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Admission of RegressionIf I spliced my syllables together
and only scripted childish sentences
onto stacks of thickly lined paper,
would it stress my lack of progress?
I've been wishing for a word-storm
but writing novice-grade nothings
that could never become novels.
I tried to return to my roots
but was left with only nonsense,
and these whittled-down words showcase
exactly how heavily I've regressed.
JumpEight buttons run down my chest,
are they shutting me in?
They're blocking you out.
You tell me you love me,
and the corners of your lips
dare to rise into a smirk
that reminds me of summer nights since past,
when eight buttons came undone
and your sweet-whispered syllables
shadowed hush-hush kisses along my arms,
but when midnight melted into morning
all that had lingered was lies against my skin.
But your hands still think
that they control my mine,
that lead to wrists who are cut-free,
but bitten-bruised, clenching into my thighs
leaving crescent-mooned creases behind them
like the ghosts of your windswept script
once scribbled in red ink onto paper, written to me,
and I still remember every word
You used to tell me you wanted to go cliff diving:
to feel the tips of your toes pressed
up against nothing but air,
you wanted to feel
to have the world
in the palms of your hands
just so you could drop it.
Instead, you settled for the palm of my hand
I Destroyed A DiamondI've seen what's left behind when you leave
when your split your bit lips and call it quits,
decide someone isn't worth the drama anymore,
and I'm terrified I'll trip over the boundary.
You'll become so sick
of seeing me break myself,
that you'll break me for me.
Backing away isn't an option
when I can't imagine burning us -
letting us catch ablaze and blister
until our skin is so scorched
I can shed mine until I'm only skeleton,
leaving not one bit of the flesh
you've come to call family behind.
When will you set me down?
My nightmares are blowing past barriers,
becoming bone-breaking bits of reality,
clinging to conversations and corrupting teeth
that begin biting me, teasing me, teething on me.
I don't want to dare think you'd drop me,
but I've been clutching to the same cluttered,
plastered on disguise for years
and it's whittled away,
translucent in places and spiderwebbed,
letting all of my words whisper through
and God, I can see that they're hurting you.
With Sewn Seams, I Seem AlrightI want to claw my clavicles until they're split
as if I took a blade to my shoulder,
and I'm tempted to twist the tendons in my arms
until the tension trains them to strengthen.
I want to shrink inside of myself
until there isn't a thing left to see.
I want this thing out of me.
Believe Me, I'm Better NowIf I began pushing
unmeasured morsels past my lips
and made no move to rid myself of them
would you suspect that I spent my nights on the bike?
Sometimes I wonder exactly how well you know me
and how far your expectations of me extend.
What if I tore my skin open but taped my lips shut,
biting back my words but bleeding out lies
and creating scars behind clothing lines?
If I keep quiet am I killing trust?
(Am I killing us?)
Clinging to CatastropheI thought I wouldn't be trailing thoughts from my teeth
and dripping fuck-ups from my fingers anymore
but I can feel them pooling at my feet
and you're watching them drown me.
Though I can't quite imagine
these weak calves could hold the catcher's crouch
long enough to be sure nothing leaked through,
that's the catch: I want to blind you.
I want to wipe away your world of color
and leave behind a fine layer of white
or perhaps a black so heavy
that every other hue would dissolve inside of it
so that the crimson crossing and creasing my skin
would stay unseen, swept between a pitch and pastel
and the smiles would stay framing your cheeks
I am selfish.
I've bitten the bullet of fucking up again,
and with a blade biting my own skin,
I've bled words even deeper than before,
so it is my responsibility to be sure
you won't be subject to seeing the scars.
By now I should be skilled
at sweeping my secrets away,
It Burrows Into Your Bonesthree.
you have to wonder
exactly how long everything will last.
i've been wanting to strike a match
and touch it to the tip of a candle's wick,
then count the seconds until it is quelled.
it is four forty-one in the morning
and i am fighting off the urge
to score my frustrations and fears
onto my skin as if i am a piece of pottery.
this is what i imagine it would feel like
the second before squeezing the trigger
a strange calm that slithers around your scapula
and settles in the curve of your collarbone
with such an easy euphoria you don't notice
when it begins to constrict.
Some Nights Are Better ForgottenLet me slam into the linoleum
allow the tiled wall to leave lines behind
that will blossom into bruises on my skin.
I want to feel your five-fingered strikes
caress my cheekbones like the sick love story
of disaster and self-destruction I've created
by downing one too many drinks.
It's a relief to be marred
with a mark made by a hand
other than my own.
I don't think I ever admitted to you
how your handprint hovered on my skin
in sickening harlequin and hunter greens
I imagined it appropriate to mask it with my make-up
and use foundation to build my smiles in the morning.
It's Getting That Bad AgainI've almost run out of eloquence
and no amount of strung-together emotions
can come close to describing a thing.
I am broken with broke-skin legs
hiding beneath bare-thread quilts
so that if I'm bothered,
I can smile and small talk it all away.
But that isn't good enough.
No, in that I see publication possibilities
and praise that I know perfectly well
I couldn't possibly deserve.
It sounds like sentences stamped onto paper
in bold black ink and set on my English teacher's desk,
with my name precisely penned in the corner -
but I feel much more like the wastebasket
that was always sitting beneath the tabletop
filled with everything no one else wanted to touch.
There's a problem there, too.
I'm covering everything behind metaphors
of desks and worthless wastebaskets,
full-well aware it's too easy to lose my meaning
between the letters of my language,
but I can't let it go.
Every time I open my mouth to speak truth
I spill nothing but shushed-up apologies
and bits of the big pictu
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.
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)
an ear to lean oni want to edit my sentences
before i even utter them
but you tell me to speak in ink
like i'm a pen and you're the paper,
promising its lines won't judge.
and i don't doubt that,
but spilling my secrets
is like splitting open a sand bag
and it's impossible to accept
that it's okay to overflow ,
and that you'll fight for me.
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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