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I Wish You Were Dead
And you're the memory I can't shake, the one ghost that I can't seem to out distance. The hurt from your absence I can't fake, a hollow space in my soul for remembrance. Sometimes I guess I wish you were dead, because then I could logically say why you're gone. But your memory weighs on me like lead, and I wish I could say I was done. That one memory you left to haunt, sad to say it's the only one in my possession. It's there like a taunt, and it's a sweet memory that leaves me with an odd obsession. Something so pretty, shiny and golden, a lie to an innocent child. A clawing memory of days so olden, a memory that sparks longing so wild.
And yes, I wish you were dead, so I could logically say why you're not here. I wish I could get that memory out of my head, but it's going to stay I fear.
Yes, I wish you were dead, dear old Dad.
On A Midnight Drive
The tempests toss...but with a single word they can be still...and in the peace finding solitude and comfort...release... Let us together strive to be perfect beings. Even if that means we become something more than human. Transcending humanity perhaps could be a blessing...to forget pain and regret...to have something more...something of a little more merit. Something greater than fate, or the cards life dealt to devastate...
Dive with me away from the confusion, maybe reality is an illusion. Come away with me into the silence of night…away from the painful blight. Come away with me tonight…on a midnight drive.
The Monster Sentence
Ever have one of those extremely long sentences that became an absolute monster? Let's face it, monster sentences eat paper, they look and sound unprofessional, and sometimes when reading one, it's hard to catch some oxygen.
While some of us love writing long sentences, sometimes wordiness can carry us into dangerous waters. In these dangerous waters, the monster sentence is lurking, just waiting to take a bite out of our writing. Don't let the monster sentence kill your writing style!
Here's an example: The dog ran quickly down the hill to chase the cat the cat then became distracted by a bird the bird was too distracted by a worm to notice the cat stalking it even though the cat was being chased by the dog.
Whew! That was a beast, right? Let's pick that sentence apart and see what can be tamed.
Revision: The dog ran quickly down the hill to chase the cat. The cat then became distracted by a bird. The bird was too distracted by a worm to notice the cat stalking it, even though the cat
Phantom of the Opera Critique
The Phantom of the Opera: Cliché Yet Charming
Though I was not familiar with Andrew Lloyd Webber's The Phantom of the Opera, I was immediately fascinated when this film (directed by Joel Schumacher) came to my attention. This film which was decisively panned by the majority of professional movie critics, I truly believe is brilliant. In this review, I will reveal why this movie is simply and purely cliché yet charming. The criteria used in my analysis include: content, set, lighting, musical score, acting, and originality.
The movie begins in a dull, black and white, grainy, 1919 Paris, France, at an auction in the old, run-down, Opera Populaire. Even though the opera house is covered in cobwebs and dust, one can easily discern that in its day it was glorious.
The real magic begins with "Lot 666," a chandelier. As the chandelier is lifted from the floor in a display of its fully restored glory, the first chord of the theme song of The Phantom of the Opera begins. A bone-chilling,
A Fresh Start
Over the course of our lives we receive scars,
We amass our hurt and anger in various sized jars.
We act like we're not good enough,
Our emotions hidden behind a wall that is rough.
So we live our lives in dreariness,
Watching the naïve with much weariness.
We scoff at their paltry temporary happiness.
We wear our misery like an honor medal,
Like we've been put through fire to test our mettle.
But maybe we're more vulnerable than we think;
Because once we love we begin to sink.
Fear pushes us to the brink.
But we look at the innocence in disgust,
We proudly swear, "In thee I will not trust."
When in reality, purity is all we lust.
But push on we will and must,
Like a dismal machine full of rust.
But maybe a vulnerability,
Is not some disability.
Because inside of you I can see,
The man you really want to be.
And maybe you can't be him just yet,
Your heart is tender and full of regret.
Your time will come so do not fret.
Because the purest heart,
Cannot tell fancy and love apart.
Nation of Shame
And we shall rise up a new people. Not chained in place by previous inequity or bigotry. We shall oust the individuals who have, for so long, restrained us from our freedom.
But what else are we but a nation in chains begging for scraps from our master's table? What else are we but the foot stool of the abusive and corrupt?
We ought to be more than the slaves of those who were originally indentured to us. Destitute and impoverished we are, our very liberty raped by their power hungry greedy natures. Who are we but tired, poor huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse, the homeless tempest-tost?
We are what we swore to protect and nurture. We are the burdened and afflicted. We are the nation of the forcibly mute. Tortured with visions of freedom and grandeur.
