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Kindness exist still.This morning I was confronted with the image of a black woman condemned to poverty;
She wore worn down clothes down to the very fabric.
Pigeon shit stained her blanket freely as she hid in a doorway in the middle of the busy city.
She reminds me that people fall often, far from grace, beneath eye’s reach.
There was a certain beauty about it all, yet heartbreakingly sad to see her sitting there alone on the cold hard doorstep.
She sat there stoically, enduring judgmental eyes and remarks, as she finds comfort with her pigeon friends.
Perhaps she chose to be a recluse, perhaps condemned, fallen through the mazes of society.
It matters not to me how she got there, it mattered that she was there, alone, in the cold under a blanket covered in pigeon shit.
I’ve continued my daily routine unable to shake this image from my mind.
I've fetched my daily dose of caffeine from the local bakery and with cup in hand I made my way towards my office.
Only to see a bus stop 20 feet from her
CrystallineI’ll love you with crystalline kisses,
Harsh like thousands of razor blades on porcelain skin.
Your inner nebula contends against
The torrent of my supermassive black hole.
I am but demon, devoid of human emotion.
A path paved for me; A path I have not chosen.
I’ll kiss you fondly with blackened lips,
incapable to fill this void.
I’ll twist and bend, but my mind twirls out of control.
Longing for miracles does take its toll.
No one imagines that just like a shark, I need sustenance,
Yet no prey ever seems adequately voluptuous.
Have I too often craved miracles,
too often hoped to fill this emptiness with forged affection?
I find myself alone -- still…
True Freedom... Is to be forgotten.We are all 21st century slaves
Only in death does one find freedom.
True freedom’s cost is absolute and unending darkness.
We exchange the light that shines upon us,
trading sorrow, pain, joy, love and suffering.
For an all numbing everlasting embrace.
True freedom is not to exist at all, not even in the heart of man.
Yet we live forth in the memories of others.
Eternally like divine celestial beings.
A tragic malformation within their brain,
a malignant cyst, I must ordain.
We’re but a terminal ailment, no hopeful prospect.
Once they too depart -- we are forgotten.in the end
PandoraThe all-endowed, all-gifted, all-giving.
A beautiful evil -- moulded from earth.
By Aphrodite’s grace, Hermes’ deceitful ways,
She spoke eloquent speech filled with lies and crafty reach.
Without evil intent, curiosity did force her hand.
As she brought burdensome toil, disease, sickness, and death to man.
To stoneAlone in the darkness -- coiled up.
Facing off against insurmountable odds.
These shadows cling to the very flesh
that embodies my stigmatization.
I’ll endure this crown of thorns
Whilst stalactites freeze my heart.
I’ll smile the fakest of smiles,
hollowed out, devoid of meaning.
Till words no longer hurt
and heart turns to stone.
Miles DavisAs another Kind of Blue
Gave birth to a Bitches Brew
In a Silent Way, On the Corner
Just ‘Round About Midnight.
Surrealism sprouts from trumpet’s grace
A Novel Blackout: Pride and Prejudice I‘Tis said to be a truth universally acknowledged,
that there’s not a single man of good fortune
that doesn’t find himself in want of a wife.
the feelings or views of such a man..
be they so well fixed -- in the minds of the surrounding families,
that he is considered as rightful property for one of their daughters.
WickedMorgana, in the cowering darkened city; neon is dead. Theatres all play the same movie, over and over again. No one watches; they’re all in their basements or ancient fallout shelters. Morgana’s heels clack pavement, and the echo goes on forever.
Feast on your tins of peanut butter and crackers; Morgana feasts on minds. Minds like yours, soft like veal. Everyone said this night would come, but no one believed it would be now. How could it be, when just yesterday the playgrounds were filled with sunlight and laughter?
Lightning cracks sky and illumes devastation, wretchedness, emptiness. Lions have escaped the zoos, and roam the streets hungry and fierce. The wind howls your name as you sit in the darkness wearing your foil hat. Morgana laughs, and laughs, and laughs.
And the echo goes on forever; like carnival music at a funeral, like a grave robber’s laugh, like handbills flying down an alley for a play that was never produced; like a child lost in the crowds, like t
the atlantic ocean is big enough to hide secretsin that twilight period of summer turning to fall-
in that bend in the road from september to october-
i couldn't explain it but i so desperately wanted to send a piece of myself to you
so you would have something to look forward to
i said, if there's a force to change the tides and turn the earth
and people think it's the most essential force in this world,
then i know they've never met you.
'who me? little old me?'
yes you, little old you,
you have enough resonance in the beats of your heart
to make armies march,
you have enough light in your smile
to make a blind man see,
you have enough magnitude in everything you do
to cause earthquakes to destroy the world,
or maybe just me:
i would die in your hands if you would only let me.
the beginning of october is stunning when the colours
are like fire engines and fireflies and fireworks.
bright flashes of everything that is beautiful and nothing that is hurt.
but after an immense burst of light;
The Story of a Boy. [An Original Poem-thing]
The Story of a Boy.
