upon the ground.
with hair threaded through like loops about her fingertips, passed through pink tinged lips and breathin in her air through filters, left there speechless.
reflecting the sun and leaving their sketches on tree trunks.
the countours gold, eyes closed and blind to the moment.
spit at her feet and found mud squished through toes, causing dissension among the ranks.
and she speaks quietly to the pins in her shoulders that whatever youre seeing, its not happening.
i say Adene, you draw a picture and the lines overlap.
running like water.
We Can See Thisive found out that these lives are like movies and the voices set are scripted pieces of beauty.
my gaze, taciturn, green grass in graveyards.
lifting his chin with the tips of my fingers.
as if holding the pose, fighting breath under water.
and walking away, found an exit through hanging branches of willows wilting in the heat of some lost summer.
the glances then fashioned are disguised 'round my fingers in trying to remember why i could not look away as he tread over flowers, skipping over their stories held in the words chipped into cold stone.
unless laying on the park bench and closing my eyes, finding letters encrypted in the stones thrown at my feet.
if set to the chorus of the soundtracks so celluloid, you could find our names up in the lights of grocery store tabloids.
because we are stars.
pretending out way through the moment of fake love, shielding faces from sunlight in late afternoons.
Hair Clip in Those Bedroomsdarling
i can hear the quirk in your voice
so i know its not okay
and im not gonna tell you i approve
but hes gone on an ego trip
and it extends beyond the hours of jet lag
that pulls you into his arms
from whence he might throw you upon the ground
to hear his drunken hero stories
the fatigue breathes alcohol into his thoughts
and theres that girl that we know
the one that i love more than the world
who whispers two names into everyones ear
and plays off the repercussions as her innocence
so lets all nod and call this okay
i remember the summer
when we smiled
as they played out the night in the comfort of bedrooms
it was okay wasnt it
the dialogue of deception
and hes lining your ears with it
its not the soar of piano concertos
and sonnets spoken with the bow of stringed instruments
if he looks you in the eyes with sunflowers in your vision
know to stare away
because is it not preconceived in the hours that he travels back in time
back to you
to whisper that hes not sure of what you ar
La chica del metro.Te creo amor y solo eres un puñado de tetas,
la adolescencia de una muchacha furiosa
que quiere reventar con todo
como si todo fuera una enfermedad,
un frasco de aspirinas en el estómago,
un dolor a costillas entre mundo y mundo
donde la falda de cuadros,
las botas paramilitares,
la boina, la camiseta rosa,
los pósters de anarquía y revolución,
Natalie Portman y una metralleta,
Skrillex y dos lesbianas follando en una cama 80x180,
te salvaran de morir jodida y en un hospital.
Whispers in the nightI am a pianist in the shadows of mist and cold air.
Come to me, lost hearts, and drink my soul from the smooth leaves of sweet music.
Plunge into ecstasy from the cliffs of reason and sink into in my realm of dreams.
Savor the soft kisses of my pianissimo as I whisper my secrets closely into your ears.
Drink in the thirst quenching scales as I run down my fingers across your spine.
Feel the breath of my pedaling on the surface of your smooth skin as our legs intertwine.
Cringe in terror as I grab your heart with my thunderous chords.
Enter through the doors of perception and breathe in my desires.
Embrace them and carry to my grave your sighs of joy.
Lets smile and awaken from the abyss to the melody of our love.
Irregularities in Mind (Poetry/Monologue)I look and I crow and I smile and I glare,
And I know things of circles,
And I know things of squares.
But when my mind ventures and takes to the other side
Then I can’t help but wonder
If it were better had I died
When the innocence came thriving
In torrents down silken cheeks,
That I might have been taken
When I was but a few weeks.
Maybe then would my darkness
Have so eagerly disappeared
But then I can’t help but wonder
What other monsters I might’ve feared
But the scary man below my bed
And my inability to have ever said,
‘Daddy, I don’t need you anymore’ and
‘Mummy, you can leave’ because
I was so desperate for some love
Instead of damned reasons to this creed
And how I wish that I’d show grace
Instead of whine and pathetically plead
For what I’ll never actually achieve.
