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Unworthy This, Unworthy That
Forgive me in the times of each day
when I come to see my truer colors.
The less suitable ones that bring down a godly smile.
My efforts to betterment have yet to cease,
and I've nob intent on making such an appointment.
They wait like thieves and murderers,
mere inches from my soul, in wake and slumber,
outnumbering me and breathing down my aching
neck whilst I struggle to breathe
the purer air I am deprived of.
Though cognizant of my sins,
they are doubtlessly committed by a guilty
consciousness which has been undermined with a
pride that bear in deep shame as opposed
to a better way to walk.
The list will be long, as you,
as with all things, are more the perfectly aware.
I am the guilty by my own confession,
and grace is a concept that is greatly welcome
and unconditionally existent in the presence of my unworthy soul.
I know not why i write what is already known to Omnipotence
perhaps a confessional to my one and only
King who spared me the eternity of fire and ice
in a realm witho
Behold, Sweet Charity
A thief with red hands,
In confessional with God overhead,
Sits in darkness and tears.
Alone is the sinner,
A wayward soul caught
In a balancing act that
would be wished on no other.
Hell awaits, just beyond
those wooden doors,
While the demons, sit just opposite
Where a priest should be.
The dwell cramped
in hallowed ground
By the will of their purpose.
One word after another,
Build up the lies for temptation,
Straight up from depths of Oblivion,
For lies to come for a heavy heart.
The weight becomes great,
Blotting out the speech of Hell,
Birthing deaf ears to temptation.
Apologies are for sinners in search,
Seeking for absolution, retribution
and revelation against obstacles.
Grace is for the
prideful turned beggar,
homeless in the home
of a world all over.
Imprisonment so temporary
is for the apologetic beggar, by charity
is given a warm fire by Omnipotence.
The Giver whose will
is by His own testament,
Shifting only to blend
In our lack of understanding.
The Challenge of Little Devils
In the dead and dark of night, in the time
where I recall my love for dimmed light and shadow,
I have only to fear what lurks there with me.
Awareness is but the first layer past the eye,
those same eyes that once thought the bumps in
the night to be morbid tales of fiction.
All nights are nights to be made as easy times
for the luxurious hunts, as I am worn and tired
from my fighting the day behind me.
The time in which they stalked their
food had been behind the hands of clocks,
when the sun would have revealed them in an instant.
What lurks there are abominations of many breeds,
all in the same kin, and mixed in all
the tales of horror and suspense.
Never were their names lies or metaphors
for the sake of artists...those bumps and howls
of the night are older than art itself.
They roamed this world and the next, before
the time of the most average footprints on
the earth, making themselves known subtly.
I have only them to fear, but that fear is
smothered by the remaining light in t
The Memory of a Dead Man Walking
Suchlike the will of brimstone beasts,
Is the will of a dead man walking,
In each step is left the prints of carelessness.
Holding the half empty glass with a crack in the side,
stumbling around the dunes in the long wait to become
a savage before the credits roll.
A happy ending was for another tale for another man way
off back in the mirage of the desert that harbors those
dunes as he lies six feet under with a smile by rigor
mortis and a silent song in the beatless heart, there
beneath a tombstone that read,
here lies a memory.
Come Hell or high Heaven, the dead man walking
walks on without a goal or care for the world,
a bottle of dried up whiskey hanging loosely
in hand, gathering sand from the winds of that
coming storm. Illusive would have been his
laughter to sober eyes in that wasteland.
The Memory looks on as a shade beyond the grave,
staring straight at a man of woe, watching those
apathetic trails disappear. The glass fell into
the bosom of those lands beyond greener pastur
Just One More Time
Those chains, how their cheers can resonate
in wake and dream alike. My shoulders are
strained in time without a proper word.
How bound I am from the starting line of my
own naivety to my lack of bliss in
the lack of ignorance?
I am no longer blind, but climbing my
Jacob's ladder upwards from shame
where chains pull me back
In that foolish past, I was never aware
of these bloody chains that before me countless
others have worn in varied forms and guidance.
