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TunnelvisionIn this crippled, cracked cityscape of concrete and glass
I just watch from my window as the people walk by
Oblivious to the struggles of their fellow public,
Such as Eric, frantically searching for cash to get back his pick up
That his friend left double parked and resulted in a tow
Losing his job may as well be deathrow for his son
Andy's leukemia treatment cost is astronomical
The fear in Eric's mind digs a festering hole
In his heart as he goes for a payday loan
Knowing the debt will do nothing
But throw more obstacles
In the path of his escape from this fiscal hell
Established by coats who can't even tell the kind of
Destruction they've left on this man and child,
Their hearts are hardened and their wallets are padded,
With green like the weeds breaking through the sidewalk
As Eric signs the four hundred percent interest agreement,
No other choice
While businessmen in their highrises hold
No remorse for the rejected insurance claim
No sympathy to share for the man whose wife, the
Anything Will Do"Got any change?"
She asks, as you pass, clenching wallet in a guarded stance--lest you have to give your poker night spares to a nearly starved woman.
"Got any change?"
She pleads, groveling to the masses, staring desperately to her dog, sole companion of the scot-free foreclosure market that stole her, and her only friend's, home.
"Got any change?"
She cries. "I'll work for whatever you can give."
Nobody will hire the woman who can't pay her bills post-layoff in the scot-free we-don't-need-you-anymore factory, whose robots work harder and complain less than mere mortals.
"Got any change?" She pleads, not asking for cash--demanding action.
"Is your life any better?"
She rises from her defeated pose--A vigor in her heart carrying her starved body to its frail feet.
"Change. Stand for good enough no more.
Since when is good enough good enough?
Since when is just fine fine at all?
Since when is just getting by acceptable?
I'm not the only one who needs change around here."
A Lot To Be Thankful ForI've come a long way in life.
Once upon a time I was little more than a child,
son to two loving parents,
a thing I am always thankful for,
even if it doesn't always show.
Since then, a small handful of amazing friends
show me that love can extend beyond blood
Friends who show me true kindness, loyalty and trust
A relatively new gift, in many ways,
but absolutely glorious, and something to cherish.
I'm happy to be born in a place where, even if it's dubious,
I do have freedoms, I do have rights, I can safely
walk out of my door, and not fear getting shot.
A place where medicine may not be free, but it actually exists.
I'm glad I have a fully functioning body, and fully capable mind.
I have the golden ticket. I have a stable family, health, mind, and home.
I have little in the big scope to complain about.
While these are the greatest gifts one can experience,
There is a lot in life to be thankful for.
I live in a place that has come a long way. It may not be perfect
But compared to twen
Of no embrace
Of no contact
Of no conversation
Of no escape.
Even in a crowded room.
Even surrounded by friends.
Even surrounded by family.
That missing feeling.
The longing for someone to be there--be yours.
Amidst empty hands come empty hearts.
Amidst empty hearts comes pain--not just for you
But those you're too blind to see care for you.
Five StagesWhen you're young, they tell you you can be anything. There is no "except" there is no "however" and there's kids who want to be ninjas and super heroes and it's beautiful. Alas, our life doesn't come with such a blank check on opportunity. There must come a day in every person's life where their wildest (and sometimes highly tame) dreams are dashed to pieces. It can be a long process, but it happens to most people in their lifetimes.
For me, it went like this: I wanted to be a computer engineer. I had a great deal of fascination with computers from a young age, and by seven, I decided my intended career path. It was stable, reliable, and paid well. It seemed interesting, and my work would be in the hands of thousands or millions of other people.
Then there was college. It took one semester to cope with the stages of grief. Denial, bargaining, anger, sorrow, and acceptance. I was in denial starting in late high school. I placed myself into a very demanding calculus class when I reached
En Fugue - Ch. 2 - Naming NamesI felt paralyzed. I didn’t know what to do, but I knew I needed to do something, and fast. – A.S.H.
The basilica was packed with curious gawkers awaiting the names of the selected warriors for the year. Many stirred and struggled to get closer as the village chancellor stepped out onto the raised platform, dressed in his ceremonial gold-trimmed burgundy robes.
He bellowed in a voice that boomed across the basilica, despite how packed it was. He carried out his traditional speech, which many in the audience had heard a dozen or more times in just as many variations.
“Soldiers and heroes of honorable Calaban, we gather once more to declare our fighters for the Duels of Nerivad. An honor granted to the lucky few, one from each borough of our fair town. Though there may be only one victor, al
En Fugue (Updated) - Introduction and Part 1Introduction
When I was young, I wanted to be a scientist, a biologist. Life has always fascinated me. Maybe that’s why I was always at odds with my society.
You see, I’m no fighter. Never have been. I’m not strong. I’m not aggressive. I hate fighting. That is, I used to be that, as a boy. I still hate fighting, but I had to become a fighter in spite of that. I had to take up arms to fight for my life, and for the lives of everyone dear to me.
Things change in the face of fear. Things change in the face of hate. Things change when you have something, or someone to fight for. I've done things I would have never dreaded in my wildest nightmares to escape tragedy. I'm not proud of everything from my past, but I'm proud that those I love are safe.
Over Eight Hours and Nothing To ShowThere's a thing known as the "Three Eights." The idea that eight hours of a day should be dedicated to sleep, work, and recreation, respectively. Typically this is how society tries to veil itself as functioning.
