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ConflictTranslucent images collide in my mind's eye.
A discordant array of messages flows in one ear
And out the other,
Obscuring any rational thought I may have.
Divine hallucinations of beauty and grace, juxtaposed
With horrific scenes of bloodletting and torture,
I give them both a place to congregate.
My mission, should I choose to accept it, is to quell
The raging tornado of megalomania and self-loathing
That resides within my conscience, the gale
That blows my inner peace to faraway lands.
My mission is to calm the storms
Which derail my train of thought, and soften the blows
That, in the moments when anger overtakes me,
Dull my sword of acuity.
This is my mission.
But I choose not to accept it.
I choose to live with the gale.
I choose to live with the storms.
I choose to continue using my sword
To absorb anger's violent assaults.
I choose to live with the internal struggle, because I believe
That if the war rages on,
There will be a victor,
And then I may find resolution.
MotorboatsBenson looked out at the horizon. The water of Lake Tahoe appeared to go on forever, at some point turning into a magnificent waterfall at the edge of the earth, but never stopping, just falling perpetually. The mountains on the other side of the lake appeared almost as if they were a mirage. Benson let out a long sigh. Here, he thought, is where I belong. Here is where I am happy. He pushed his oar methodically, like clockwork; left, right, left, right, left, right. With no regard for steering, he simply propelled himself further into open water, further away from the beach, further from human contact, further into solace. Benson was not necessarily one for interaction; he wasn't incompetent at it, but when given a choice, he usually tried to avoid it. The kayak was by far his favorite escape. Nothing could touch him out here, he thought. Nothing except the motorboats.
Benson scowled. He hated the motorboats. He hated the way they cut across the water like a knife cutting into his con
How Jesus Crashed The Soundgarden ConcertOnce upon a time in Heaven, there was a man named Jesus. Jesus hated rock and roll more than anything in the world. He hated the sound of it, he hated the spirit of it, he hated the essence and idea of it, he simply hated rock and roll down to its very core. He attempted to destroy it several times. His first attempt was sending four wise men down to Earth to form the band Creed. This attempt was very nearly successful, but in the end it failed. In a fit of rage, Jesus sent many angels down to Earth in the form of mediocre pop artists, but rock and roll kept going strong, much to his dismay.
At around the same time, in a city called Seattle, there was a band called Soundgarden. They enjoyed great success in the 90's, but faded into obscurity in the next decade. They planned to perform a proud one-night-only reunion concert on the coming Friday, as a last huzzah and grand finale to their enviable career. What they didn't know, however, was that Jesus was watching them from the sky, and
Typical.Splish, splash through gentle rain,
I make my way to try to gain
Just one quick glance at your smiling face,
Before vanishing without a single trace.
For if you know that I've been here,
The mask would fail to shield my fear.
Even without that, my heart's awfully loud;
I'm sure you'd hear its relentless pound.
I accomplish the mission and sneak away,
But my breath's still rugged after one whole day.
What is it about that mischevious smile
That makes my quests always worthwhile?
I must apologize for this typical rhyme;
It's hardly what one could call divine.
I scoffed at a similiar verse not long ago
So imagine my shock at being its echo.
Now, dear reader, I must close and say:
Goodbye and good luck with your loving days.
For mine have come and will surely go
With my chance at love remaining zero.
The Snake A
as a snake
with a head
that I bow.
in my mind,
as a knight
in the cloudfull
a hue of
black and blue;
a trail of rave,
and broken down
pieces of sane.
With a pace
NO! NO! NO!
stumbling over wordsshe says Imagine
that god is the field beneath us,
and the trees are his angels -
(i pray to them, you know,
wrap myself around the bark like vines,
each of my thousand fingers curls to catch each twig.
but on bad days i am poison ivy
and my fingernails are nettles,
my long torso is tied in knots and clumps
like my hung over hair.)
- or Suppose
that love is a recluse and a painter,
and hate is his morbid self critic -
(i'm a painter too, you know,
my brush screeches up at me
as if to say breathe me, breathe me!
but on bad days i am a smoker
whose lungs wither like untended plants,
my tongue is tied in knots and clumps
that deep breaths can't unseam.)
drunk, i watch her Muse drift from her tongue
to tickle the trees nearby
Similar DifferencesSimilar Differences.
Accept and reject.
Choose and select.
Vote and elect.
Defile and suspect.
Genre and subject.
Gain and object.
Draft and perfect.
Nurture and neglect.
Locate and inject.
Wisdom and intellect.
Create and inspect.
Action and dialect.
Ambiguous and direct.
Receive and deflect.
Invade and infect.
