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virgin culturethere's a little more to love than lust
and a little more to a person than a label.
you can try to sum me up in five words or less and you'll find those words,
but you won't be able to reduce me to them.
you can't turn me into something that can be thrust,
down the grapevine
when there's something more to me than the colour of my eyes or the size of my chest.
and that's something we could all do with remembering.
but this is the culture we were born into.
where the length of your hair is more important than the sincerity of your words,
and nothing matters as much as the kardashians' latest scandal or talking some hot chick into bed.
i'm nineteen. i understand. but i'm frequently finding myself writhing in my own reassurance that i exist.
my name is melissa, i am a liberal, college-going female who doesn't remember what her own house looks like but remembers her childhood telephone number
and i'm not sure if that's ok. is it normal, am i the only one in this goddamn world wh
a letter of hatred, to myselfdear child,
dear little girl,
dear sweet, innocent, beautiful melissa,
there is none of this that you would choose for yourself; there is none of this that you would see coming. a beautiful infant, born bright yellow like your favourite dress when you were three, you were perfect. you wore jaundice like a mink stole, blocked tear ducts like cat-eyed glasses. you cried because you were unafraid to show others how you felt: you were not scared to let them care.
strangers paused your parents on the street to peer inside of your stroller, marvelling at the porcelain doll within; the big blue eyes, reflecting the sky in grandeur and wonder; the rosy cheeks that meant you were healthy. you were beautiful, and as awareness became more than an abstraction, you knew it.
hours were spent in the mirror and every reflective surface that came across your path. dearest melissa, you were a brilliant star to behold.
the end, actuallylassitude builds
nests in my bones
as effective at becoming airborne
as the words "i'm sorry"
they just refused to try
the most prominent thought
circling my head
like the words that could soar
there is a big chance
we will not make it through the night,
that i will never be held
in the cage of your eyes
and trapped by a heart
i must be committing
but i do not know which ones-
there just might be
on the number of tears
you can shed
over one person;
we are not snakes
and cannot remove our skin
so we cry instead
but through the heat
i felt that sadness made
over the phone
i saw no end to us
where there would be
no end to us.
constellations are just bodiesyou left me in my bed-
i was crying-
when you walked down my stairs
for the last time.
you were to spend the night-
you lived hours away-
until you told me
you couldn't do this
i was fine-
you were just a constellation-
until your words
forced images of my last love
before my mind's eye.
i cried before you-
i hadn't cried in months-
but i didn't cry for you.
in retrospect, as you closed my door-
it was the last time-
my only thought is
why didn't we fuck
before saying goodbye?
if people didn't filter their emotions and justthrowing yourself on
floors doesn't fix anything,
but it sure seems to.
my first drunk poemwriters write whilst drunk
because every word
fumbled and smisspelled
comes out beautifully
because of the truth it holds
my ear bleeds from constant burns
and my stomach burns from constant bleeds
because beauty is never enough untouched, it seems,
the way anything i put in me is always too much.
i bled and evoked sympathy tonight.
i drank until i needed a body to stand me straight.
my organs writhed like heathens in moonlight ritual
and i let it shake.
i shook to be honest
but i was never honest enough
to admit from where the vibration came.
i shook with fear
and never, ever being adequate
or even happy
but i smiled and let everyone know
that i felt like myself,
and no one ever needed to know
that the only reason i felt so honest
was because i never feel like i can
stand on my own two feet unaided
or stop from trembling
or hold in outbursts of emotion
because if i do,
i know i'll break.
write what hurtsi'm here to tell you
about fire and living
& how both burn even if you ignore them
it's not about what feels good
it's about what doesn't
cornering what hurts
and exposing it
really displaying it
pedestal on high
for what it is
and not what it pretends to be
you are not living
until you hurt
you can't be alive
if all you know is comfort
comfort is only a sign
that you are doing what you know
it is admittance of limitation
because you are human
and only know so much
and it's agonising to think
that you can be comfortable with that
and not want to reach out
and touch every thing you find
and read every book you see
and hear every sound you can
because enough is never enough
is never enough is always
revelations in the mudi only want to fall in love
if someone is there
to fall with me.
i want to jump from high places
and pretend i'm flying,
i'm a bird, i'm light enough at-fucking-last
for the air to catch me,
and the harsh grounds beneath me?