We have nothing…not even our name. We are the nation of shame.
My Darkest Sin, My Evil Desire
Slowly the darkness creeps, into the world it seeps. Like a bead of rain water, indeed it does not falter. In the shadows it lurks, waiting to do its evil works. The monster within, slowly it inches in. Like a long forgotten nightmare, its horrors truly too great to bear. The demon of the soul, bound to eat its victim whole. Something truly beautiful in the beast, one cannot resist it in the least. Gasp for air, you enter its insidious lair. Evil, you are my bane; smite it all as you will ordain. Baptize me in the blood; clean me in the crimson flood. Lay me down, let me drown. For in the darkness I cannot hide scenes so gory I nearly cried. I lied you are the thing clawing out from the inside. You are my evil within, my darkest sin. My evil desire.
When I was younger a year made no difference, a year really had no influence. I remember when a day was just a day; it didn't really matter anyway. Time floated by me, and it really didn't mean anything.
Now, I'm ushered into this new place, where all is puzzling even my face. A year is a century, filled with uncountable days all blurry. Time rushes by me, and it really does mean everything.
And it really is shocking that as I look back, was it the blink of an eye because it all looks dim and black.
Perhaps this isn't what it seems, maybe these horrific ideas are nothing but dreams.
When did it change? When did everything become so obscenely strange?
Moving from childhood and the familiar, into this new world that's so peculiar.
And as I wake up and remember it all now, it makes me sad and I wonder how...
When did I grow up?
Maybe you and I did have something, it's not like it meant absolutely nothing. Maybe it wasn't healthy but it was lifesaving. Maybe it was everything, maybe it was the only thing. Maybe you were all I was craving. Maybe I was only for devotion starving; our relationship was slowly fading, before even the very beginning. Maybe it was you I couldn't bare facing. Maybe your brown eyes always set my heart racing. Maybe I didn't know if you were only manipulating? Maybe somehow you were actually lying? Maybe my trust was slowly dying. Maybe in light of my paranoia we were failing. Maybe it was just our friendship poisoning. Maybe I couldn't bear staying. Maybe I couldn't express every single feeling. Maybe I couldn't stand the idea of disappointing. Maybe I couldn't force my heart to be ready for opening. Maybe this toxin was not really enthralling. Maybe this desire was slowly killing. Maybe our love was only poisoning. Maybe through this venom I was frozen, left with one thing:
The Young, The Wild, and The FreeDear Gabby,
This is a letter that I have wanted to write to you for over three years. I have used countless excuses: No time, no courage, no inherent reason. I have told myself countless times that writing letters to people like you is useless because people like you do not listen, no matter the person, the time, the medium, nor the words. You just do not, or maybe will not, listen. But, I guess in the realm of things this does not matter, because here I am, neither drunk nor sober, writing down my words on a piece of scrap paper you'll look at, but never read.
I was always quiet and you were always loud, and our friends told us it was okay because opposites attract. In public, it was funny. You would laugh and grasp my shoulder when you rambled on and I did not reply, but just listened. However, when we would arrive back at my apartment, it was always different. Instead of laughing, you would yell. Instead of grasping, you would pu
I'm Not a CutterJust because I'm not a Cutter,
Doesn't mean I can't feel pain.
It just means I’m strong enough,
to fight the battle, without giving up,
or succumbing to my own agony.
It just means, that I'm strong enough to go on.
Depression.Depression feels like you've been sucked into a hole with no escape, very little air. Feels like someone's pushing you down, holding you and crushing your stomach. It feels like your drowning in air, yet everyone else is breathing.
You try to get better, some days you feel better than others but that doesn't mean your "cured." it just means your a bit happier than the previous day. In other words, you could say depression is where the days go by are covered in fog; sometimes the following days are brighter than others, but still have fog - around the edges. Sometimes it's really dark and gloomy, and its hard to make them bright.
We all have different ways of dealing with it, medication, talking to people; whether that be a therapist or your family or friends, alcohol, cutting, illegal drugs, unsubscribed medication, and so on and so forth. We all have different ways, yes perhaps not always a healthy option is chosen but at least it's something that dulls the pain.
We're Waiting.To be a good writer is to be you. To be a good artist is to be you. To be anything is to be you. Dream. Live. Wonder. Create. And be yourself.
Because you are the one who can make the change that everyone's been waiting for. You can do what others were too afraid to do. You just need a little push, and a lot of hope.
But most of all, you need you. Your individuality. Your uniqueness. Your creativity. Your imagination. And if you tie that all together, you can create something absolutely beautiful. Something new. Something amazing. Something we've all been waiting for.
