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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.
lost my voice.I wrote "I love you"
in the sand at the beach.
The tide swallowed the words
and drowned them
before I could speak.
HauntedI see her there with
Coal dust carved
Into the icy skin
Under her eyes,
And on her lips
Dance a chorus
Of bitter lies.
A skeletal hand of smoke
Claws at my neck
Until I bleed;
She tells me that the pain
Is just what I need.
And her blood
Zooms in her veins
Like speeding cars.
She looks at me
At what I am.
She’s a snake,
In the guise
Of a lamb.
‘What happened to us?’
Of what I used to be.
‘I may be you,
But you are not me.’
The sun comes up:
Yesterday is gone
But see it this way;
The past is part of the future
But the future isn’t the past.
You choose which bits go,
You choose which bits last.
How to love a poet: Expect them to be flawed,
a field of wild flowered-
& an inability
Love them anyway.
Know that when they look at you
they are noticing the little things.
On WritingWrite for today
And like it’s all
That’ll be left of you
Never write for popularity.
Write with clarity, but
‘Don’t make everything said’.
Write a million things;
An ode to the voice
Inside your head,
An elegy for the living,
A carpe diem for the dead.
Write to tell
To just keep
They’ll find a way out.
Don’t write for approval,
That way misery lies.
Poetry can’t be judged,
Not properly –
Write for yourself;
Doesn’t matter if it’s
Good enough for
You’ll never be Shakespeare.
But he’d never
Have been you;
Pour your heart into it,
That’s the best
That you can do.
Loving A Guy Who Cannot Love Himself.Firstly, tell him that he doesn't necessarily need to be the “strongest” man in the world,
that if he cries, you won't look down on him for it,
that you won't call him weak.
Tell him that he doesn't have to like sports, or fishing, or football, or any of the “mainstream” things that boys are “supposed” to like.
Let him know that liking art, or dancing, or singing or acting doesn't make him gay, doesn’t make him any less of a man, it just makes him who he is.
A human being.
And for goodness sakes, tell him that blue does not have to be his favorite color, than he can indulge in pink, or purple or even magenta!
And to the girl who take on the task, remember please, that it is not always the Knight who saves the Princess.
No, this time, the Princess may need to save the Knight.
Do not pour your problems onto him, rather, balance each other out.
Be a shoulder to cry on. A friend to be there. A love that never leaves.
Perhaps more than often,
I Fell In love Inside of a DreamI fell in love,
inside of a dream.
And woke up,
with a broken heart.
But it wasn't my heart,
that was broken.
It was his,
and I'll never see him again.
That long haired, pale skin,
blue eyed boy, will forever remain,
a figment of my imagination.
So close, yet so far away.
And I will never be able to apologize,
for my mistake.
ShatteredIf I found you, on your knees,
trying desperately to collect the shattered pieces of your heart-
I would kneel beside you and help you pick them up.
I would not cast a blind eye,
and pretend I had not seen you.
If I saw that your hands had been cut,
by the very shards of hope you were trying so hard to gather-
I would take your hands in mine, and hold them until the pain subsided.
Then I would kiss every wound- no matter how big or how small,
until I was sure you would be able to use your hands again.
If you were crying from the fear that you'd never be able to pick up everything,
I would hold you until your tears stopped, and I would comfort you with gentle words.
But I would not lie to you- I would never lie.
The heart is a frail thing- once shattered, it can never be fully repaired.
Parts will remain missing, and the mended hope will always bear cracks.
If we found that we'd gathered all that we were able,
and that there were a fine powder remaining of what we could not collect.
...You struck a chord in my soul.
Now it rings in my ears,
sweet melody that deafens
screams louder now can't hear it's own
veinte.i am regressing
i am regressing
i am regressing
i am regressing
you are not a dynamic character.
this is not your story.
you are static.
you are static.
this is not your story.
you are not allowed to fly.
i am regressing
i am regressing
i am regressing
(there is no one to talk to anymore because you feel the need to hide away all of your feelings; you don't talk to people because you cannot pretend to be happy with people that know you are not; you can't keep doing this you can't keep doing this; you're killing yourself and you don't even realize it; you're going to explode one day)
Take Me Away
Ever so prolonged the end,
From which Death had remained hidden.
Desired by disdainful causes
To no eye but the two of my own,
Have I seen the indentations of
pounded in the nails of the coffin
That within, my heart shall one day reside.
Soon cannot come soon enough,
And my patience hangs dead
From the tree of this souls
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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