can't touch this.
but i'm earthbound
and parachutes will not work
if you do not open them,
and i am just so sick
of feeling like maybe,
becoming an abstract painting
on the rocks below, would be enough...
but there is something beating in my chest.
i'm very afraid of what it is.
and i don't know a lot,
like the size of the universe.
or why you sought solace in the south.
or how i came to be in this crater that swallowed me whole;
but i do know the second you told me
you felt the same for me like i did for you,
something in my universe shifted.
part of my soul went to georgia...
and i began to climb.
the purpose of life is to knock you on your ass
so you have to do something with it to get back up.
i don't know about you,
but i'm pretty fuckin' tired of feelin
an open letter to a rekindled relationshipwe have travelled thousands of miles;
we have felt spite and fear for diminished feelings;
we have played this game for far too long.
last night we missed hearing others' poetry
to make our own.
i was not afraid of skin,
and you were not afraid to feel.
we were born with instinct for a reason:
realising what you want is half the battle.
my other half is hesitation-
my other half is you.
i still swell with emotions my therapist
can't help me label
when i remember how you said
you weren't over me.
and how we joined again,
with an interim year,
and a new understanding of emotion
adding to and balancing the physical.
last night i put my skin in your hands;
i gave it with trust.
i left my nerves in my clothes and i shed them,
on the floor,
and spent time with initiation and impulse.
the bruises on my throat a result of passions,
i smile as i shield them from familial eyes.
the weight of a year has opened my bones
and a heart that is ready to
maybe you never belonged to meI can still feel the weight of your lips on the curve of my collarbone. Sometimes, it feels paralyzing, crushing, absolute. Sometimes, it feels like home. Like everything.
I once heard that when you can't fall asleep it means you're awake in someone else's dream. I wonder which one of us was dreaming that night, because everything was too quiet, too easy, too perfect. You used to fall asleep next to me, your body curled against mine. It's a warmth that's not easy to forget. A hidden smile tucked into pillows and sheets. It's easy to think these things will last forever when you're tangled up together. For me, the strings of my life will always be tangled up in yours. Forever tied to you. No matter hard they attempt to fray. To fall apart. To sever.
It's snowing for the first time this year. Soft and gentle, glittering in the sunlight, falling in large flakes, easy and quiet – nothing at all like the storm that rages inside of me, turning up the corners of my heart, throwing shrapnel
there's nothing that feels quite like this.Maybe the problem is that I don't know what a love story should sound like. I haven't figured out what order I should put the words in to make it read just right. I do, however, know what it feels like, but pushing around nouns and adjectives just to make it grow is the hardest thing I'll ever do. And it's true that I've tried it before and maybe I succeeded once, but since then I've learned the way real love washes through veins, and rumbles through the shifting and settling of bones until it changes you completely in a way that is absolutely unyielding. Perfect. Simple. It's not angry, or jealous, it doesn't hurt. It isn't like before. So now words don't come so easy, since I'm not sure which ones will cheapening the moments, the feelings, you.
And god, I could never do that to you, since the only thing I know with completely certainty is that you are the only thing that saves me. That moves me. That completes me. Without you, I'd be less than nothing. Alone. Forgotten. It's e
i'm not your symphony but i'm orchestrated anywaysit's not easy to explain --
but i'm a rushed symphony of heartbeats, quick breaths and hiccups. i'm not made of skin and bones, but a complicated sentence structure and thoughts that i spew out before i even finish them.
i'm messy in all the wrong ways.
and i'm not right in any of the ways that matter. but still you're always here, picking me up when i fall, kissing me goodnight, making a life with me one day at a time. and you haven't gone yet but i'm always moving so how long can you stay. how long can i expect it. how long is too long when you're living and loving and breathing and hell, if i can't stay still i'll mess this up for sure. i just need a minute, to think, to stop, to be. so i can be yours forever.
all i know is that i'm a constant frenzy -- a kaleidoscope of words and ideas and minutes and clumsy steps and i don't know what i'm doing, but i'm always shifting and moving and growing and going and going
and going and
until i'm standing still again.
no one can stop
the girl who didn't get shoti am all aches and pains and coffee stains--
am i the smell before rain, the blood in your veins?
