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The Human StarThe star fell from the sky
Into my very arms;
"Away with you," said I,
"Return to your siblings above."
I threw him up high,
With all of my might
But he came back down
"No," cried he,
"I want to be human!"
I scoffed and scolded,
"You're perfectly absurd!
You drift peacefully above,
happy as a clam;
Do you not know
Of the pain humans feel?
Who would want to be human?"
Like a child, he huffed and replied,
"I want more than to drift!
Do you not know?
The pain of humans,
their sorrow, disappointment-
Is part of their sweet triumph?
Need I any more reason,
Other than just to be human?"
Hereafter he left,
And I wondered if maybe
It was better to be human
Than to be a star
Heaven is a LieHeaven is a lie, she knows. It's not pessimism talking, but hard cold facts and reality, the kind almost impossible to refute, like the way a person reasons his proof of existence in the words "I think, therefore I am"(Descartes).
Heaven is a lie, because in heaven you are supposed to be happy, and happiness does not exist. Happiness does not exist, at least for her, because she resides in the dark and that's where she'll always be and there's no such thing that can exist in the dark and everything wilts and turns grey like her soul and- and-
Heaven is a lie. She breathes in the chilly night air, beating down the hurt betrayal in her chest as fog surrounds her as she clutches to herself, everything she has. Heaven would not accept the likes of her. How could it, when she could not accept herself? Even if God exists (does he really? She finds herself doubting), she is dead to him, and by proxy, he is dead to her.
Heaven is a lie; it means nothing to her. Perhaps, once upon a time, it mi
Paper streets and paper goldHe had paper hearts strung around his ankles and paper cranes on the soles of his feets. He had paper people as bandages to wrap around his ribs where a lost entity lived inside. He had paper for skin, paper for lips, and paper for hair. All frayed.
He spent his days in a flimsy house coming apart at the seams, staring at empty sceneries out of shaky windows, scribbling white drawings on white floors on top of each other, singing blank words from a blank box of a voice. He imagined a life with color and foundation, solidity that couldn’t be crumpled, a world with compassion from the corners of a friendly home. He drew pictures of that world he daydreamed of, and sang sad songs of how he would never get there. For such a place did not exist.
He was the boy who lived on Paper Street.
He wished he wasn’t.
On creating lifelike charactersYou died. But I will
keep writing your story until
you begin to live
Growing OlderWhen I was young I didn’t have that good of a memory
But to be honest what were you expecting?
When you’re a child you’re still learning everything
Don’t expect the problems around to be easy to solve
Because sooner or later they will somehow evolve
Dancing with you I was having trouble breathing
I couldn’t help but be in awe in your beauty
It may have been a time where I didn’t expect too much
But in all honesty I had to grow older sooner or later
Meeting you cause it to progress for better or worse
As I grow older I won’t forget you
I will always keep you in my memories
The good and the bad it doesn’t matter to me
I want to remember you because you’re important to me
And as I’m growing older I’ll make sure to remember you
With age one comes with wisdom people say these days
And I can’t help but agree with the statement
Now that I’m older I know there are things I shouldn’t do
I wonder if there was a w
a dollar for happinesswhich circumstances
determine the joy
possessed in each
bottle of bubbles
I retrace patterns
in every memory
unable to recapture
I make spheres
out of sorrow
and watch them sink
rolling around like
marbles in the sand
of my mind-
leaving traces of
no one was able to see
little girl in the hallway
with doors locked
come outside -
I've a dollar
and a smile
Abandoned ChapelThe parish waits now,
the loneliness of corners
crawling outward on walls--
chipped away by the wind,
and held together
by silk spindles;
cobwebs align them like the membranes of memories,
the cut of a jewel in an broken window
against the sun
where beads of rain
gather in a mesh of strands
a new Mosaic
against the backdrop of a cemetery;
My eyes seek out the sermon
in close proximity,
paint no distance
between headstone and cloud;
elegies topple each other
in their climb to heaven
as light trickles
over the shade,
breathes a new glow over snuffed candles.
I feel the weight in these empty rows,
how a breath couldn't cease to be breath
in the midst of prayer.
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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