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BlockThe words aren't coming
The flow has stopped
The spindle runs thin
The flowers cropped
The letters dropped
Hand on her chest
Wishing she wasn't
Entwined in this mess
The honored guest
To maritial ties
All too late
To bid her goodbyes
StructureI'm not a fan of structured poems, at least
When they're imposed on me, like subtle frames
Of written code which keep each line the same
The trapped voice a bird that yearns for release
Allow the flame to grow, please free the beast
Don't snuff the candle's fickle, frozen flame
Set meter and rhyming, you are to blame
Rendering my creativity deceased
But for you, I'll accept the forms you wish
Consume, swallow words with a grain of salt
My heart, wrapped in paper, I'll give to you
In a stanza, a line, or a swish
Of reason, confining words to a fault
Just don't think you're the only one who knew
Lucid - WIPI'm lying here on a table. Nothing but the sweet hum of machinery, both around and within me. They'd mentioned something beforehand about my hearing. Something about sensitivity that wouldn't hurt in higher decibel ranges.
My hand twitches to touch my new ear, but it remains limp by my side, paralyzed. I think they'd mentioned something about the risk of muscle atrophy in low-gravity environments. Something like that.
I'm hearing my heartbeat now. It's strange to hear such an organic sound in this sterile environment. If I cut myself, would I still bleed red? Or had they replaced my blood with a substitute? Was it still red, or another, foreign color?
With a slight click, a bright light switches itself on from overhead, illuminating the capillaries in my eyelids. Still red...
Squinting, I try to turn my head, but my neck won't obey me. As if reading my though
Ghost of the PastEver been haunted by a ghost of the past? You know, those recurring memories of a time long gone, the ones that float uninvited into your head? Maybe it's triggered by a memento, or a visit to a sacred place, or the mere mention of a name. The moment relives itself in your head, then disappears, leaving you with only a scrap of cloth or a pressed flower to remember.
But what if these ghosts aren't really ghosts at all? What if they're still living, breathing creatures? Maybe you never see them anymore. Maybe you live too far apart. Maybe you see each other on a daily basis, but you both pretend the other no longer exists. Maybe you're enemies, or even friends. Either way, you've both made an unspoken pact to never speak of the moment again. In a vain attempt to smother the memory alive, you flood it with fresh oxygen, fresh consciousness upon which it can feed.
Is it better this way?
PerfectionistsA writer in a group of artists
Is hardly a place to fit in
In a glance, one can admire a picture
But writing takes much longer to sink in
We've all learned our native language
But not all have picked up a pen
Yet sketching is somehow extraordinary
Simply because not everyone can
We can both stare at a vase for hours
Yet come up with an empty slate
And our details of realization
Rarely come sooner, but late
For despite our apparent differences
Our goal is the same: to learn
And only by way of practice
Can this mastery of skill be earned
LifewishA mourning dove hobbled across the road
And I wondered, "Why didn't it fly?"
Does the pleasure of crossing the pavement by foot
Outweigh the risks if it should die?
Maybe the bird remains ignorant
That a passing car could lead to his demise
Unsure of the dangers in the world of man
With no sense of fear in his eyes
Or perhaps he is simply cocky
As he struts across the road in pride
Knowing all vehicles will stop their procession
In order to let him pass by
But I, for one, think he enjoys it
In the way a human walks instead of drives
So the next time you see a bird walking
Maybe you should be the one he walks beside
ScrapVersion 2.0 is ready
The beta is complete
Its release date is tomorrow
And I've heard it will be l33t
This one's fully moddable
No need to deal with flaws
And it's piracy-protected
So you can't break the law
The calendar is built-in
You'll remember all your dates
And the autopilot feature
Will ensure you won't be late
It's compatible with everything
The computer, the tv, the phone
And it'll download all your contacts
So you'll never feel alone
But if you choose not to upgrade
You'll be alienated, at best
Your communication will be archaic
And your accuracy, second-guessed
This isn't really an option
Conform now, or be scrapped
Humanity is overrated
Believe me, the entire brain's been mapped
We've discovered all your problems
And fixed them, one by one
Even those pesky emotions
We've sparked the revolution
NephelaeToday is a sad day.