my life is composed of memories and scraped-up knees,
failed attempts at surgeries
of my mind and of my heart, of whatever stops me
when i'm trying to start.
i am all the shores they never graze, that haze
when the sun burns rainwater on roads.
i may feel warm but know this--i get cold,
i get frozen stiff and when i'm bent i won't fold.
the marrow of my bones hold blue-grey skies,
murkier than the rampant clouds in your eyes
but when i'm rib-caged i still have someplace to fly.
i am all the forlorn poets, for i've lungs and a tongue,
i'm rung and stung and a song unsung.
there are secret meadows in my mind, with
lacklustre dews and tarmacadams that shine;
it's where the blood of my bruises tastes like wine
and the words in my throat tunefully intertwine.
i am all the streetlights telling you 'no',
telling you to 'slow down', and eventually, 'go' --
am i second hand smoke? does sp
peeling bandages, platonic skyThere were no stars in Vegas
until I found you.
Alas, there are other stars
in the sky. Brighter stars,
maybe. But I like my star,
what used to be my star
before we both
i'll keep you like a secret.There are a lot of things I can't tell you.
Not because I'm keeping secrets locked behind my teeth or because I'm afraid I'll say something you don't want to hear. This isn't like the last time or the time before. It's simply because I'll never have the exact right words to explain all the ways you make my heart rise and expand and skip a beat.
There aren't enough words to describe how quickly the blood rushes through my veins when we kiss and I'm on tiptoes to reach your lips and your hand is cupping my face, brushing your thumb across my cheekbone and I feel completely at home.
And they haven't even invented a way to portray how I feel when we're driving too fast in the streets of our hometown, and how I can get lost somewhere that is so damn familiar because I have the chance to explore it with someone new someone like you and you're singing along with the radio, letting me fall asleep in the passenger seat, because you and I are enough, and we don't need words to fill
on certain occassions fallacies exist for a reason[innocent is a synonym for boring
innocence is a symptom of ennui]
i'm not in the not in the not in the
to be the knot in the noose: loose
unhinged. disjointed. you know:
you know the drill & you know
the drill in my head is always
impaling my skull & you know
there is no difference between
this psychosis & you. no. i am
at best your greatest parachute
(if you fall into the abyss of my
mind, you shall float, as gently
as a feather in the wind) i am a
zephyr at worst: a tornado sans
entropy. i am the #1 cause of a
broken heart & most dangerous
catalyst since 1991. more fuel?
fuel, for what? fuel
for an aching heart
(ima hack ima hack
ima hack my wrists
which is what hacks
do) all of them do it
(i am a hack, hack, a hack
hacking up my irony lungs)
blacking up my exxon & i
mean blacking out my eye
really mean i don't mean a
thing i say & i say nothing,
nothing but when, but i'm
not in the not in the mood
innocent is a synonym for
oh, what a heartbreak this has beenyou beat me senseless
and my virgin body drank it in;
summer sweet, beaded sweat
in the fat of your neck
my swear words in your hair.
i've learned that love is
impossible across land,
sea, countries - but never so
in my own backyard.
i've learned that i cannot
rebuild the bridges you
are afraid of.
and when the fussy hot days
roll over and repeat, the cicada's
song like a one hit wonder -
you will picture me,
the vomiting crowd of coney islandthe destructive walls are shaded
in grey and i am remembering
every feeling i have forgotten-
i am terrified.
this is a city that never sleeps,
the bones of my chest thrumming
like taxi cabs in the streets,
my fingers shaking
in want for comfort and solace
i am not standing
in lorca's vomiting crowd-
i am his vomiting crowd,
looking high and low
and between my clenched fists
for catharsis and purification,
for the reason of this illness
pressed against my skin,
for the indefinable sickness
i drown in like bubbles of spit
day in and day out.
i fear the restraints
i've placed for myself,
that they may not be there
or are not in fact real.
i am caught within a sticking web
of decaying sweetness,
coney island's cotton candy,
yet it is not a trap.
i am afraid of love
and that it holds me back.
i am afraid of love
because i am used to skin on skin,
when the drum beats meet.
i am afraid of love
because it is so far stretched
over these thousand miles,
that i fear it mig
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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