Stable ground that welcomes my feet is
above my head, just out of reach as the
seconds take my few grains of sand.
Those chains labor me, like massive serpents
of unholy iron that constrict with
all my struggling.
Take my heart and hands, for alone
I will only fall with the inevitable
results of time and temptation.
The Devil on Your Shoulder
Wrapped like a gift in sheets, playing the role
of cold turkey while sweat shakes down the flesh.
Frozen in time, forced to see life flash before
the gaping eyes as though a Pale Horse had
come alone in jest and spite.
The rapid blinks that pan the camera angles for
unsettling cinematography make for a trip to an
avant-garde Hades for the audience of one.
Those damned subliminal messages hidden
in merciless metaphors.
Demons behind the curtains, sending in paper
airplanes with scribbled teasing and temptation,
awaiting their gift to open itself and become
a savory meal that would only blend with
the memories of what once was.
A husk once called man will sit, quivering alone
in the room of his own induced Hell, while those
demons cackle and drool from every angle as the
hallucinatory short films escalate into
the award-winning nightmares.
They call for him to come out and play,
with voices like friends and tones like killers.
Strength wraps the blanket tighter, absorbing
the sweat of th
Serenaded are the vultures past the
silence of calm demeanor,
where only leaves fall in a quiet Autumn.
The gusts of haunted winds run through a
chilled air that even ghosts choose to
evade in the darkest hours.
No Sunlight had touched the soils below
in any matter of time,
though it had given first light to growth.
Though that canopy cannot keep away the
howls and screams of undead scavengers
which only muffled the sounds of better
birds who sang for the sun.
Third eyes were stitched shut and feet
were bound by illusive chains. How little
the closed treasure chest could ever hold,
where when opened it would have overflowed,
blotting out the haunted sounds and using
the limited light within darkness.
The vultures search only to find with eyeless
sockets, the lively canopy of those growing woods.
Time and all of space could never have grazed those
soils, however wet or dry. Whatever was let in was
by the canopy that guards and shelters.
There were paths in those woods, where many feet h
The Oldest Trick in the Book
The recurring theme of malinger and tomfoolery
pushes an envelope packed with counterfeit
bills across a desk made by the hands of hungry children.
So blatant a sin as to lie to a land of suspecting
psyches is that of a rape to every thought crossing
the pathways of synapses and morality.
The clueless neckties were never clueless,
as free will is the truest catalyst to the monsters
beneath the skin of miracles, like cannon fire in an orphanage.
Deception is a talent practiced while mastered by Hell,
and surely the envelope holds origins from places of evil?
Bills, from mangled trees, grow into newer roots of evil.
Rot can be proven and believed in any walk of life
in and across the world. A thing like evil is illusive
but worth the hunt. Thus end this cycle before it expands.
It is old and respected only by the evil and the ignorant,
the breeds who are related in sin. Let never a single demon win,
and take only the challenges that ring bells in Heaven.
The Fate in Miracles
Do her eyes love what they see?
Do they dilate and tear up with the loving devotion?
If they could, the makeup would run and
she would care little as she ran faster, towards him.
No pace is fast enough for her racing heart
that beats a million strong to bombard the soul.
How she has missed the arms that wrap her like
a present, that sport the hands that wipe the tears.
Not an eternity would suffice for her hearts
desire that only matches his for the woman he embraces.
He stops only to unwrap a gift from God and
kiss the lips that Heaven gave perfection to.
His eyes were tired, mixed with her tears,
while sparks of life came in every breath of relief.
Miraculous was a name for this reunion that was
to outweigh every obstacle of the Hell gone through.
There was no question now that God did in fact
smile from a throne, upon Heavenly joy.
A devil on the shoulder had lost its voice and
become only a whisper in the presence of an angel.
Grow Up, Grow Up Little Boy.Grow up, grow up little boy,
Be a man now, the world's no toy.
The manly man fears no war, no pain,
Nor hesitates to plunge his knife into another's heart,
To take away their chance to see their wife and child again.
Grow up, grow up little boy,
Can't you see that honour's a ploy,
A tool to fool the weak and gullible soul?
