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NearnessWhat can I say to sky eyes like that,
Reaching beyond my skin to deeper brain matter
To still my tongue from a rare full heart?
I am not here most days, nor am I there, but in his native dimensions I am
Suddenly blood red here.
And hands that hold with steady grip;
He is a standing shelter from the cold entirety
That engulfs my person;
why i keep you (on the inside of my head)it’s a big feeling when you realise
how close we are to each other in this endless universe.
what seems so far to us
could be a step for someone else;
like an ant on a daisy
saying to another ant on a daisy but an inch away,
"I am too far away."
we are too small for this sky,
too small, and we look up
and the sight of the space is too much for one of us.
we need to eat,
we need to drink,
we need to sleep,
we need to be close.
(i need to be close to you and this is why i keep you
on the inside of my head.)
still on nights like this, it seems
that the drainage holes of Heaven
make me feel like you are just around the corner
instead of across the deepest sea.
Quiet AnswersIt's God, you see
The muse that makes us all seek our completion
It's the hungry hunter
Searching for his meal;
It's when we put
Our words onto a highway to be ridden
That we realise
The stories could be real.
And for so long
I've held it all inside a bony prison
For fear that others
Would not understand;
But here it is,
The truth that is all that really matters:
It is Love I write,
And Love will heal all man.
From a Great HeightConfused, I sat
on the edge of my mind
and asked, why
do we feel like dying
when the only solution
Half-lightI imagine you here.
When I wake, when I drift,
When I daydream
Or take the elevator.
I see you in the curtain-light of dusk,
And passing through the hallway.
I imagine you sweeping the stardust
Off the kitchen counter, and saying
How strange I am. Your hands
Engulf mine and I imagine
You tracing constellations on my back
As I fall slowly, softly asleep,
three twenty a.m., or misty dawn for you I am miles away from you, and I can’t sleep.
I can’t think straight, either. I have been sick today and everything seems sad and strange and blown out of proportion. I know that I should be trying to rest, but instead I sit in the darkness of my room and listen to the night sounds. Cars pass by outside and cut through wind; their headlights travel across my ceiling, leaving shadows as the sound of their motors lingers in the dim lit air. I breathe and try to remember what night sounds like from your bedroom window. Ah, it comes back to me. The sound of stillness, of moonlight and the Milky Way coursing through the arteries of the sky; sleeping animals and fog creeping swiftly down the summer hill before the first light appears.
Thinking of those things makes my body relax. I breathe again and notice my headache is gone. Sitting soberly with my legs under my quilts, I feel the winter on my hands. It isn't as if I miss your hands linking with mine; no, it’s
we have stars, you and I I have stars on my shirt.
You have stars on your car seat covers, and in your night sky,
And I have city lights and aeroplanes that fly low over my apartment buildings. At least it looks very low from my windowsill. I wave and wonder if, from up there, they can see the plaid pants I’m wearing just like I saw and felt everything when I lifted off from your country.
Life is a funny thing. So is love. So are people. I think we have a hard time reconciling the good with the evil; the happy with the sad; the joy with the hurt; the you with the me.
We lean too far towards one side, and we dream too much about it all. We try to cut holes in ourselves so that other people’s odd puzzle arms will fit perfectly into ourselves and so we can go “Look! We fit!” and pretend that we are soul mates. But that’s not how it works. We cannot expect to find perfection with imperfect people and surroundings. The only thing that ever can be perfect is the God in how we
Home is More than a Nounhome is our souls
and what we do with them.
not the decadent tramp of well-worn
boots on familiar sidewalks,
not the shadowed breath of cool
pine in the summer afternoons,
not the heart-dreams of sleep, not the
safety of curtains
nor the wildness of your lovesick thoughts
like the largest thesaurus.
our lives are what our souls say to each other,
their cores being the the earth
of our purpose, and the roots
of our reason.
so you see,
our home is our souls
and what we do with them.
his name is calmi still have our secret codes
from many, many years ago
the legend written on notebook paper in his
scratchy twelve-year-old handwriting.
but as it were, we had no need
for scribbled languages of our own
when we felt it in the air, and in the electricity
of when he looked at me
and the lyrics of all-too-perfect songs
that i wished i could sing someday.
then like that splintering moment
when you realise that you have dreamt this dream before...
we were sparks in the silver winter, and something of a shooting star;
miles above the earth
and he was the only thing that kept my fires burning.
because he was my safety, my belonging,
familiarity and mystery
all in one.
he was growing up, and
he was the lyrics that i will scatter like sugar crystals
throughout my life.
and i could have spent every hour of my waking day with him,
every hour of sleep-filled night and
still lie gazing at his turned face
as if it were the face of everything.
i could have wasted
time with him
but instead i, in my g
lost my voice.I wrote "I love you"
in the sand at the beach.
The tide swallowed the words
and drowned them
before I could speak.
