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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.
I willI will love you
all the way to the place where ladybirds go to die,
to the lushest corners of the earth
that hold the secrets no man was meant to see
and we will find them, and know them together.
I will love you
all the way to the place where bubbles are made
at the bottom of a glass of cider
that blisters the glass with condensation
as we trade hats and laugh at the way the air smiles.
I will love you
all the way inside a branch where buds dream of Becoming,
where those one-day-flowers stir wooden hearts
into an uprising, into a blossoming life
and we will plant our ambitions there, in the blooming place.
I will love you
all the way to the square brackets that hold our boxes
because you are my best friends, and you will be
as we fold papery hands around paper-cut wrists and cry
and mourn eighty-odd years flown by too fast. Even then.
Even then, I will love you still.
Beyond LoveYou say 'beautiful' like a mistake -
like it slipped out unwarranted
from those dark parts of your mind
that you don't want me to go to,
you say it like that.
You caress like it's worship -
like if you pressed too hard
or took too much, you'd pay the price
and I love those urgent times when
you're willing to pay it.
You teach me love like I'll die without it -
like if you don't defrost me
and my frozen image of myself,
then I might stop breathing
and extinguish beneath my own icy damnation.
You kiss me like you have to -
like we're sharing an oxygen tank
in a toxic, broken-down universe
and you are trying not to breathe
to save me.
You kiss me like that.
You love me, like that -
how am I supposed to resist
a man who loves me beyond his own sense
and senses - beyond love ?
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.
Stereotypical SuicideSuicide is not a stereotype.
Not everyone has a family,
Nobody who lives for their care,
Nobody who wants them around,
Nobody who helps them through life,
Suicide is not a stereotype.
Not everyone has friends,
Not a person there for a simple hug,
Not a person existing for a reassuring look,
Not a person around to leave the words,
Suicide is not a stereotype.
Not everyone has a home,
No place to live and feel happy in so,
No place to live without leaving again,
No place to live to avoid the truth,
Suicide is not a stereotype.
Not everyone has a love,
Nothing there to hold them in warm arms,
Nothing there for a kiss to remember,
Nothing there to be a greatness in life,
Suicide is not a stereotype.
Not everyone has a someone,
"Don't do it - for your family
They mean nothing to me anymore,
"Don't do it - for your friends"
Friends? What friends? They don't exist,
"Don't do it - what about home
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.
sunset soon forgottenin a single moment all her greatness collapsed,
her soulfulness small and full of absence.
i am wild
with infinite shades of yes -
and a careless smile
so kiss me quick
under the sun
(just until the pain leaves)
Beautifully BrokenA tidal wave crashes
Hard against the front of my skull,
Spewing fountains of hate into the air.
They are not beautiful.
A shot glass in one hand,
A pen in the other,
I drink alone in my room
As everything about me falls apart.
I can't heal mistakes.
The higher I am,
The prettier the fountains become,
But they really still look the same.
The world sees such strength,
A stoic warrior in a landscape of corruption,
But inside is a black, charred heart,
Shrouded in secrecy.
I am not beautiful,
Because hate is not beautiful.
DunesOut on the dunes, you could be walking on the moon
Maybe you are, maybe we are; see that planet in the sky?
How much more can be said about body heat, about
Sucking the marrow from bones in a vain attempt to quench?
Disheveled by dust-storms in an ocean of sand, we walk
Blank-window eyes searching for what, some sort of life?
Our feet are heavy, the ground wants to eat them; no moon, this
Now the sky is the color of sand, and there are no stars to wish on
Sweat and dead weight, we wait for the coolness of night
Fatigued, delusional, we see a rusty car approach; we get in
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