The Prince and the QueenThe Prince and the Queen
The hooded cloak coiled around Akataras while he walked, white as the snow that fell from above. The black of mourning had not slipped from the elf's shoulders for long, before he had once again clad himself in light. Familiar pains were easier to bear perhaps, or he had found a new road, paved on the lives he had buried, that led to a more clear path.
His path was clear, but his mind and heart were not. His long and ragged brown hair was not in the style of one whose mind was settled, or heart healed. The white furs, silks and leathers he wore only warded against the frost outside, not within. The exhaustion in his eyes betrayed him, for they were as cold and as the snow beneath his feet.
He looked toward the road ahead with tired turquoise eyes, but did not truly see it. They gleamed in the moonlight and revealed more than the traveller had ever dared to share. As if he feared the moon and starlight could see his deepest secrets, he pu
Wishes in the WellI laugh at the unforgiving irony,
A drop of water to desert's core.
Cunning taunts and hisses mock me,
Another child of Murder is born.
No creature would be left unfazed,
To the scent of rose and gentle touch.
Blind to the face that honey glazed,
A piece of meat to the hunter's lunch.
Piercing gazes thrown my way,
Welcoming that all too familiar doubt.
So soon Fate has come to play,
Enjoyed by twisting my mind about.
I drown in sand like a fool,
Visioning what's to be so vividly.
Without shame, please don't be cruel,
See I'm not built an oak but a lily.
Like a pen's ink was meant to flow,
I kiss the metal of this coin so cold.
As the rain from clouds choose to go,
May this return a hundred-fold.
Not yet done from sewing the pieces,
Chopped roughly by a smile so sweet.
You're the seraphim with deadly gazes,
Please be the one to make this heart beat.
The World of My DreamsOut of the grass sprang gentle hands
that carried me over a field of clovers
And I drifted beneath the clouds,
gazing in the idle wonder
that creeps upon men like curling ivy
There was no bluer sky than that day,
and the trees-
there have never been more hearty trees
than the giant oaks towering above me
as the hands carried me further-
And when I awoke in this mysterious land,
I breathed in the scent of moist grass,
relieved to find that it was not just a dream,
and that the world in which I lived
was as beautiful as the world of my dreams
The bloody red shoesEvery where I walked
Following a path lain red
Where everyone talked
And I listened to what was said
Where the limestone met gravel
And the gravel met dirt
In the grave yard of hell
Full of the dead ones words
I wore the shoes of crimson
To walk the beaten path
Waiting for the one
To end the worlds wrath
Angels and demons made of stone
Folded hands in prayer to some god
To leave me all alone
Drifting through the fog
Laces white but faded
Sunny rays all gone down
The one the angels hated
The awful wrenching sound
Soles eaten through and worn
Souls crying in the wind
Stained with crimson gore
The shoes on till the end
PaintEven though you left
I cannot deny what I feel for you.
So I rid my feelings.
But I immortalize them in paint.
I will paint the night sky,
to show how you are my path in life.
I will paint the undeniable beauty of the rose,
to show the love and passion we shared.
I will paint the season of Autumn,
to show how you are, my passion, my energy, my inspiration,
to show how you always took my breath away.
I will paint the clouds at sunrise, and sunset,
to show how you are my sweetest thoughts and my dreams.
I will paint a coffee cup,
to show how I found comfort in you.
I will paint a cupcake,
to show how you are my sweetest craving.
I will paint a butterfly among the angels,
to show that you are my freedom from this world,
and to heaven is where you, my wings will bring me.
I shall paint a Redbud tree,
to show you that you are my support and home.
I shall paint you my hands,
to show you how I am search for you,
how I n
AbandonLet the winged dreamship carry us gently into space,
Over jagged contour lines like scars we can't erase.
Let us realize our wish and leave this world behind,
And purge this ruptured domain from our bodies and our minds.
Fly us to the sun and feel the heat with which it burns,
And rid us both of secular and worldly concerns.
I beseech you, dreamship, let us fly to other lands,
Abandon Earth and grasp the universe within our hands.
Her CatalystAs she walks through the maelstrom, the words trace upon the tips of her fingers and press into the stone. Every brick, every crack in the concrete, every crossed and angular stroke in reds and blacks and oranges. The drips of the gasoline pool around the base of her boots, slosh as she steps over the burst pipes and the rubble.
So much rubble. So little outcry. The silence of the city grates on her eardrums and the mantras she'd been forced to memorize. The Seers demanded they observe thirteen years of recitation before they attempt to weave their first World together.
But who other than the Seers can claim the incantations that knot the skeins they twist and pull on like reins hold fast? When have any of the Sisters recorded the visions they traced upon space-time and recited them, left them open for critique and discussion and debate?
Which is why she walks through the chalky soot of the smashed city around her. This all
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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