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jugendliche.i.) die Bekennende
Du bist meine Liebe, meine Engel in der Nacht.
Die Sonne scheint so hell fuer uns, du kuesst mich und sagt,
"Kannst du bitte halt mein Hand?"
Ich kuesse dich, weil ich weiss ich kann.
Ich hoffe, du weisst, du bist wirklich schoen.
Alles, ich kann sagen ist "ich brauche dich so gern."
Meine Liebe fuer dich ist sehr gross, ich bitte zu sein.
Immer Ihren Liebling, damit du mein sein.
ii.) die Sehnsucht
Sie ist so viel staerker als ich.
Sie leuchtet den Raum und ich fuehle mich
Als wuerde ich tiefer fallen in der Liebe.
Ich denke, das sind Liebhaber oder Taschendiebe?
Aber sie ist so anders, so perfekt und Art ist.
Es scheint, sie fühlt sich nicht Zwist.
Ich will nur ihre Hand zu Halten,
Aber das ist nicht etwas, was ich ganz einfach verwalten.
Sie hat eine andere, obwohl sie liebt mich mehr
Und ich weiss, ich liebe sie ebensosehr.
A Little Bit Like Crazy: Chapter 4.1chapter four
“is astrid your girlfriend?” keillan asked me unexpectedly at our breakfast. i nearly choked on my chocolate milk.
“what the heck, kiddo?” i tried to laugh but it just came out really uncomfortable sounding. “of course she isn’t.”
“well, was she?” his insight never ceased to amaze me. his eyes were large and intent, as if he’d thought about this for a long time.
“what even would make you think that, keillan?” i appeared composed. it was still way too soon for me to answer questions about astrid. “you’ve known me your whole life. that’s the most peculiar thing to ever come out of your mouth.” i was avoiding eye contact. keillan’s got this way of making you feel totally at ease with even the most uncomfortable of topics. i guess it’s a good trait to have.
“okay, you guys are always talking about
A Little Bit Like Crazy: Chapter 3.1Chapter Three
The only person that was at home when I arrived back was my sister Brinley, a spoiled fifteen-year-old with a penchant for making my life miserable. She was lying on the sofa Daisy Buchanan-style, sprawled lazily reading a fashion magazine.
“You’re home late,” she grumbled, not even having the decency to lift her eyes from the gossip column. “How was your drunken rave last night?” Her words were dripping with sarcasm, a smirk on her lips. She genuinely repulsed me.
“You didn’t,” I spat gruffly in her direction, wide-eyes full of anger. “You did not see anything.” I was terrified, not that she had seen, but that she had shown our parents.
“Au contraire, my dear sister,” she chuckled nonchalantly. “I especially liked the one of you smashing a beer bottle into Mrs. McCartney’s heirloom china vase.”
“Brin, you wouldn’t dare,
fresh.don't look at me.
every time you do i see her.
you look just like her, but
shorter thinner sweeter
younger. you are so much younger.
you're nowhere near as naive.
innocent is not in your expansive
vocabulary. your voice is both
agonizing and intoxicating.
we used to lie next to each
other, hold hands and harmonize.
you held me when i cried
and laughed at my cheesy jokes.
now you have gone. you don't
even speak to me, no choral context.
but you look at me. and you smile.
and you make me feel so fresh,
don't ever leave my side.
a memoir of a butterfly.her memory is like a dead mockingbird.
something so beautiful, but remnants
scatter in the wind, unable to
comprehend whether it was deserved
perishing or a mistake.
will you remember in twenty
years, or twenty months, twenty
goddamn seconds, or will she
fade like the fluttering feathers
of the bird shot down in anguish?
can you kiss yourself goodnight
because her butterflies will never
again land on your fleshy lips?
laugh to keep from crying, cry
to keep for being numb,
pretending her presence was
that of a ghost inside a dream.
cover your wrists in gauze and
guilt to prevent moral infection,
feign disinterest when she bites
her lips, don't crave to be the
one biting back, because you'll
only be chewing yourself out.
don't look directly at her, she
is a sapphic eclipse, tease
me with your sloping neck,
tease me with your impeccable
jawline, hazel eyes and
crooked nose, a sweet breathiness
achieved by her trembling,
raspy alto, how i want to
press my mouth to hers and utter
the cure for romantic epilepsy is you.lighthearted heartthrobs
leave me tenderhearted for
the moment, callously discarded
when the brokenhearted relapses
occur and my heartache is just
a simple subtraction amongst
the breakage and blood pumping.
can you heal me? can you heal you?
do you know how to divide me
into the good, the bad, and the
parts that get too clingy?
can you tell me what it is
that keeps you clinging?
your body is like a metronome,
and i just want to move
to your tempo, you envelope
me with your beautiful
lyricism and lips like a rose.
hands hold like roping soliloquies
of the what-ifs and what-nows,
they're clenching like we're
on a roller coaster and i just
want to hold on to you, if
i could kiss you would i be
considered lucky or a casualty?
i want to peruse the inky pages
of your loitered soul, picking
up the pieces because something
as beautiful as you doesn't
deserve to be littered.
all i want you to do is stand
near me, not even next to me,
because the glow of your glower
is gorgeous even in your mos
drowned.this ice is getting thinner
and i keep feeling like i'm
about to fall through. i just
wanted you to envelope me in
your harmony, sweet kisses
making the syncopation
between broken glass and
heart pieces, shattered
with lips uttering breathlessly.