I make people proud and divert the gun,
But that is all I have hardly done-
That boredom’s given way to psychotic craze,
To the shifting of eyelids
CuddlingOne of the best feelings in the world
The joys of having your arm around you girl
Just being with the person that makes you happy
That one person The makes you forget your troubles
And just smile
Looking in to her eyes
thinking she is a keeper
Abuse of powerTo those who humiliate;
You forced him to the ground and you laughed.
You made him beg. You gave him no other option.
“Beg boy beg” you commanded
You were in power, and you knew it.
To those who are of influence
Why did you take from him his voice?
Why do you make it
So that no one could speak up?
So no one would WANT to speak up?
Do you think you are the law?
and above it?
Because it’s you.
You you you
You who are in power, yet you abuse your part
You had all these people, who would have followed you, who DO follow you
You had a kid who drowned under your authority, your negligence
He didn’t have to die
And his parents won’t press charges
Because it’s you and you didn’t hold him under.
He didn’t have to die
And yet he did.
WordsTwice...thrice...is there a word for four times?
Let's just say that there's a certain number of times that I've kicked myself
Either for not speaking up or speaking out of turn.
I am not a spoken word poet.
In fact, I'm not a spoken word anything.
If it has the words "speak", "speech", "talk",
"Converse", "verbal", or even "greet",
I will have trouble doing it.
My ability to form words and sentences verbally might as well still be infantile.
I have to actually think as hard as possible about what I want to say and how I'll say it.
Even then, it's of little success.
My words cannot form unless they are formed from my fingers,
Or from my pencils and pens.
I write out my thoughts.
I type out my phrases.
I paint my sentences.
Almost every time, it comes out just the way I intended.
My writing speaks for me.
I could never express myself this much through just my voice.
It takes a certain power to make my words come out this way
(And sometimes lack of a certain power)
And to get as creative
And lo! That we know that the pain won't go!We live in pain untill the day we die
From our mother's cry
To our children's cry
Is there anyone who thinks it not so?
For lo, that we know that the pain won't go!
And it won't quit, till in our graves we sit,
And the ground-bugs hit, and are away with it
So don't fret dear child, you've felt nothing yet!
And I can bet that with futures threat you'll near those tears to shed over peers
So don't go drying them up just yet!
AdversityIf it wasn’t for the fires of trial and the hammers of difficulty then how could our will be as strong as steel.
SoundsLittle feet dancing around in my head,
Stomp, stomp, stomp, a parade is lead.
The little feet parade down to my eyes,
across my nose and down to surprise!
I hear them stomping in my ears,
Stomping, stamping, and little cheers.
Cheers of joy, cheers "Oh, fun!"
Little feet cheers for everyone.
The little feet stomp, having so much fun,
but then the little feet start to run.
Tippers, tappers, tipper, tap!
Thud, thud, thud, and slap, slap, slap!
The little feet running through my head,
Why are they running? What has been said?
Little feet giggle, little feet prance,
then again, they start to dance.
Dancing in a forest of hair,
peeking here and booing there.
I love the feet that dance in my mind.
Sweet little feet that are loving and kind.
Men in blue jackets try to take them away.
Make little feet run and in fear they stay.
"Little feet hide in the back of my mind!",
I tell them "I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine."
They cannot see the little feet sliding,
in the back of my mind that they are hi
I Wanted To Be The Soundits raining as i write as i listen to
a song and my life is consumed by
perfection whilst i ignore its
faults and the moment weighs
upon my eyes and overtaken i
begin i want to cry but its
my nature to soak up the outer
layer of every small and lonely pain
just as im not tired
I COULD STAY HERE
BECOME SOMEONE DIFFERENT
BECOME SOMEONE BETTER
i want nothing more than to drown
what i am in my love
for the drops of rain down and
through our drain pipes
because i cant remember the last
moment i felt whole all
encompassing grip of night
and cool air doesnt feel as cold
KEEP ME ALIVE
the sound is dwindling
this song imagined every
moment passing through
the day because im prone to
the obsession settling in fingertips
the rain is falling but i do not
pray and i cant step outside my
legs frozen to the air
hitting the ground, soft sound
through the window i breathe in
i could never be as beautiful.
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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