|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
I began to writeI began to write a verse filled with spite, filled with anger and utter betrayal.
I began to write how I was truly hurt and all the wrongs that had been done to me.
I began to write to protest on everything you had done, to shame you, to blame you.
But as I began to write I seen that nothing worked, that I had filled the page with a vile and hateful verse.
I had seen that what I had began to write was the beginning of a fight, a beginning of a war that would only hurt both sides.
So instead if fighting fire with fire, I extinguished the flame, and made a white flag for my soul.
I took a step back from my fiery attack.
And I began to write this.
Take a walk with me.To the end we shall go, were ever it may be,
Take me down the path less travelled, walk me through the sea.
The broken glass of crackled hearts, were bare feet may tread,
Along side the river of the dammed, the water coloured red.
Hollow bones and bullet holes litter the sandy plain,
Dried blood is the mark that only death may reign.
Yet here we stand in fire and smoke,
Drowning in it's gentle choke.
and off I'll sail.
To a valley of eternal bliss.
My WingsMoving on to better things, I'm so happy I found my wings
No need for tears, no sinking fears.
A burning passion comes in roaring fashion.
A smile I bear, free without a care.
No broken hearts, or scaring marks.
I'm moving on to better things, no more rocks upon my wings.
Teacher's pet peeve.You loathe me, you really do,
I know my presence just bothers you.
Those evil glares and little digs,
All those things to make you big.
You can poke and you can prod,
Then preach your words about your god.
You can act the little saint,
But that's something you just ain't.
You can pretend that I'm not there,
And then act like you treat us fair.
Questions of a wider scope,
Get a "no further questions" and a bible quote.
Crow like demeanour you wallow in pride,
No pity you offer, as you throw the carcass aside.
That burning hatred of me, you truly despise,
That roaring fire in your eyes.
Now tell me Miss, as it's clear to see,
Why do you really hate me?
Pass the saltAt a darkened lonely table I find myself eating
The echoes of my heart beat fill the room.
Empty eyes watch from afar,
My every move being judged.
Each thought of mine being ridiculed
The faint foot steps as my fellow guest arrives
His head toped with a silk hat,
His face illuminated by the soft candle glow.
Sunken eyes with an endless stare,
Ghostly face baring scars.
The dining table puts us miles apart
Plates were a banquet used to be filled now with mere crumbs,
Now chipped and cracked like the empire around it.
We dined on what remained of a beggars feast.
Bathed under dying candle light.
The devilish eyes that watched grew closer with each breath I took.
Before they could reach us, the candle went out.
In the darkness my guest spoke,
His only words were;
"Pass the salt"
I sayI say I don't care, but I really do.
I say I'm ok, but if you really knew.
I say that I'll wait, but it already feels so long.
I say that I can do it, but I really can't carry on.
I say that I'll stay, but I really want to go.
I say that I'm fine, but I really feel low.
I wish I could say all the things that are true, but I know that's something I could never do.
Am I?Am I strong? I feel weak.
I feel overwhelmed,
It all seems bleak.
Am I right? I feel wrong.
I’ve ruined everything,
All I loved is gone.
Am I happy? I feel sad.
I’m lonely and depressed.
It feels like I’ve lost everything I ever had.
Am I whole? I feel broken.
I feel like I’m spilt in two.
My tongue ripped out, no more words can be spoken.
Am I ever going to feel okay again?
No one knows, my dear friend
RestlessHaunting voices torment my sleep.
Growing pressures pull me to the dark so deep.
Heavy weights upon my chest.
Losing will, I cannot rest.
Nightmares grow in strong daylight.
A losing battle, one I cannot fight.
Tears do not fix, nor ease the pain.
For all I do seems in vain.
Feeling useless, feeling spent.
Would it best if I went,
Far away, never to return.
To run from the pain that bites and burns.
Far away, in a foreign bed,
Still unable to rest my head.
Childish FearsChildish Fears
Doesn't it scare you that you're growing older, growing up? In days, months, years, you'll no longer be teenager. A fifth of your life will be over, and you'd be all grown up, stuffed in a suit with a tie around your neck, a briefcase in your hand and your whole life before you. Some people may think it appealing, but I don't.
I'm scared of leaving everything that's familiar behind.
I'm scared of having to fend for myself, for having to always be in control yet never really having any control.
But most of all, I'm afraid of being changed, of no longer being who I am.
No One Who Wanted to be SomeoneWhat did you want to be, Grandma? I wanted to be a veterinarian. Why are you not a veterinarian then, Grandma? Well, let me start from the beginning. That is what she said, before she told me her story of how she got to where she is now.