Never mistake this deceitful mask for truth,
Never lose sight of your profitable goal.
Grow up, grow up little boy,
Your compassion is so coy,
So riddled with inevitable hypocrisy.
Be true; stamp on those at your knees as they would stamp on you.
Such is life, such is nature, naught but a kratocracy.
Grow up, grow up little boy,
Hesitate not to destroy!
God, your country, your ideals are imperilled!
Draw your righteous sword, you and your elders are The Right.
Cut and kill until all who oppose you are impaled.
Grow up, grow up little boy,
Put aside all that gives you joy.
Work and profit are all that matter,
All else is but a foolish fantasy devoid of hope.
See how t
All You NeedIn the end, all you need
Is achieve a beautiful mansion
A bottle of expensive whiskey
A top hat of higher quality
And an outfit of respect
You drink half the bottle
Turns the top hat sideways
Tears a piece of cloth from the costume
Lights with a lighter
And blows up the mansion
And life returns to make sense
And repeats the process
Until the end of your life
My Autism is NOT a PrisonIf you saw what we’re capable of
You would not want to cure us.
Yet you belittle it as a curse
And try and shove it away.
Do you just not to deal with it?
Because you want your “dream child”?
I’m sorry, no one’s perfect.
(And the only thing that can imprison us is you.)
So why do you make us feel worthless
When really, we have a gift?
Peace.As I walked through these streets,
I saw your face,
& it made me ponder & think.
As in a blink it changed,
From nothing, to anger, to sadness,
& back to anger again.
What gain is there?
As shadows fly upon the air,
Shattered memories of peace.
While I prayed at the temple,
You sat in the mosque,
& we seeked answers,
From the same G-d.
Every time I see you,
I just look away.
You do the same,
& it seems as if we have
Never known each other.
But we have one Father.
Yet we act so different,
As our children cry
In the distance.
& I wonder through the
I see you walking home.
& one day,
I hope to say "Shalom!"
& you will say
The Last Days of RomeThe Last Days of Rome
At long last the wishing-well runs dry
Man is the only animal that preys on his sons
The evil obscenity lurking in his eye
Hyena-laughs cackling, olive branches for guns
A race born flawed, broken for the ages
The one who cries for reason is pilloried and cast out
Clearly it is their fault for feeling rage
Against a a society founded on paranoia and doubt
But no, clearly we are gods,
Who is here to tell us we are stupid and weak?
At this hour a nameless bird caws
In every stone a fracture, in every bucket a leak
Warrior against wounded, man against boy
We are too proud to see our hubris comes in waves
We take weapons and treat them like toys
Our collective hate trickling down through the days
to dust -
turned my cone
like you were
sometimes [11/30]the stars won't align for us,
love, not now
fate isn't meant to be
that's the most beautiful thing about it.
The White shall BlackIf there was no evil
How do we explain to our sons how they should be good?
If there were no dark
How could we explain the light?
If you only know the truth
How can you recognize a lie?
The world spins
Rotates from day to night
Rotates chaos to bonanza
on and on
Under Frequency and periods
Equal and unequal
An opposite in excess at a moment
An opposite in fault in another
Magic is science that can not be explained
Dry is not wet at the moment
Coal is still not diamond
Diamond is still not coal
Not a right
Not a law
Is the universe
Is the truth
Is the logical
That you must accept both
Have you looked into the shattered mirror,
to find the subject of your exasperation?
Accursed hypocrites of the heathen reign,
"Make them suffer for the sins of their ancestors!"
What know you of history's bloody course?
Not a thing, not a damn thing.
Look in the mirror of this worlds memory,
let the record show that which is yours,
the folly, the choking arguments.
Evidence is all you have,
just and yet, the other term, of faith...
Yet again and again,
abased, abashed, by my shear hatred for you all,
Of what do you know in regards to faith?
Not a thing, not a damn thing.
You walk hand in hand with
the blind, deaf & dumb
whose names are covered over with genius.
Ignorance is fear, the blood that flows,
will bleed out to write your part of history...
yet what of history do you truly know,
repeated by basic word of mouth...?
Not a thing...
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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