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Group IndividualityEvery little thing thought out
Like pieces in a game
Actors on a stage
Every individual raised to be creative in the
"Think for yourself!"
But they never say
'So long as yourself is just like us.'
Because obviously implict,
There is always a right and a wrong.
As I am,
the poet girl is goneI used to write
I was wired to think in stanzas and lines.
Now it takes an effort to find the word to
Express what I'm feeling.
Happy and sad just don't cut it
But it's not joy or depression,
I used to be a poet.
I used to type what I felt
Now it's like something is choking my mind,
Covering my thoughts,
And I don't know how to talk.
I used to write with a purpose, to convey an idea,
To make people feel the way I felt.
But that purpose is gone,
And that voice is gone,
And the words are gone,
And the girl is gone.
The poet girl is gone.
Once a dayOnce a day,
I go on deviantart.
I look through and make myself feel bad.
Once a day,
I write a poem,
About the sadness.
And once I've written this poem,
I post it.
Watch it get one or two likes.
Watch it not be as good.
Once a day,
I write about my friends.
I write about how jealous I am.
I write and I write and I write,
As honestly as I can.
I write and I lay down what I'm thinking on paper.
And once a day,
I watch it spiral into nothing.
While my friends,
Who I love,
Who I hate,
Who I want to be,
Slowly accumulate more fame.
I watch them grow into greatness,
I try to help them grow,
While I shrink.
When you have them to look at,
Bright, shining stars that they are,
Would you look at me?
Constant as a candle flame, but dim.
A note on my obsession with stars and the moonThe sun is too harsh.
It just shows the reality of everything,
Whether you wanted it to or not.
It burns you,
Balls you up and
Throws you away.
The moon and the stars, however,
There's an air of mystery that makes the mundane fantastical.
Who knew reflected light could shine so much brighter than its source?
Twinkling up above,
The world sparkles,
And everything just seems to be okay,
If only for a moment.
A note on fameYou know,
Sometimes I get upset
Because I'm not "famous".
Always decent but not great.
I don't have a hundred million watchers,
Or colleges knocking at my door,
But I'm okay.
I have a couple thousand pageviews because I used to post a lot.
Too much, in fact.
I wanted to feel acknowledged,
But then I realized there wasn't a point in that.
Because what's the point of spamming people,
To generate some sort of illusion of popularity?
I know what I am.
I know I might not be as good,
Or as funny,
Or as broken,
Or as great,
But I'm decent.
I'll do for a little while.
So even without fame,
Even without people wanting me to acknowledge them for a change,
I'm doing fine.
Because I'm happy.
And while my poetry and drawings are only decent,
I myself am doing great.
UntitledYou know what?
I don't want to think about it
I don't want to dream about it
Something that's just standing in my way.
It's just a phase,"
They all say.
"When you grow up
You won't still feel the same way."
What's the point of getting hurt?
In the end we all end up the same way.
Nobody's a winner.
Romeo and Juliet weren't real,
Just stupid star-crossed lovers
On a page.
You can't make me want to feel
Anything more than a platonic sort of affection.
Stupidly patronizing inflection,
In your voice.
I'm not a child.
It's not a phase,
It's not a choice!
It'll only hurt you in the
Make you lose sight of what's important.
PrincessOnce upon a time,
In a kingdom
On the border between dreams and reality,
There lived a princess.
She had bright eyes,
And a huge grin, but she craved one thing--
The acknowledgement of her acheivements.
So she ran away,
Away from her kingdom of dreams,
On the cusp of her coronation.
Away to reality.
But the princess hadn't expected this,
Not the pain,
Not the sadness.
Emotions new to her seeped in.
Unacknowledged by these foreign peoples,
Brushed off as crazy,
She hid inside herself.
Our sad, sad princess
Now a pauper.
The dreamer now only saw nightmares.
She should have stayed in her castle.
Think of MeThink of Me,
Think of starry nights,
Think of full moons
Think of fireworks,
And at the same time
Think of me.
Think of a warm glow
And mint tea.
Think of books in front of fireplaces,
Watching Disney princess movies.