As of February 2013, the average cost of food in the US for a family of four (est. children of 7 and 11, father aged 30s, mother aged 30s), is, in the cheapest scenario shown, 636.30 a month, or 146.90 a week (587.60, the price we'll use for the rest of this, as it is the lowest scenario.) On average, a person who works full time minimum wage on a single job is $290 a week. Electricity, estimated by the EIA (most recent estimations only as recent as 2009), is around $103.67. Average gas costs according to
The CyborgA mess of wires, and an apathy for the human condition, uncaring eyes and a constant stream of electronic input, he works to please himself and nothing more, even at the inconvenience of others. A glowing device in his palm, relaying information from others like him, his head wired to another contraption in his pocket, he blends in perfectly with the surroundings. The vast majority of his input is vapid and vacuous, a stream of media behind shielded, darkened lenses.
Most of his motion is autopilot, so absorbed in his world. He jaywalks in front of cars without flinching at their blaring horns, or leaves carts in parking stalls, or, valuing himself over mere mortals, cuts right in front in lines of people, much to the outrage of the humans, behind.
He glances at his device again as it reads "U up 4 Pizza 2nite?"
"Ya, u'll never guess wut just happened, sum jerk blasted his horn rite n my ear."
He changes to the latest top forty on his MP3 player and puts his cell away. He continues to
How to love a girl who can't love herself.one.
When she cries herself to sleep
six out of seven nights a week you must
say nothing. You must simply take
her in your arms and kiss her gaunt,
pale cheeks and wait for her to
slumber at the sound of your heart.
On the days where she wishes she
were part of the stars, tell her
no. Tell her that there are too many
lights in the sky and that just one
would be forgotten the moment you looked
away from it. Tell her that she is perfect
the way she is: completely human.
Don't let her think about the scars
that no one but her can see. If she
says "I think I'm broken" smile like you
know a secret and say, "No, you're mending."
But do not be the one to fix her - no, she
the only letter I've ever wanted to burni.
if you want to give someone the silent treatment,
the first step is shutting up.
things made much more sense
when I was younger.
I thought there was one path,
each choice a stepping stone upon it.
in reality there are a million roads
intertwined like rope.
I got lost
I chose you.
promises are easily broken.
I knew that,
but it still hurt
spending friday night
shivering in the rain,
choking on cannabis perfume
in a dirt parking lot
your face never graced.
and I hoped against hope
you might appear,
but I wasted my wishing
on ungrateful you.
you died before taking your first breath.
I took a chance
and I should've known better.
you can give somebody all you have
and nothing can stop them from
throwing it away.
you've made this bed,
now lie in it.
you slit this suture,
you're the goddamn reason
I gave up on the month of april,
and soon enough you'll fall on your own blade
like some drunken samurai.
if you want
The scarsLife hurts us
It causes us to bleed
Time can heal the wounds
And stop the pain
But the scars remain
For the rest of our lives....
car crash on an empty roadit happened before
we did. it was more a person
than you or I or that boy
in the park trying
to convince us to
stupid. it happened
before your smile
cracked the sky in half, before
our laughters slurred into
a dissonant song, before
your fingers traced the stories
lying on my face before I knew
just how many pieces of sunshine
were trapped in your hair before
the walls became the ceiling and
I wasn’t claustrophobic.
things I remember:
the red blur of your room like
God was experimenting with the
symbolism in modern art, the
tri-tone shimmering of your eyes
like the surface of the water, the way
you defined perfection as a scale of
women ending with a less than sensible
me, the way you always moved like
you were dancing and no one was there to
Die AloneI take apart her heart
And lay the pieces down
In a circular form.
Let her bleed a work of art.
I forgot I’m crazy.
I’ll whisper my secrets
Only if she promises
To die here alone with me.
RelativityLooking in the mirror
through the mirror
seeing a stranger,
My chest swells and my heart lurches
This girl isn't me, not at all
She looks like someone
but not me.
A movie star, a homeless person.
Even when I look at photos
no memory comes up
no allowing for the thought that I have a body
Or that the cold of my fingertips,
the throb of anxiety inside my ribs
I see my arm, an armband
A scar, a vein, a ring that has no meaning
But it did, to this girl in the mirror
Even if memory fails
Existence is relative
See Through YouHow do you allow for your own eyes to see through you?
Reflections hold no meaning,
when the image cascading back, is just your own ghost.
What unworldly realm did you get lost in?
I remember the touch of white glass, pale skin on your brow.
It shattered so easily, with such a soft touch,
if only the touch you felt, was only the love.
But sheets of burning skin, you have now.
This avalanche of you came crashing down quickly.
It was your emotion not your voice;
that started the cosmos to implode inside you.
Each star died out, and they all winked before they died.
It was this bi-polar you, who had split into two.
Through mitosis you defined your real you.
If only the other half could have been saved,
or maybe it’s lost and stored away?
I want to allow you, to see the person you are to be.
But,no mirror I show you could ever speak true to your own face.
Perhaps one day, your true self will stay.
But for now,
you allow your own eyes to see through you.
Our Weight and RopesYour life, little flower
like a snake
from a can
lungs not ready
you hit the air
it hit you
months too early
this life on earth
and its lightning
hit and burnt
nothing about you
was anywhere near
and ever so luckily
your wings were
slow to form too
as it was all
we could do
were barely enough
to keep you
from floating away
pulled back inside
and years later
we're the ones
A Real JobThis sterile trap,
This corporate limbo,
Each day the same,
Data entry, data transfer,
Clicking and ticking of keys
In such great volume it sounds
Like heavy rain on the cold, cracked concrete.
This thin gray carpeted cubicle wall
Surrounds my exhibit room as I wait for lunch,
While white collars and other passers by
Look in at my simulated habitat.
Two frames, one with my wife,
The other with both of us, and the two kids
Adorn the otherwise light gray, fluorescent lit
Ten by ten square that is my territory.
I don't want to wait thirty years to retire
When I could have a job instead.
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