i wanted to be warmed by
the sound of your melodies,
you told me of my beauties
and i believed you, remember
that my soul is fragile and
that suicide and silence
start and end the same way.
keep in mind when you told
me how much you cared and
how much i hope you realized
at this point the water is
freezing and i can't swim.
love like remission.everybody says that
i'm a specific type. i
think that's just an
excuse to say there's
really no chance i can
ever be loved. keep saying
that i'm beautiful, keep
saying that i'm good.
do you really think i
believe any of that? i'm
trying to turn a new
page, cleanse the wounds
she caused me, and now
i don't know which way
to turn because neither
path is paved for me and
neither door is open. i
wish i could say it was
easy but i can feel it
coming back, steadily like
a creeping animal ready
to pounce on my freshly-
healed heart and soul.
everyone says i have a type.
i believe that in a
heartbeat because each
heart that beats next to
mine is sweet in the melody.
i don't have my choice of
the picking but i can
pretend to be free of this
illness, relapsing on
romanticism and using stoicism
as a crutch, this wall i
put up can be broken down
by whoever's love is strong
enough. someone, take my hand
and lead me through the disease.
BrokenI'm not broken,
Just a little bent.
All those words you've spoken,
Just left me a little dent.
My heart isn't shattered,
It just has a crack.
Sore, bruised, and battered,
But my tears I hold back.
Please don't worry about me.
I'm fine, I swear.
I just want you to see,
That I'm still able to be repaired.
Even though I'm hurt, damaged, and weakened,
Even though I've felt so much pain.
It doesn't mean I'm truly beaten,
It just means that I'll need a little help again.
Life is a Study of ContrastIf not for the darkness,
We wouldn’t know the difference
Between a star and a ball of dust.
Life is a study of contrast.
We get dark,
Not to fall apart
But to shine.
Bad HabitI think I was your drink of fine wine,
only used when needed from time to time
I'd get you tipsy, as stars collide
Your drunk, slurred words
blending in with mine
(I couldn't even comprehend
when you said it wouldn't happen again)
I think I was your cigarette break
when anxiety filled,
from me, you'd take
One puff here, and one puff there
(I could barely hear
when you said, "I'm sorry, dear")
I think I was your line of cocaine,
thinking I'd be there to ease your pain
I'd bring you higher,
head suspended in clouds
(So I knew it was fake,
when you said, "It was my mistake")
I think I was your bad habit,
and ignorantly, you were mine
You continue to relapse, my dear
But rest assured:
I won't this time.
WallsTell them all your secrets.
They'll never tell a soul.
They'll keep you standing up
When your body's had its toll.
Beat them in your anger.
They'll never scream or cry.
They'll let you vent your feelings
And never pester why.
Hide within their safety.
They'll keep you tucked away.
They'll let in just enough light
For you to know it's day.
Is it too much to ask?I don't understand what's wrong with me today.
It feels like all my of friends have drifted too far away.
I've tried to be strong and fix all I've wronged
But nothing goes according to plan.
And I just want to back up, stop and start over again.
And these days are the loneliest of my life.
It feels like something is wrong but everything seems alright.
Are they trying to avoid me because of being me?
The past is the past but I hope I'm not history...
All I want is someone to talk and stay...with me.
Is it too much to ask for a little time and company?
Unrequited LoveAn act of admirable courage
from the sincerest of hearts
a love that I cannot encourage
the feeling in me then departs.
Do not be in solitary confusion
I have a burning determination
do not reach the wrong conclusion
but I must reject this fixation.
It is not you, nor is it me
please do not lose all hope
but I believe this was not meant to be
I know that you will be able to cope.
A heart with fervent ambition
may not be able to settle as easily
a pretend love cannot come to fruition
truly, I do care for you deeply.
Forgive me, how selfish am I
for turning away such a great love
please don't let your spirits die
No words of appeasement to think of.
I apologize endlessly for your unrequited love.
His Last Kill"Open the window," he said to me,
one morning after the sparrow had died.
"Cast his feather, his copper wing,
his beak of honor, his perch of pride."
But I couldn't cast them - set them free -
to the breeze or to the rolling tide,
for the sky was static, the water - bleak,
and the conscience of my suitor - denied.
Maiden of the Olive Oil TreeMaiden of the olive oil tree -
caryatid body, color of cream,
how do you fare against the crumbling temple?
How do you fare against the pressure
weighting upon your chest?
For you have long kept this temple,
broken, like a mother.
You have long adorned it
with your cultivated crest.
But when the framework falters -
the foundation all decaying -
will you climb the olive branches,
free, no more inept?
And bathe in oil satin,
to smooth the ancient scarring,
as time releases tension
from your ankles to your breasts.
Look At My Palms, They Shake Like My Current WorldMy veins? They bleed ink,
Thick, black, translucent blood.
The flowing won't stop.
Sometimes, I worry
My oxygen intake will
Falter and shut down.
I have night terrors
And wake up suffocating,
Sleep? A luxury.
I can't afford to waste it
Once I'm getting it.
Over in my world of sad,
There's too much pressure.
It's caving into me, my
Lungs and cavity.
Anymore, a cadaver
Behind curls of my dead skin.
By imagination, time
Is just an object.
Why should I follow
When I can barely keep my
Own head from falling?
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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