The world is waiting for the next J.K Rowling. The world is waiting for the next Van Gogh. The world is waiting for the next Beethoven. The next Einstein. The next John F. Kennedy. The world is waiting for you. We're waiting for a change. And who's the say you can't make a change? Who's to say you can't make a difference?
You can. You most certainly can. All you need is a dream, hope, and a little bit of imagination. And
bullyingbullying is never going to stop
so stop protesting
and live with it
I don't give a fluff if you've never been bullied
but I have
and so have more than half the people in the world
instead of protesting
help and stand up for someone who has been bullied
don't just sit there
Please see meSome of them walk by, dressed sharply, rushing off to their respective destinations.
“My body hurts…”
Some carrying briefcases, filled with important documents no doubt.
Others have less formal clothing, boilers suits or overalls, hardhats.
Construction workers I wager.
Some stop for a short moment, checking their watch, lighting a cigarette, then move on.
The scene blurs a bit.
“Please… no more”
A man stops; he looks right at me, his eyes a mystery, his brow furrowed.
“Can’t take it…”
He grimace slightly, moving along, pretending he never saw anything.
“Don’t force me to go back…”
I stumble and fall onto my back, grunting painfully.
A man with a hardhat and a coffee mug jogs over and leans over me.
“Oi lad, you okay?”
For the first time ever, someone sees me, really sees me, the man’s eyes go wi
Just Venting"Are you alright?"
"Wow, you're good. Why aren't you in honors?"
Because I know I'll fail.
"Hello? ...You okay?"
"Wow, I didn't mean it. It was a fucking joke...Hello? Hey, I said I'm sorry."
"You don't appreciate anything."
"You're so lazy."
"Wow, what's got you in such a pissy mood?"
"Nothing. I'm fine."
"When was the last time you saw him?"
"...Over a month."
"When was the last time you talked to him?"
"And that boy you talked about, you're still with him?"
"He cheated on me."
"You don't trust many people, do you?"
"I trust far more than I should."
"For someone with all these problems, you sure do smile a lot."
Have you ever had the feeling...Have you ever had the feeling like you just don't know what to do? Where you just can't even think of what to say or who to talk to? Like you're being torn between two sides and you just don't know who to pick? Like if you make one wrong move, you'll be sent down a slippery slope with no return?
I feel like this every day. I don't know what to say, and I don't know what not to say. I don't know who I should and shouldn't be talking to. I don't know what questions are safe to ask, and what ones are better left unsaid.
I can't simply hide away from it all. And I can't simply do something too drastic. I feel like I'm being forced to feel some way when I feel another. Like I'm the bad guy for staying true to myself.
I'll get in big trouble if I make a mistake, and I don't know how to keep going without making one. I'm terrified of the inevitable fates that I see...I can't find a path to a good outcome no matter how much I think it over...
No one tells me straight up what's wrong, I have to
Love for both artsA pen is mightier than a sword. But which paper is mightier. A plain lined sheet or a sketched pad?
On a sketch pad, you can draw and express your emotions. You can create things that people never knew could be created. Details drawn just right so you feel like jumping into their fantasy or reality. The colors blend into an explosion of life and dreams. Even something simple can become something beautiful with time. Art also requires blood sweat and tears to master and become known. Art also let’s you bend the rules of other works like anime and film and make them your own.
On a lined sheet, your imagine is written out in words. Your words are nice and brings images to your head like a movie. Once you start reading it could be slow at first but you will be pulled in. You will feel each characters emotions, pains and struggled they may be going through. You can also see the style of the author and may even learn about them from their pieces. You can also make things that exist you
I sit in quiet agony, the sound of suffering stirs me from my reverie. Torturous blasphemy. The screams now come rather pitifully.
And what is this for? Some sort of obsession or lore?
I stand at the door, waiting for a footstep on the floor. I want at the brink, feeling my eyes close in a painful blink. Physical sting is all I drink.
And what is this for? Some sort of obsession or lore?
Hold me captive in this cell, but in these four walls I will not dwell. Hold me until my rebellion begins to quell. But you will die in this hell as well.
And what is this for? Some sort of obsession or lore?
So lock me in this damn prison…but you will never take my vision…you can never steal my ambition…you will never break my determination.
And what is this for? Some sort of obsession or lore?
Lock me in this jail, but we both know you will fail.
Burn you wicked tormentor...
I will be the victor.
So open that door...
Open that door...
You will get all you deserve and more.
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