A farm, a large farm on a small island. A small island in the middle of the sound. That is where she grew up. On that farm where there were a lot of animals. There were sheep and cows and pigs and chickens and horses that she helped take care of. Those were the animals her father, my great grandfather, owned. But she also got to take care of the wild rabbits. There were many rabbits, and they were numerous. One could hunt rabbits all night, and not make a dent in the rabbit population on the island, she said. Her father would catch some, just enough for her and her friends to have over the long summer days. Helping the animals from their birth, living and being well taken care of, and nursing them back to health when they got sick, despite the fact tha
The MarketEach morning the vendors arrive before dawn. As they set up their kiosks they hear the songbirds rub the sleep out of their eyes and start to sing groggily. As the sun rises over the horizon of the tiny African village, the pinks and purples that stain the sky lightly kiss the pyramids of fruits set up on squalid cardboard boxes. Mothers in long dresses and wrapped heads fill hand-woven wicker baskets with red peppers and green chiles, damp with morning dew. The forenoon fog, not yet burned away by the sleepy sun, twists and furls over saccharine apples and astringent grapefruits. As customers first arrive, those vendors unprepared engage in a furious boondoggle; some sew small swatches of perfunctory fabric together, or hastily place bruised fruits under tables, to make their products appear more lucrative.
Umbrellas striped with vivacious colors are set up, one by one, to shade the delicate products being sold. Behind the men and women that run the market, entire walls of jars, baske
Dos frenos, dos alicientes ante el mismo conflicto«Era una idea sumamente atractiva, pero también infantil. El joven Scott, según decía, quería despertar de su "adormecimiento vital" desafiando las leyes de la cordura, actuando sin atender a razones. Ante una idea como esa, solo existen dos obstáculos: el freno del miedo o el freno de la desilusión; y dos alicientes: la ambición y la desesperación. La ambición entorpecida por el miedo es el conflicto antagónico que se desata en los que empiezan a vivir, en el sentido pleno de la palabra: aquellos que se atreven a despertar del sueño de la cotidianidad para lanzarse al mar bravo del mundo.
Mi conflicto era distinto: la desesperación como medio para escapar de la desilusión. Por un lado, la falta de motivación y la desgana echaban por tierra mis intentos de cambio; por otra parte, la desesperación causada por la rutina constante me instaba a romper con todas las cadenas. Pero e
Good Writers Make Bad WivesGood writers make bad wives
Who ever heard of a good wife having an opinion? Good wives are seen not heard. Same goes for good girls. It sounds crazy since we are decades passed the feminist movement and the world preaches equality, blacks, whites, men and women. Apparently what the world doesn’t preach is the unspoken rules wives and girlfriends, for that matter, abide by.
Seen not heard makes you remarkably attractive and to your man’s family desirable. Talk and share your opinions less than his mother does and you will be set.
I thought women like these went out I the last century. That the only reminisce of them were southern belles and the characters of books like The Silent Woman or The Good Wife. The women that never fully embrace that sort of life and either end up in unhappy marriages or with their heads cut off. The stupid ones who speak their minds in those books always end up headless.
That’s why the writers, politicians and women’s rights lead
Desert WorldAmid the throng and hubbub of city life, he saw the face of a young girl stand out. Hers was a friendly face, oddly serene given the time and place. She was garbed in the finest shades of blue and turquoise with accents and trims of cream and ebony black. How could he have never seen her before? Every morning for sixteen years he gazed upon the city's people and learned their routines. And yet, this girl was one person who was entirely unknown to him. Her grace and fluid movements spoke of summer oceans and dancing moons. The stars of far-off Rome and Aegypt flew within her deep eyes. In his mind's eye, he had catalogued the names and faces of everyone in the city. Was this girl new? Had he somehow never in sixteen years seen her? The notion was unthinkable to him. In a moment of passionate resolve, he took off down the stairs to try and meet her on the street before she vanished from his sight. She couldn't be hard to find; in a desert world of dull colors she stood out like a parrot
Come, have a drink.Come over here, dear. Reality is bleeding and all dreams are real. No, don't worry, it's quite alright. Come, sit with me and watch the wounds in the fabric of time and space grow deeper. Yes, of course they'll swallow all things, what did you expect? It's the entire universe. Did you think anyone could prevent it, reverse it? Did you think I could? Aw, poor little optimist. Really, though, it's quite alright.
Come. Sit. My cave is large and the fire burns against the cold rising from its ancient waters. Outside, there is thunder roaring across the vast deserts of insanity, but it's really pretty comfy in here. The cave is just an idea, of course, just a fantasy, but that is a somewhat unneccessary distinction these days.
Can you see it, over there? There is a fire blazing across the skies, every sky in every world. It's not so big now, don't worry. It's burning away the night just for a few moments before the neverending darkness starts. We won't be there to see it, of course. Do you
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
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