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Letting GoIt's like a little girl
cupping a feather in her hand on a windy day
She holds it between two fingers, telling herself
that she's going to let it fly away like the creature it came from
fly away and dance in the wind.
But fingers don't seem to want to let go- they preen over the little grey and yellow patches instead
and avoid the bits that are matted with red.
The little girls knows
what that red is, but she won't let herself think about it.
It's like when that little girl
takes home the feather held carefully in her pocket
and places it
in an old
under her bed,
where it sleeps until a few years later
when she finds her forgotten treasure,
climbs to the tippity top
of her favorite climbing tree
and finally lets the feather fly away.
It makes her cry
how it gets stuck on every branch on the way down.
It's like a 10 year old boy
fingers rigid around a tree branch
while his feet hang down in the air.
His friends aren't even there to egg him on,
To a Best FriendFriends know when you're happy
Best friends know when you're faking it.
Friends ask you questions
Best friends answer for you.
Friends are friends
Best friends are sisters.
Friends know your past
Best friends dictate your future.
So, to my best friends, the one who knows me better then anyone,
You're the Downton to my Abbey,
You're the Doctor to my Who
You're the apples to my honey,
and my life would stink without you.
You're the sonic to my screwdriver,
the weeping to my angel,
the doctor to my companion,
the hero to my sidekick,
and all the brightest starts in my galaxy are your's.
You're the Leah to my Luke,
the Star to my David,
the Ladder to my Jacob,
the Artemis to my Holly,
and the Max to my Flock.
You're the Katniss to my Prim,
the Britain to my America,
the Fez to my Bowtie.
The spring to my step,
the sole to my shoes,
the light to my eyes,
and the beat to my heart.
and though you can be
The Goliath to my David,
The butterfly in the GhettoMost beautiful things stay
away, out of reach.
On the other side of the fence,
where the world’s still a good place.
Butterflies don’t live here.
The bird song is a distant echo
just out of reach.
But there was one,
a yellow butterfly floating over the fence
like a ray of sun.
It leaves a trail of gold behind it,
as it flutters down,
to land on the cold grey ground.
So out of place,
like a dot in a sea of stripes.
Just like me.
Go, I told it.
here’s not a good place.
There’s no such thing as a good day
in the ghetto.
But it stayed
for a moment.
like the feeling of hope,
warming in your heart.
Then fluttered back over the fence.
backlit against a turquoise sky.
Some day I’ll follow,
cast off the barbed-wire,
cast off the pain.
cast off the chains I have to wear,
just because of who I am.
אני גאה להיות יהודי
I’m proud to be Jewish.
Sparta story, chapter 5Chapter 5
Caleb tried to speak, but all that came out was a weak groan. Surrender? But-But- we can’t surrender! Asher was trying to stand, and eventually Akalia walked over and helped his to his feet. He stood behind her, glaring at Nika, which would have been a little more scary if he didn’t have blood running down his face and matting his dark hair from a large cut on his forehead. “Of course you do.” Nika responded, smirking. “But you put up a good fight, for a bunch of little kids.” Then he melted back into the shadows, leaving the kids to figure out whether or not he was being sarcastic. All three of them were bedraggled, but Akalia was in the best shape. She was bruised and looked as though she’d been put through a meat grinder, but didn’t have any broken bones or other large injuries. Caleb, on the other hand, had a broken nose, that was sending rivulets of blood down his face, and about half his face looked like one massive bruise
Sparta story, chapter 4Chapter 4
At midnight, the two boys jumped nimbly down from the top bunk and shook Akalia awake. Asher clasped one hand over her mouth, although he knew she was highly trained. Better soldeiers then Akalia had given themsleves away by panicking when they were woken up. But the 8-year-old girl shook herself awake without a single grown or yawn, jumping out of bed and whispering, “Is it midnight?” Caleb nodded, and the Akalia had followed the twins out the door, studiously avoiding the creaky planks on the floor. A few minutes later, the three children entered the courtyard. As Asher had explained (in incredibly patronizing tones) to his brother in the middle of a sword-fight, it was best to arrive early to scout out the battlefield, and, as he put it, “show dominance.”
“yeah, whatever.” Caleb had responded, quickly disarming his brother with a flick of his wrist. “It's hard to show dominance when your shivering like a little girl at the sight of
Sparta story, chapter 3Chapter 3
Caleb yawned, sitting up and ducking his head to keep from whacking it on the top bunk of the new bunk bed that he and Asher had built together, just yesterday. Of course, there was the constant danger of it falling on his head, but he could deal with that if it meant that he didn’t have to sleep on a pile of wool blankets that still smell slightly of wet sheep. Rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hands, Caleb called quietly up to his brother. “Hey, sleepy-head! Wake up!” But when he stood up to peer into his brother’s bed, he found him sitting cross-legged on his bed, the blankets already pulled up over the straw mattress neatly. “Sleepy-head?” Asher asked innocently, giving a painful half-smile. He had a split lip from a rough training session yesterday and was skinnier then ever, not to mention what felt like a million little cuts, scrapes and bruises. It had been a week since the boys had arrived at the Agoge, and each of them had a 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.
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
WonderI wonder how I got here
I wonder which way's true.
I wonder at the raindrops,
I wonder why they fall the way they do.
I've got so many questions
and so little time.
In this crazy world
I can find so little reason or rhyme.
If hope's a bird with feathers
that perches in the soul,
then I'm a lonely traveler,
walking a winding road.
But at least I've got my questions,
my answers and my songs,
for if life's a lonely highway, at least there's still wonder in us 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