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Just Noise Just Noise
Carry my voice over blue ocean waves,
Through gullies, valleys and deepest caves,
Over tall mountains and every river,
Cause trees to shake and bones to shiver.
While this sound is strong, I am weak,
I'm nothing but a disguised freak.
While everything I say soothes your soul,
Inside my heart is made of blackened coal.
Stoking the furnace of hate in my head,
My heart burns brightly, but inside I'm dead.
I'm evaporating at an incredible rate,
No locks or chains can seal my fate.
Soon I'll be gone, but a skeletal face,
I don't want you to follow me to this place.
The Problem with Self Inserts The Problem with Self Inserts
There is nothing wrong with inserting yourself into a story. Like anything, it can be well done or... not so well done. The fact is, the majority of people who tend to write about self inserts happen to be beginners. Naturally, that causes there to be a pattern of certain, specific mistakes that are frequently found whilst reading anything on the internet. The purpose of this deviation isn't to say that self inserts are bad. I'm simply going to point out the most common mistakes that we usually encounter.
1. Making ourselves better than we really are.
Don't be fooled by the word "better." This can be replaced with mysterious, deep, dark, tragic, romantic, lovable... anything we want. Maybe a mix of a few of those things. The point is, the version of ourselves will be biased.
2. Not making anything bad happen to yourself
Let's talk about the word "bad." Does this mean something, perhaps, like... getting a disease? No. It means anything that interferes with
SLAMAt a young age,
I had to learn to dodge stones,
grow angry scales
along innocent freckled skin,
and open my eyes to a world not quite ready
to hear this tigress's voice.
Speaking in tongues to those paid too listen-
of fairytale wars, battle scars,
and the many linoleum squares I counted
day in and day out. I became mute.
Escaping through rabbit holes and back alleys
into a world of ink and worthy paper cuts.
[ I wear these
like a fucking
fashion statement! ]
And this goes out to you-
The Eden snakes, you dead-eyed demons:
It is you that keep me up at night,
weighing down these artist fingers-
IT IS YOU I WILL SLAM AT AN OPEN MIC NIGHT!
I do have a life worth writing about.
My GenerationThat Generation, their generation, our parents and the people on TV, they're always saying, "Children are our future, yes, it's your generation that really matters, you who are going to fix everything."
Fast forward to this generation, My Generation, and sure, we're going to fix everything. We're post-X, all of the drugs and none of the values; black kids shouting racist every time something doesn't go their way and white kids running to mommy and daddy so they don't have to deal with their own problems. Every kid beyond the age of seven has a cell phone laptop x-box, because who needs real friends when you have... Contacts? We're a soft generation, taking offense at every conceived wrong, but note this: only when it happens to Us. We defend our integrity and then run to the bathroom for a quick joint or injection, won't even try to half-ass anything, much less aim for perfection, that is, unless mom and dad say so. No one does anything for themselves anymore, everything
Melody in My MindShhh...
Do you hear it?
voice of street,
hearts that beat
Rhythm set free:
one two three
one two three
hear the song
dance with me
There's melody in my mind
Magical melody, murmuring, moody
Musical mystical moving melody
There's melody in my mind
I'll tell you a secret.
I cannot sing.
Imagine that feeling.
Those tones frozen between your mind and mouth, that melody you can't express.
Imagine one of those songs that give you goosebumps, that clutch your heart and make you cry "Yes! Yes, that's it!"
Imagine you want to share it with everyone... but can't.
When you try to repeat the melody, it is off and quavers and screeches like nails on the board.
There's melody in my mind, and it wants to be heard, to be set free.
And so I paint.
The colors are my symphony.
I sound the violins of sky-blue, the lutes of green and drums of violet.
And so I write.
The words on pape
Ravens and Writing Desks.Alice, darling, will you fetch me a pen
And some paper? For here is where our story begins.
This fluorescent blood, these spiderweb veins,
They're what make us twisted,
Come sit with me, love, at my writing desk
This is where dreams are created,
Feared and enjoyed.
Do not mind the ravens,
They sing for you, Alice;
Whilst words sing of beauty,
Their whispers like rain,
The ink cries sweet nothings,
They all sing for you, dearest
Sighing and screaming your name.
And then there is nothing.
their songs fade to silence
As technicolor tears stream down my face
As I cry for kindness,
For r a v e n s and w r i t i n g d e s k s
BullyingEvery single one of us is different.
Different heights, different faces, different eyes, different personalities, and different stories.
There is no such thing as normal.
To discriminate and bully the 'weak' is a sign of weakness in itself.
A sign that the bully themselves have been pushed too far, been through too much.
A bully is weak, fragile, lonely.
They don't have true friends.
Nobody to turn to in the dark times.
So next time the bully confronts you after school, you think to yourself, who is the stronger person?
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