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Painting In Madness
The painting rests on the dead house wall. A life sized portrait of a Asian woman laying on her back underwater. "This is the one," says the man in a fedora, cards numbered 10 and 6 in the brim, designed in style. He lifts it off the wall and places it very gently on the dusty cement floor.
"She looks so peaceful," says the girl with him, admiring the portraits almost, but not entirely, realistic beauty.
"Yeah, she does." He replies before looking at her with the smirk of a madman. "Let's wake her up." He dives his hand into the painting. Rather than his hand cracking against the cement, it enters the painting. He grasps the woman's shoulder and pulls her out of the water. She gasps for the air which she has eternally craved.
"How the hell did you do that?" asks the girl in stunned surprise.
"I'm The Hatter. Only the mad can do things which are truly of madness.
Look at him. That tool. He's just sitting there on the couch with a girl on each arm, while I sit in the corner, virtually invisible. They only hook to him because he's the generic Jersey Shore bugger, tan skin, sun glasses, and a thin stubble with part of it packed together because of his faulty smirk.
They drink, smoke, all that shit. I hate it. It can't be good for him.
I decide to leave, I go to the washroom to puke up my humanity. I step into the room and take a long look at myself. "Are you okay?" Asks one of the girls.
I look at myself. The tan, glasses, and the stubble. I'm the part of his personality he destroys to impress people.
I'm who he really is, he's what the world made of my body.
Beauty Exists In Dead Smiles
He smiles lovingly into her eyes.
He's never loved anyone else as much as her in the entire world.
She stares back unblinkingly at him.
He smiles, "You are so beautiful." He says before kissing her upon her pale lips.
He lifts up her body and proceeds to kiss her passionately.
He loves her. But she never got the chance to hear him say the words.
He Smiles Without A Mouth
He always watches, but he has no eyes.
He laughs behind you, but he cannot speak.
He follows you everywhere you go, but he does not walk.
He always smiles, but he has no mouth.
He stands a great height, but he is given no advantage.
He is in the back yard, but he does not announce himself.
He is known as the slender man, but he has no name.
As I stare into the never ending void of space above my home I tell myself "All these stars died years ago, but they still light up the sky." After a long pause I ask myself "Am I like them? Will I light up the world long after I die?" The answer is no. Few people care to know who I am, and even fewer people know who I truly am. I'm not a star, I'm just another particle of space dust floating until it's gone.
The Most Wonderful Things
Sometimes you look up at the sky and think, just think, like something in the stars or that great blue open sky councells you, and you ask questions, discovering. Thoughts come seeping out of your brain like a faucet turned full force. Worlds and people flash through your vision that you swear you've never seen before, but have created first hand. The writer stares through open windows not of boredom, but of deep thought, his or her mind creates an entire universe, an infinite playground of twice infinite wonders and adventures that only they can enjoy, until they use those ideas, they use the ink in their very veins, pumping through their heart to create art, to create beauty, and then they gain a tiny speck of control in their own little realities, creating smiles and memories for others in their lives. They are their own gods, a pillar of self worship without an iota of narcissism. And they are the creators of great things. Wonderful things...
Food For The Ink
There isn't blood in my veins, there's ink.
The ink screams sometimes. It wants out, to be free and shown to the world the magnificent possibilities and the inner imagination of my mind.
I see things no one else can, possibilities and worlds nobody's ever even dreamed of.
The ink in my body screams for the world to know.
They must know the marvels. The thoughts in my head.
I see it... The possibilities.
There's so many possible outcomes of life and I review oh so many of them.
What if I went left? What if I said hello to that person?
What if a car came this way?
I see so many possibilities, its food for the ink.
We Move Onwards
There's only one constant about the Earth; it will always change.
Some people age, Asia takes a turn for the strange.
The Doctor got younger, the TV got colorful
Neil Armstrong walked on the moon, now people are mournful.
The world is becoming more accepting, music is more noise.
Highschool has drama and hate, girls chase boys.
Shootings and hostages, it used to be just illness and the pest.
Nowadays we scream from the gunfire and hope for the best.
But the world has not grown darker, it's merely a different shade of gray.
Yet it can be much brighter, like how we are finally accepting the gay.
Prices went up, so did the population number.
Doesn't that just give you chance of a lover?
David Bowie was a spaceman, Elvis was the king of rock.
Now Kanye West wont give you space, man. And there's no king of pop.
Comics are more expensive, but their worlds are more extensive.
The world spins onwards, towards the next day.
I just wanted to say, the whole world's a play.
Holding Onto Hope
As I see the world seep into darkness I realize that there will always exist a light, a shining beacon of hope to whatever trivial reason there is for it to exist. No matter how dark the world becomes there's always something to hold onto, something that can never be forgotten, and something that can never be abstained from the minds of the people.
I Will Not Be HypnotizedI will not be hypnotized.
I will not be controlled. I will not be owned, I will not be confused. My mind will stay clear and strong, and I will remain my own man.
Your colored lights will not dazzle me. Your loud voices will not command me. Your images will not trick me, destroy me, and rule my mind. Crack into my skull and just try to take a hold on it, there is no grasp for you to find.
I will remain my own man, and I will not be owned.
Because I will not be hypnotized.
I will not be pressured.
I will not be forced, I will not be tricked.
I will not listen to the voices of the multitudes. Two and two is four, one and one is two. A thousand voices will implore my obedience and they will be ignored. I know what is right, and I will not back down. With a hundred million feet marching towards darkness, I will turn toward the light.
I do not care about numbers, numbers do not equal right. I will not disappear into the group, and I will not follow the blinded crowds.
