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Meaningless trash, pouring out of my soul.
Mindless emotion, draining out of a hole.
This isn't creative. This bears no talent.
There is no hero, bravado and gallant.
Stop telling me lies. Stop saying, "You're great!"
I'm clearly meant for other things. This isn't my fate.
I'm not meant to be a writer, nor do I claim to be.
The most likely of fates, will be a killing spree.
I'm not afraid of murder. I've no fear for myself.
My only friends left are vampires and elphs.
If I committed murder, they'd be there by my side.
Shaking their heads in disgust. "We tried."
Poetry, void of emotion. Of valor. Of grace.
Please, sweet blade, take me out of this place.
Clichéd, you are, and that is a given.
A new emotional vehicle, has not been driven.
Same old, same old. It's crap every time.
I usually start faltering, start losing the rhyme.
It's what I'm reduced to. Childish poetry.
What's my excuse? Lack of creative chemistry?
Using words that don't rhyme. I'm pathetic, at most.
Remnants of talent,
He positioned himself on the grass of his front lawn. Glancing up at the night sky. The stars, soothingly blinking, infrequently, trying to explain to him, life's mysteries. And he was listening. He wanted to listen. He was alone, and he wanted to know why. Love had escaped him, once again. Was it fate?, he wondered. Or was it the choices I made?
He closed his eyes. Deep in thought. His straight jet black hair, casually adorning his forehead. He lay there, on the grass, thoughts of pain and suffering swimming around in his head. A tepid pool of despair. A tear ran down his cheek.
The tear ran down the side of his face, warming up a line on his cheek not affected by the cold winter air. Then another tear fell. And another. And another. Soon, he realised, he wasn't crying anymore - it had started to rain. In the distance, a few blocks over at least, he estimated, he heard a voice. A voice of a girl. Laughing. Singing. He brushed off his now-wet jeans, rid of the excess dirt
She's the friend who has been there.
Through thick and through thin.
When I thought we were over, we were meant to begin.
She's the friend that was there for me, whether she liked it or not.
She's the one who had still faith in me. Or what little I've got.
I've really fucked up royally, but she says "Hey, that's OK!</b>"
"I know you think life is hard, but I'm here for you, every day."
It's true we're still distant, and we've grown apart.
But that doesn't stop her from having a big heart.
Whether she's yelling at me, or giving advice in spares.
I know she's a loyal friend, someone who cares.
She's an interesting person, worthy of boy or girl.
And you better not pick a fight, or you'll soon give a hurl.
Despite all her problems, she has strength that I lack.
She's my favoritest friend, who also wears black.
She's a true friend. She is the definition, by far.
She's a loving friend. My little right star.
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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