Why is the sun shining?
I thought the sky was supposed to reflect emotion
Like a heaven-mirror
Answering the prayers of the living
In the form of precipitation
Are the clouds our gods now?
They are notably absent
In this clear sky
An expanse filled with light
A Vampire's WarningI really want to eat you,
you truly ought to know.
So think of this-before we kiss...
...under the mistletoe.
You think it's about romance,
but I just need some lunch.
I smell your blood-in dismal flood...
...so please go drink some punch.
It's best if you avoid me,
no matter what I say.
Your mortal bliss-you'll surely miss...
...if we take things my way.
I'm functioning on empty,
and kinda like a car.
So low on fumes-I live in tombs...
...if you should flee, run far.
This party's for the festive,
I lean towards mad-macabre.
I lurk in screens-and piercing screams...
...necrosis is my job.
I'd tell you all I'm thinking,
but you're already dead.
You chose my mouth-your heart went South...
...and now I have been fed.
Incompetence: A Half-Baked Tale
She disappears in a puff of smoke and leaves me standing there
In a dress of the palest gossamer, with fancy curling hair.
I take a step—my slippers pinch—“Oh dear, they’re slightly small―”
But the coachman interrupts me: “Come! We cannot miss the ball!”
He grins at me with buck teeth as he stands by the carriage door;
I climb inside; my slippers sink in the spongy, slippery floor.
The seat is slightly sticky, leaving pumpkin on my palms,
But the coachman cries, “Hooray! We’re off!” and waves excited arms.
The carriage starts with a painful lurch and soon we’re rolling fast;
I close my eyes and pray it holds together to the last.
My hair is shaken loose; I bump my head, my hand, my knee,
And I wonder if that fairy passed her Magic Arts degree.
Along we jump and jerk and jolt; I’m flung from side to side;
The carriage comes to a screeching halt to end our breakneck ride.
The Rational LoverYou say we should elope today
But I really think we should delay
You've listed all the thing we'll do
But I'm not sure you've thought it through
We'll run away and live in a village
In a Merry England thatched-roof cottage
I'll work as a farm-boy, you as a milk-maid,
And build our nest on the little we're paid
We'll soon look owt but out of town
In this world of green and brown
We'll build our life upon this whim
And take our chances, no matter how slim
Now, I'd just love to run away with you
As stereotypical lovers do
But as it is, life's got other plans
For employment's little also-rans
There's the interview for a part-time job
So your father doesn't think I'm a slob
Not to mention the doctor's appointment
And I've got to pay the rent
Eloping now sounds such a dare
But I have, although I do not care,
An essay due next week
You must think this is meek
If we stay in town things'll work out fine
And reason sides with this plan of mine
Running away isn't a good idea
So actually, let's st
No PasaranThe working class of the city of Barcelona
Rose up in 36 and took with them Catalonia
With clubs and guns
Kicked out priests and nuns
And sent the bourgeois running like they do in Pamplona
AllergiesThere once was a little bumble bee
Who had a bad pollen allergy.
When he tried to do his job
He would sneeze and say with a sob
“Pass the tissues, I need three!”
There's one in every AsylumNapoleon the first was one of the finest minds of the martial sort
His tactical innovation captured him cities and all types of fort
The poor sod were self-hating
And clearly overcompensating
No matter how high he rose, he always was a little short
Don't Pick Your NoseThere once was a boy who picked he nose
And picked the slime between his toes.
All the girls thought him gross and left him alone
So the boy grew old all on his own
And kept wiping the slime on all his clothes.
ghost writer needed...my poems are crap
i ain't so good
i'd wanna change that fact
if i could only could
i can't pick no good words
i got bad timing
other people is way better
i don't do good rhymer
i will keep practising
maybe i'll do some gooder
if i have wrote one someday
i will upload from a computer or something
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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