HauntedI see her there with
Coal dust carved
Into the icy skin
Under her eyes,
And on her lips
Dance a chorus
Of bitter lies.
A skeletal hand of smoke
Claws at my neck
Until I bleed;
She tells me that the pain
Is just what I need.
And her blood
Zooms in her veins
Like speeding cars.
She looks at me
At what I am.
She’s a snake,
In the guise
Of a lamb.
‘What happened to us?’
Of what I used to be.
‘I may be you,
But you are not me.’
The sun comes up:
Yesterday is gone
But see it this way;
The past is part of the future
But the future isn’t the past.
You choose which bits go,
You choose which bits last.
How to love a poet: Expect them to be flawed,
a field of wild flowered-
& an inability
Love them anyway.
Know that when they look at you
they are noticing the little things.
I Saw a Burning ManIn front of my house, he sat.
Skin burnt off, now charred and black.
Hesitantly, I walked outside.
And he followed me with his watery eyes.
With steps as nimble as the snow,
I hid my fear and continued to go.
Now before him, the Burning Man.
I kindly offered him my shaky hand.
No malice nor vice leaked off of him,
rather sadness and agony which simmered below his skin.
I could feel it around me, the pain and despair,
yet, physically the man was nearly repaired.
For his scorched skin was not his problem,
instead the bottled emotions that devoured all of him.
“Would you like to come inside sir, and stay?”
In which he replied by looking away.
Again I asked, and received no reply,
and was startled when the man began to cry.
Unsure of what to do, I walked away,
Yet I’ll never forget what happened that day.
Be it from pain, or mute, or undisclosed desires,
I watched as the man was engulfed in fire.
I stood back in awe, with my mouth agape,
and feared that he had fallen into
little victories.when i was younger,
i thought i was the strongest
little girl in the world
because i could easily
beat my older brother
at arm wrestling.
it wasn't until years later
that i realized
And There Was Lighti.
He was seventeen when he died.
I never went to the funeral
but I walked past it the day of
the service. His mother
was in the backseat of a blue Dodge,
door open, head in her hands.
"My baby," she kept repeating.
"My baby." It would go from sobbing, to
screaming, to a soft whisper that
I could only hear being carried
on the wind.
It was a Wednesday afternoon that they found
his old red pickup truck parked
out front of Slim's, two beer bottles in
the back and the windows cracked to let the stale
I heard that his dad told the police he was
gonna take that old truck and fix it up, because
he had promised his son before—
because it's always in the before—
And in the after, his mother never had dry eyes
and I'm pretty sure my mom told me
that she saw his dad at the bar every night,
drinking his sorrows down because some people can't
handle the stress.
Some people can't figure out why their son would
"Some men just want to w
Loving A Guy Who Cannot Love Himself.Firstly, tell him that he doesn't necessarily need to be the “strongest” man in the world,
that if he cries, you won't look down on him for it,
that you won't call him weak.
Tell him that he doesn't have to like sports, or fishing, or football, or any of the “mainstream” things that boys are “supposed” to like.
Let him know that liking art, or dancing, or singing or acting doesn't make him gay, doesn’t make him any less of a man, it just makes him who he is.
A human being.
And for goodness sakes, tell him that blue does not have to be his favorite color, than he can indulge in pink, or purple or even magenta!
And to the girl who take on the task, remember please, that it is not always the Knight who saves the Princess.
No, this time, the Princess may need to save the Knight.
Do not pour your problems onto him, rather, balance each other out.
Be a shoulder to cry on. A friend to be there. A love that never leaves.
Perhaps more than often,
You Ever Felt ItHave you ever felt it?
When you lay there broken
And feel yourself so guilty
Eyes gushing red
And you want to sleep in a coma
Your brain swelling with thoughts
At the same time empty with nothing
When you can't suit yourself
And see yourself a place among the demons
that moment when you control your life
The moment when you choose between life and death
And then you yourself can decide either way
It's when you're on the edge
And want someone to pull you back before you make another step
A hook, to rip all the insanity out of your body
And suck all the madness that is growing black dead trees
Have you ever felt it, have you known depression
Did you ever seek a source of help, and did you ever find it
a sensory afternoongolden-turning,
bare skin, muscles aching...
we closed our salty eyes
and feeling the sun, spread our l i m b s
on the surface of the echoing blanket
while leaves dappled the amber of the long, late day
the smell of petrol and strawberry-marmalade
washed over us,
after warm, sleepy wave
a caramel jawline, caught in the corner of my eyes
spoke to me of a hanging mid-afternoon, sad and sweet
like a decade-old song in the air.
but our fingers were long and limp on our laps
through lines of flushed rhythm, my seafoam blood was smiling,
my heart a wine-press,
my eyes shutting their flicker lenses
to paint this skin-glowing picture
with drowsy, syncopating brush strokes
on the september backseat we sat...
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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