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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
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.
I Saw a Burning ManIn front of my house, he sat.
Skin burnt off, now charred and black.
Hesitantly, I walked outside.
And he followed me with his watery eyes.
With steps as nimble as the snow,
I hid my fear and continued to go.
Now before him, the Burning Man.
I kindly offered him my shaky hand.
No malice nor vice leaked off of him,
rather sadness and agony which simmered below his skin.
I could feel it around me, the pain and despair,
yet, physically the man was nearly repaired.
For his scorched skin was not his problem,
instead the bottled emotions that devoured all of him.
“Would you like to come inside sir, and stay?”
In which he replied by looking away.
Again I asked, and received no reply,
and was startled when the man began to cry.
Unsure of what to do, I walked away,
Yet I’ll never forget what happened that day.
Be it from pain, or mute, or undisclosed desires,
I watched as the man was engulfed in fire.
I stood back in awe, with my mouth agape,
and feared that he had fallen into
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.
little victories.when i was younger,
i thought i was the strongest
little girl in the world
because i could easily
beat my older brother
at arm wrestling.
it wasn't until years later
that i realized
And There Was Lighti.
He was seventeen when he died.
I never went to the funeral
but I walked past it the day of
the service. His mother
was in the backseat of a blue Dodge,
door open, head in her hands.
"My baby," she kept repeating.
"My baby." It would go from sobbing, to
screaming, to a soft whisper that
I could only hear being carried
on the wind.
It was a Wednesday afternoon that they found
his old red pickup truck parked
out front of Slim's, two beer bottles in
the back and the windows cracked to let the stale
I heard that his dad told the police he was
gonna take that old truck and fix it up, because
he had promised his son before—
because it's always in the before—
And in the after, his mother never had dry eyes
and I'm pretty sure my mom told me
that she saw his dad at the bar every night,
drinking his sorrows down because some people can't
handle the stress.
Some people can't figure out why their son would
"Some men just want to w
in which I gain sentiencesave room
for doubt, in the silence between
religious guilt and stolen
body heat. I am made of helium.
in my dreams they
pop me and
watch me flutter. I wonder if everyone
else’s head is so congested as mine,
hyperactive with inattentive people.
you are never serious--
he stares at me in a different
set of eyes; there are words
I cannot say, there are
things I cannot tell you.
(twice a week
I watch the people I love
leave me for good.
spiders in my throat,
You Ever Felt ItHave you ever felt it?
When you lay there broken
And feel yourself so guilty
Eyes gushing red
And you want to sleep in a coma
Your brain swelling with thoughts
At the same time empty with nothing
When you can't suit yourself
And see yourself a place among the demons
that moment when you control your life
The moment when you choose between life and death
And then you yourself can decide either way
It's when you're on the edge
And want someone to pull you back before you make another step
A hook, to rip all the insanity out of your body
And suck all the madness that is growing black dead trees
Have you ever felt it, have you known depression
Did you ever seek a source of help, and did you ever find it
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.
Keep in Touch!
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