Think of rain drumming on windows,
And glitter glue,
Think of sunny but cold days,
And classic rock,
Think of me,
Not by appearance,
But by desires spiraling around in my head.
ExtraNoticeable, likeable, popular.
Wishing on a shooting star to run away and be myself.
Stop hating what I'm choosing for myself.
Stop being so
Forgettable, hateful, extra.
I'm the tag along friend,
Everybody's second choice.
The feel good friend,
Constantly dishing compliments,
The one you look at and say
"Hey, at least I'm not her."
I'm the make-believe friend,
Happy, strong, and nonchalant,
Standing with a shoulder ready for tears.
I'm your forever friend,
At your beck and call.
I'm the extra,
In the background till one day I'm not anymore.
But it's okay,
The movie goes on.
I was never important anyway.
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.
On WritingWrite for today
And like it’s all
That’ll be left of you
Never write for popularity.
Write with clarity, but
‘Don’t make everything said’.
Write a million things;
An ode to the voice
Inside your head,
An elegy for the living,
A carpe diem for the dead.
Write to tell
To just keep
They’ll find a way out.
Don’t write for approval,
That way misery lies.
Poetry can’t be judged,
Not properly –
Write for yourself;
Doesn’t matter if it’s
Good enough for
You’ll never be Shakespeare.
But he’d never
Have been you;
Pour your heart into it,
That’s the best
That you can do.
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.
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,
I Fell In love Inside of a DreamI fell in love,
inside of a dream.
And woke up,
with a broken heart.
But it wasn't my heart,
that was broken.
It was his,
and I'll never see him again.
That long haired, pale skin,
blue eyed boy, will forever remain,
a figment of my imagination.
So close, yet so far away.
And I will never be able to apologize,
for my mistake.
unrealistic ideologies of an
are toxic; breathing
is a chore. there is a
in the combined effort
of necessity’s unlovliest
we are the forgotten.
we are the tangled limbs
and childhood stories for
a more sensitive future; we
are the longing, we are
we are measured
in the people we touch;
and I will love you
in the UV light of
hide and seek paranoia.
I love you in the red shimmer
of harbored dreams, I love you
in the in
ShatteredIf I found you, on your knees,
trying desperately to collect the shattered pieces of your heart-
I would kneel beside you and help you pick them up.
I would not cast a blind eye,
and pretend I had not seen you.
If I saw that your hands had been cut,
by the very shards of hope you were trying so hard to gather-
I would take your hands in mine, and hold them until the pain subsided.
Then I would kiss every wound- no matter how big or how small,
until I was sure you would be able to use your hands again.
If you were crying from the fear that you'd never be able to pick up everything,
I would hold you until your tears stopped, and I would comfort you with gentle words.
But I would not lie to you- I would never lie.
The heart is a frail thing- once shattered, it can never be fully repaired.
Parts will remain missing, and the mended hope will always bear cracks.
If we found that we'd gathered all that we were able,
and that there were a fine powder remaining of what we could not collect.
On Breaking Apart Your Dreams For a GuyTwelve months ago, we swapped rumors about
the hottest bad boys; counted the number of freckles Tanya,
the Queen Bee of Beverly High, didn't cover with her polka-dot skirt;
and discovered our favorite song on a blog we both wished
we owned. "What do you think we'll be doing this time next year?"
I asked over peanut butter cookies from a bag
and a commercial break between late night movies.
You giggled, pondering, and said, "Hanging out in our dorm room.
You'll be snuggled up to the flavor of the month--
a basketball player, no doubt, or a starving artist--
and I'll be green with jealousy, like always."
When Dirty Dancing came back on, we rocked along,
shag carpet burning streaks across bare feet.
This morning, listening to my roommate sing with the radio--
some country ballad you'd never approve of--
I remember your laugh and the dark, curling fingers of hair
at the nape of yo
Speaking to the rythymDrums going off in my head,
Slow and steady,
Fast and frantic.
Don't you understand what I've said?
Or have I just
Left you behind again.
Life is about speaking to the rythym,
Moving on when it's not there.
It's about finding a chord so perfect,
You can use it anywhere.
It's about discovering your own beat,
Till the world sings harmony.
It's about talking with the music
Of who you are
And who you wanna be.
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