Because I will not be
Nothing but RemainsThere was once a crow in my hazelnut tree,
I looked at him and he looked at me,
His expression made my heart sink,
As deep as the seas.
He flew up high,
He flew down low,
He flew where no one dared to go,
He took a leaf deep down from hell,
From his beak,
The leaf had fell.
It landed gently on my shirt,
Now I'm buried deep within dirt,
It was destined I was soon to die,
It just could not lie.
It ended with a long sigh,
I'm nothing but remains.
It was unpredictable,
Like cards of a deck,
I swerved my car into a wreck,
I had died when I snapped my neck,
I'm nothing but remains.
The crow did fall upon a girl,
Who took her trike for a whirl,
What happened next would make you hurl,
She's nothing but remains.
She drove that trike into the street,
Where death, she was soon to meet.
So young, so innocent, so sweet,
She's nothing but remains.
She was unaware of the danger,
As she cycled down the street.
A car had come and hit her,
IT surprisingly was me.
We're nothing but remains.
False Hero"False Hero:"
Venture forth, false hero,
A shield of foil,
And a sword your crayon
Fight off the monster that is your garage,
With its wide mouth and mischievous grin
Climb through the valley gardens green,
And please the villagers; your toy soldiers,
By rescuing her majesty
From the towering tree houses,
And carrying her veil across your lawn
Ruby red, rose-cheeked,
Crimson feathers' flames peak--
Auburn angel, ginger greed,
Sunset surely can't succeed
Mango marshes, golden glare,
Forever is such lady fair
Sweet song, soft skin,
Kindness is to you akin
Ebony-eyed, etched gray smile,
Vivacious conqueror of all things vile
Maroon martyr, majestic mirage,
Bombarded with a saint's barrage
Twisting fate with all her tricks
Is the feathered, fiery, fierce p h o e n i x
Old MemoriesCuddled into myself,
Sitting on my bed.
A small dent,
Where you laid.
Seeing the memories,
They slowly fade.
Seeing your smile,
Seeing us together.
No matter the weather.
The loud thunder storms,
The cold winter nights.
Being with you,
Keeping you safe from fright.
Playing video games,
Letting you win,
To that story,
I say 'Fin'.
After months and months,
The times we fought.
The gifts I made,
But never bought.
No more sleep,
No more long nights.
Just empty hopes,
And lots of fights.
Playing our song,
Over and over.
My luck ran out,
Like a broken four-leaf clover.
I'm no longer happy,
I'm always down.
Once having a smile,
Turns into a frown.
Nights get longer,
Laying alone dying.
Wishing you were here,
As I sleep while crying.
To Be IgnoredAnd I can feel the silence.
It fills me up and drags me down under. Stillness, nothing moves. I feel nothing and I feel pressure. Stillness. Stifling cotton, I cannot hear. Mouth sewn shut yet wide open. There is no visible pain but there is pain everywhere. Painted, dripping down the walls you cannot see, the written messages too dark to make out. But they are closing in. The darkness is closing in on you faster, faster, screaming, echoing, trapped, crushed the life out of you. But yet nothing moves. Everything is grey. No black or white, nothing of color to sooth your pain. Fuzzy, drab, emotionless. Grey is not a color. Grey is a feeling. Like silence. But silence is a color. It is nothing. What color is nothing? Silence. There is absolutely nothing, like submerged under water, and yet I can feel the silence. I can feel it I can hear it closing in as I feel nothing, sinking, trapped in nothingness, stillness, nothing’s moving. No emotion. Motionless movement.
you can break
Crash And BurnI wonder if other people see how I feel.
With every glare to meet my eyes,
its another preying glare to slap my face
and another glare that heats my cheeks with nervous fire
I wonder if, day after day,
if people see my fear, if they see how I shake.
When they walk by, I stumble away
because I know they don't want me near them.
I wonder if they pity me
If they see the lonely child inside my glass skin.
Sometimes they give me gentle eyes
because they feel sorry for how lonley I really am inside.
I wonder if they know I don't fit in,
if they try to welcome me but I'm too naive to see.
But everytime I just walk away because-
because everytime I try is another crash and burn.
A Deceitful SmileDepressed and broke
So hurt inside
I can see the sadness
In your eyes
Your beautiful smile
Full of lies
A laugh is sweet
You're always upset
You need to smile
A fixed smile
A loving smile
A Real Smile
FlyMy background is really a quite complicated subject,
I've tried my hardest, each year, not to let it go public.
I grew up in a place I can't really call a "home,"
Suffered through yelling and fighting, always made me feel so alone.
School was no different, I was alone through too,
"Freak!" They named me, painting me colors black and blue.
Years later, my mother came and took me away,
I was so glad that there might be light for a brand new day.
I love my mom, she's so gorgeous,
Although she may not see it, my step-dad is still wondrous.
Lived in the Underworld from since I was born,
Moved away at ten-years-old, yet I no longer feel torn.
Now I live in Olympus, a magnificent place,
Fourth grade til now, I'm tied in like a lace.
My heart beats with an artistic fury,
When drawing or singing, there's no need to hurry.
To be any kind of artist, you've got to have a passion,
You can't just sit back, you've got to make it happen.
I'm an artist in many different ways,
Joys and pain have made my
An Ode To Our Frozen King
The last words of Simon were "I do not believe in magic."
The things that were uttered after that brought events most tragic.
Upon his trek he found a girl named Marceline
Her later days have made her the vampire queen.
He protected her under his wing.
To keep his mind he needed to only sing.
He hoped for a place where everyone knew his name.
He forever teeters around, clearly insane.
His minions will walk around like mice.
As he wanders his kingdom of ice.
He is forever the ruler of a frozen wasteland.
Eternally forgetting the girl who once took his hand.
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