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Your voice is a clouded day
Hues of white, specks of blue
It speaks to me with its normalcy
And I know that all is good.
Your voice is not:
A rainy sky
With rumbling of thunder
And drumming of rain
Your voice is not:
The glaring sun
The splashing of water
On beaches and pools
Your voice is the story of how I may live
It's normal and pleasing and good
The potential of greatness lies deep in your voice
It will always be there; it will always be mine.
Your voice is the earth, is dirty and strong
Is moist with the promise of good lives to come
My heart, my lungs, both feed on your voice
My ears see an image of you.
The future we build
Stands firm on the soil
Come painstorm, come heartquake, come all that will come
It's simple and yet
Our own work of art
In doubt-forge, with e-pain, with hope it was made.
And every diamond
That wasn't once dirt
soles and souls are this
Slap crunch -
it was just me, nose diving into pavement cracks
before the three women in aprons and designer shoes
+ a push chair
laughed me off the back street.
They hold their futures in the backs of their heavy thighs.
Breath harder -
Four years ago I was sixteen, three blond haired girls
called me 'slag' in the bus station at seven oh ten PM.
They liked cigarettes and skipping school, I didn't
But I had to. Scream louder -
I wanted to tell some of these people to watch the sun-clipse
and understand love is a cheesy kind of asthma
with a lower survival rate, it has a faucet that won't turn off
even if you close your eyes and wish real hard
while crossing your fingers
and banging your heels together,
people will seem pointless when hose pipes are banned again.
I wanted to tell them that they'll lay in bathtubs,
wash their faces in sinks, pour skimmed milk over cornflakes and go to work
but will not know why.
I wanted to say this on a loud speaker, into billboards, down t
Blue Eyes in FlamesWhen the prince sees the flower bloom from the palm of her hand, he orders her arrest.
She is only seven years old.
He takes the flower from her and keeps it, even though he knows he shouldn't. He puts it a vase, or, rather, his servant does that for him. The flower doesn't ever die, even years later.
It's dawn of a December morning, and he's cold. But still, he stands next to his father dutifully and looks at the little girl with blue eyes that are now black from seven nights sleeping on a cold, dungeon floor behind bars. They cut off her dark brown hair during that time. She's tied to the pyre, and there are seven guards around her, holding sharper swords than normal, not that she could get away. There's one man dressed in black holding an unlit torch, with a mask over his face to prevent his death. His father raises his arm, and the torch is lit.
She locks her gaze to his, and he blinks at her. It's like she expects him to prevent it. He couldn't, though, he can't. She scares him, w
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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