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Love in NatureJoy floods out from the soul
Seeds to be borne by air and touch
Spread on Earth without toll
The crystalline miracle not a crutch
Elation causes seeds to fly
Under the direction of rationale
Coming together like a new Sky
The blooming flowers to bolster morale
Time passes and behaviors evolve
Through an absolutely burning passion
Fighting to survive with resolve
The intent to drown in Earth's compassion
Love and desire pouring like sweat
For the indivudal leaves weep with joy
Woes satisfied so they may forget
That their skin has aged to an ancient husk
Disconnected from Humans I feel disconnected from human society. It's as if ages have passed and yet the grains of sand tick away at the pace of the typical clock. I'm mature, oh, only in certain ways. The ages I've endured are relative. I'm a jaded, old soul. What surprises me most is that I rely on our sickening society. It's the only string that ties me to the ground. I'm weightless, floating away without direction, and yet society keeps me grounded. It ties me to the reality I inhabit.
It's difficult to understand how I relate to society. I must define my position within society for that is how I relate to others. Where am I? Who am I? Why do I give a fuck? Who are these people? Where do I belong? These are what I think of for I must assimilate with society. In America, teenagers are immersed with society. However, I'm a 20 year old. I face the reality of having to enter society. I must be an active participant. No longer may I be passive, hoping for this or that, because I MUST
My PassionsI'm a fucking beast, don't neglect,
That I'm a rough stone, imperfect.
Yet I can do absolutely anything,
It's wonderfully invigorating.
Bursting with thought and creativity and love.
Seeping from my pores and painting me with desire.
Glowing from the good and the bad, the white and the black.
Melting is my expressive shell; it turns a muddy shade of gray.
Wanting to be shapely again, no longer a mass lost at sea.
Take me SeriouslyI have boogers up my nose,
There's gunk in between my toes!
I smell like a freakin' rose,
Wearing week old clothes!
I strip naked and compose,
The most stunning of shows!
I strike an awesome pose,
And start singing prose!
That's just how it goes,
So wash me down with a HOSE!
The Cognitive Miser My house is wooden: there’s a pleasant creak when you step on this floorboard or that. Many a night I’d stroll along its hallways. The sound of my feet in a perpetual pace, an indefinite echo, and all the while my fingertips run along the tapestries that line its walls. White shapes often careen through the air and into my body. Subjects are what I call them. Every time they’d bear against my soul ideas would spontaneously explode into my mind. I’d say they’re paltry for ideas, though, as ideas are rigid in shape and these so-called ideas aren’t rigid at all. No, they’re just fledglings compared to a full-blown idea. What are they?
It‘s a night like any other. I’m meandering through the house. Here I sit in a high-backed velvet red chair. Thoughts run into my mind like a never-ending series of galloping horses. Ideas flee like devilish musings. The subjects tease me with whatever they happen to realize. Time passes like a sn
To VictoryBlood does boil
from the heat of victory!
Tasty and sweet
from the fruit of victory!
Become a brute
from the gore of victory!
Fear our roar
from the throat of victory!
War is rote
and so is our superiority!
DisparityNothing, that's what there is:
The existentialist reality casts shades of black.
There's no bottom, no rock to hit, and no oblivion:
The clinging hopes being to realize some flower-filled daydream.
Life isn't annulled, days bleed into one another:
There be still meaning in this utterly prolific delusion.
The insignificance of thought and action:
A blank slate, a void, it's naught but our lives.
We make our own light, the human condition:
Blinding radiance pervades the colossal abyss in which we reside.
Hunger for meaning drives us to devour the light:
The two extremes smash together and meld into an opaque globe of confusion.
The very meaning is reciprocal:
Life's a zero-sum game.
Summations of Her DiaryWritten dreams
Scrawled appraisals bled into reams
The ink's vibrant
Distilled blackness turned vagrant
Patchwork the story
Stiches bathed in red vino glory
Seize the signs
Panoramic images hidden within the lines
A contented diary
The placated visage of realms fiery
Drama's leathered reigns
Traveling the grass of tall-tale's planes
The family's apparent stain
Unscathed stories being all that remain
From the words in a book
Distilled thoughts dump into an empty brook
The Twilight SpectreSteam boils,
Out of the kettle.
Warmth pervades dreams,
It's what prickles and nettles.
Shadows are cast,
An outward reflection.
It's not at half mast, but whole;
Nary but a singular inflection.
Truth in darkness, universal honesty,
Light draws implications, the accessory.
Flames ripple on the verge of twilight,
Or starlight: a scourge, or a blessing.
Scolding tea by the scorching fire,
Into the fryer, now, drink in reality.
The souls of the misguided and the stricken,
An untamed vixen, fire roaring, head resting on paws.
The pot hisses,
Yearn for its warmth.
Take part in the dream, misses,
For being burned again is mere reality.
Her CatalystAs she walks through the maelstrom, the words trace upon the tips of her fingers and press into the stone. Every brick, every crack in the concrete, every crossed and angular stroke in reds and blacks and oranges. The drips of the gasoline pool around the base of her boots, slosh as she steps over the burst pipes and the rubble.
So much rubble. So little outcry. The silence of the city grates on her eardrums and the mantras she'd been forced to memorize. The Seers demanded they observe thirteen years of recitation before they attempt to weave their first World together.
But who other than the Seers can claim the incantations that knot the skeins they twist and pull on like reins hold fast? When have any of the Sisters recorded the visions they traced upon space-time and recited them, left them open for critique and discussion and debate?
Which is why she walks through the chalky soot of the smashed city around her. This 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