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fever fewbut waking up does not always mean getting
better, and i don't know when the last time
i felt good about the sun was, maybe
that time in january tucked into a stranger's arms,
maybe not even then.
i don't sleep anymore; the whole concept of
circadian rhythms has surpassed me
with the turn of the tides and the waxing
of the moon. either i am awake all the time
or asleep all the time and i cannot tell
which. it is a constant circle between the red pill
and the blue. i dream between sentences and count
the number of times my alarm has gone off, staring,
forgetting what it is and what it means.
i'm just passing the fucking
on bad inspirationaddictive by nature, i have more than a few
bad habits, and maybe this is ironic,
but writing about everyone
and everything has become close to
a nervous tic.
once, i showed someone
my words for him and he said
that he was flattered,
that i was cute,
i said thank you
for being my inspiration.
he said, always;
i just hope that i am never
we said our goodnights and then
after trying to talk to him, twice, i was ignored
for two days. i thought it was ironic because
he had told me he was a gemini/cancer
cusp, and he was doomed
because both determined him to be
overly attached. but then
when we spoke he said
he was smothered easily and i said
and it was the classic
"it's not you, it's me"
and i was fighting
for air, this is the push-pull effect
of the earth, i am not a fucking canvas for your feelings,
do not paint your thoughts about my thoughts
and i pointed out how
i had just wanted to be friends
until he put his arm around me,
until he ki
belmonti miss march
and it's funny, you know, i
don't remember most of it
just like last year with
muddy vision &
i managed to write
76 different things
the scraps of paper on my floor
all pretty the same, but at least i
still felt i could speak.
i keep trying to find the words
what it felt like
to watch my best friend leave
to kiss her that last time
to slowly watch
the smile in his voice
when he said,
this is the happiest i have ever been
in a long time
and i wish i had given us
or the look on
my ex lover's best
when i was sighing and
bruising small circles into
my inner thighs
like i once
long ago when
it would snow and it was
too cold for him to
be riding his bike over
in the dipped
indigo of the night
and he did
long ago when i was
more concerned with proving them wrong
less concerned with getting dead
though these songs, so certain
seventeen of them have bee
victims of changeonly a thin slat of light falls across
the darkened room to rest on a wall
as lonely as i am, a wall that could
tell stories older than the blood in my body.
i think of how we are just people
who organize their lives and loves
into boxes of respective sizes, and
yet these boxes hold more than our
memories - they hold ourselves.
in this room, so many things have
happened: a lost innocence, a lost
virginity, a lost sense of self.
i cannot help but remember how this
room was just a futon and bunk-beds
when we first met, i also
cannot help but realize that this
room has cocooned and evolved
with me, over time.
in an attempt to rid you from where i
sleep, i switch beds.
in an attempt to rid you from myself,
i chance myself nightly.
and though i cannot see anything in
the unlit cave i call my bedroom, i
find comfort in the ceiling, for that is
where my memories, bad dreams, and
many's the long night he have robbed me of my restbefore you move on:
i want to smoke pot with you.
no more of this high school teacher bullshit.
get high off life!
we can watch a few movies,
eat like kings, and pass out
in each other's arms
to lucid dreams.
(but nothing is ever that perfect,
before we spend years not talking:
i want to kiss you.
i've spent years dreaming about it.
i'm not the boy of your dreams,
i won't kiss your scars,
but i'll kiss your stretchmarks -
they're much more human
for they grow with you like i have
and i have a matching pair.
(but that just makes me an asshole,
before you forget about me:
i want to tell you how much i love you.
i think it goes without saying,
but i'll say it again,
just in case.
(but you've fallen for someone else,
before you get married:
i want to go on a road trip with you.
we can listen to your music this time
as long as we can roll the windows down
so i can catch the scent of your loveliness
without you knowing.
(but you'd still know that i l
it seemed significantfull title: and i don't know what this means (but it seemed significant)
nostalgia isn't what it used to be. time
is a passerby, and it makes less sense on satellite
clocks; the scratches on your wrist
that count the days you've been spending,
forgetting just how many days you've spent
here, waiting, watching, wondering
just how you're going to make up for the la/ost
hour, but more like how you're going to come up with
an excuse as to what you've been doing the past
three years. it is all a blur.
it is spent breaking three mirrors and getting
your heart broken on three separate & unnotable occasions.
each varies in degree and each shatters from a
different starting point, but glass can be replaced
and this way the cracks just get smaller and more intimate
in the details of their fault lines. the divine
are isotopes, sitting in the passenger seat
and you've gotta admit you like the idea
of it, they don't talk and they don't do
a damn thing, and that's the kind of company
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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