This is the story of a boy.
Who had lost his mother.
He had a father.
Who did not a care.
The poor little boy.
He never had friends.
All alone in a town.
Which was almost a barren land.
At the age of seven.
Something new happened.
A family moved in.
Into the barren town.
They had a little girl.
With her lovely dark curls.
And new friends they became.
The lonely boy and the bonny gal.
But the boy, he wasn’t.
What he seemed to be.
In his head there were demons.
Demons, waiting to be unleashed.
When the day arrived.
And the boy lost his mind.
He tortured the young girl
to her death.
Oh, it was such an evil crime.
The girl she returned
in her reincarnated form.
She was only four,
while the boy was eleven.
Shocked at her resemblance
with the girl he once met.
He tricked her yet again,
and again, she was killed.
Again she returned,
as her soul never rests.
her mind doesn’t remember
but her spirit deman
An Infectious DiseaseSome will say hope is a killer; an infectious disease that plants shitty pipe dreams in the mind, but hope is a good thing, sometimes the only thing that keeps us going. And it comes not from the pipes that won't play or the dreamer's gaze, but from the inside. All you have to do, is find it.
Mr. FrostThe cellar, is far more suitable than the attic, but if they prefer the attic, let them have it. It makes no difference to me. Even when they come rattling down the staircase after dark, running dried chalky fingertips, along split cracked walls, or standing motionless behind closed doors with only blackness in their eyes. As if salvation lay on the other side. How amusing they are in the beginning, but their echoes become fewer and fewer as the days grow long. Until they no longer speak the name, Mr. Frost and I know, it's time to kill again.
Ragtime StreetsCrowded city streets
breezes turn to wind
winds to storms
and all that I can see
are strangely foreing faces
falling upon my lips
in misty shadowed eclipse
like drops of acid rain
and all that I can hear
are echoes of their voices
vibrating within me
like eyes of the hurricane
Crowded city streets
unkind ruthless walls of concrete
drapes of gray and halls of steel
no shapes, no trees, no air, no feel
only those strange foreign faces
ghosts of smiles from faraway places
I´ll never see
vibrating within me
Crowded city streets
and light is just a rare wishful dream
and night is just a trick
of neon quiver and toxic plasma gleam
only strange unfamiliar faces
of ghosts from distant forbidden places
blurred in the void
in emptiness of crowd
Crowded city streets
there is no reason for me
to stay to walk
to pray to talk
no place for me
in this crowds of colour and gaze
in this void of awed and amaz
Slow Your RollSlow your roll; take one day at a time. Life is easier to process in small doses. Do not be concerned, with the shit you can’t change, because that’s just a waste of time. Keep your eye on the prize, but don’t let it consume you, else you’ll find no joy, at the end of that ride. Do the things that make you happy, because you’re no good to anyone, without that.
The music we hear today...In my opinion, The true meaning of music will die shortly,
Since people only care of being big and famous and get money for their own,
And they never share their success unless they'll gain some glory,
But they'res some people who makes music to make people feel better,
or who explains what the world looks like in their eyes,
And the best part, they'll never be traitors,
Like the ones who betray the way of true music,
Those people were called emos, Satan's children, or just plain weird,
because most people's taste of music is getting more sick,
But, I'm one of their fans and that's what keeps me stronger,
And in the future, I want to destroy someone else's sense of "justice"
With the power of true music, and to regain our peaceful order,
Because, I don't want our future generations in pain or just plain shallow,
If I do that, I'll save the true music in no time~!
Dear YouOkay, we need to talk
I know bygones are bygones
But I can’t get you gone
Out of my head.
I keep remembering what was said
And how it led to you leaving
And I can’t shake these feelings
And I just wish that you had stayed.
If only I knew what to say or do at the time
To remind you how happy you were to be mine
And how happy I was to be yours.
I kept thinking my pain would ease with time
But as these years went by my pain only grew
And I knew my love for you was real.
It’s been at least two years since we spoke
And nothing has changed: It is still real
And I’m still here
And every promise I made to you still stands.
DevotionHow a vast solid rock, can turn into numerous little pebbles.
Pebbles, cast into the sea,and how ripple by ripple it transforms reality.
How life is a record studio,
and we a movie who's been set to motion a long time ago.
And how do you justify your devotion,
The willingness to go on, to go forward, untill death shouts "Cut"
An abrupt ending of this adventurous film.
Where every scene still needs to be filled in with
background speakers, flowers, and wall decoration.
And then when only our head is a sunken vessel,
filled with the useless things we came across.
And our hopes where already tossed.
Is it than that we realize, what we have lost?
Is it so, that you find the strenght to go on,
to rely fully on your own devotion, to keep the film rolling,
and the captured images in motion.
Are we not like a solid rock, who can turn into numerous little pebbles,
little pebbles who can make the vessles on the ocean rock?
And is it not so, that we posses the strenght, to bend, to imagine, to dr
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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