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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
Six Second Poem"We're all the same," she said. "Friend, tell me," she asked, "how are we different?"
For six seconds I paused, then I said:
Some of us ..
love more than we hate,
laugh more than we cry,
work harder than we play, but
live before we die.
Some of us don't.
And that, my friend, is how we are all different.
EasterRemember what you love,
you with sand in your teeth
and the feral burn of hunger
in your eyes.
God sends his regrets.
He made you grasping and slow,
in a late hour
when the wine washed low.
Remember what you love.
Fall to your knees in the toss
and the swell, quell
the appetite of the cold black sea.
Beg blessings for your home
and the salt-sick trees.
Reach what lies near:
the fat-faced child, the sweet-soft lamb;
tether the tantrum, trickle the blood.
Offer psalms to what is holy,
whisper the name of what you love
as it bobs in the bleak mad sea.
I've ForgottenWhen she died
I tied a knot in my stomach
so I would remember
but I've been so busy
trying to remember her dying
I forgot how to forget.
how to let go -
and the doctors said
they would cut me open
and snip her out
a blade between the bows
and the pain, would be gone
but I've forgotten
how to let go -
and I still don't want to.
love didn't matter, but home was with youi.
there's still shadows left of you
even with the
little that remains. i wish
sometimes the light
would stop it's singing long enough
for them to grow,
my heart spends enough
time aching when
just the photographs
show their faces.
you took me
to a wedding once - it was a cold
night, and the
of stars in the sky made
it seem like God's
breath was reaching out
to earth. i don't remember
the names of the two who
indefinitely, anymore, not
when the wind's taken
in it's hold; but i remember crying because
love's just so damn
hard to find, and you
found me instead behind
the rosebushes that
were too stained to be called
me that sometimes
love doesn't matter, and
i (did)n't want to
you asked me once if anything
mattered, a lighter
gracing one hand and a
cigarette lining your
lips. i wasn't
sure back then
and i don't know
if i am now
(but i think i want to say yes).
my body never felt
unarticulatedtonight I ask myself:
where are you going with all these names
in your pockets? syllables that taste
unauthentic in the desperate American
repression is a series of images
earthbound angels breathing
flame, starving hands speaking
in tongues, glazed eyes
asking are you fucking okay
pale skin becoming moonlight,
reflecting and refracting and
the quiet understatement
Diamond TearIn silence
I observe them
Laughing and having fun
While I'm in my corner
I feel out of place
I don't belong here
So I leave
And no one notices
Now I'm out on the street
A dark and silent one
Enjoying the breeze
Lost in my thoughts
Suddenly I hear a sob
And I look around
I see a girl
Sitting on a bench
A single diamond tear
Running down her face
I don't know her
No one else is around
I could just leave
But I can't
So I sit by her side and ask
Without looking her in the eyes
For a moment
And then she takes my hand
And we look
Into each other's eyes
And she whispers
The Elephant ManHe had elephant hands; swollen and tendered
by old age and wiping away childrens' crying
so they were leathered and carefully painted
with a veneer of the dust made by old books,
but when he read to me the pages didn't shake
and his throat didn't contract about the words
like they were enemies to be spat out, bloodied.
Lungs didn't shiver and eyes didn't milk, then.
Now, I see love ephemeral. I see love half-dead
and carving its riverbed path, slowly eroding;
until it can rejoin oceans once known in heaven.
Now, I see him ephemeral. I see him half-living.
I see the fear of burdenship as the only thing
that makes his eyes flicker how Pernod used to.
I see a beautiful, crumpled drawing of my hero
as my grandfather slips, wearily, back to sleep.
SafeI clasped my hand tight shut around my mothers.
I was a possessive oyster wrapped around pearly fingers
bitten white by the freshly whisked air.
We braced ourselves against the frozen metal frames
that, although unmovable by infantile hands,
were not a substantial enough barrier against a tempest.
The sea lashed out its limbs in a fury
and the sky’s face paled grey with worry
at what that grasping anger might achieve.
It rose to greet us, stood on mighty churning haunches
and collapsed heavily around our shoulders
with the dramatic violence of a dancer
crashing down upon a splintered Tibia.
It drenched us, filling mouths and ears with water.
My mother’s hand squeezed mine, comforting,
and as the sea drew back again,
preparing to strike out at us over and over
until its very exhaustion point – and over once more –
As it readied itself to slash our raincoats,
with the force of an evening spiralling into true darkness,
over and over –
for a moment the smell o
Oxtails (Collab w/ TwilightPoetess)Somewhere between oxen and orchid,
where cattails and foxgloves wilt and weep
at the parting of another fleeing day
and stormed cloud-castles mutiny
against the weight of the rocksalt moon;
somewhere between flightless and fading,
where faery circles and dandelion crowns fall--
somewhere, beneath bark mosaiced with age,
you will siphon the remains of my heart--
churned smooth by false hope’s abuse--
into dehydrated dirt that groans for it.
I will clot the crumbling veins of anthills
with the iron debris that was once us,
until I become orchid or foxglove once more.
Poem promptThe sky is not falling
We are rising.
As time marches forward
We make some terrible mistakes where the sky seems to creep further out of reach
Yet over time we get back to our feet
We, as people
We are rising up
Making this world a better place
It has taken us a long time to see some of the mistakes of our past
But now that we do, we can make things better
Step by step.
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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