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Holy Ghost: Chapter 2Lovino scrambled out of the bed, but fell to the floor with a smash.
"Ugh...hurts so bad...but so lazy...to get up..."
He crawled on the floor trying to find his way with his eyes shut from the brightness of the morning sun. 'How does Maria deal with this every morning?' he thought. He finally reached what he thought was a door handle and turned it. To his surprise and dissatisfaction, what he thought was the exit door was really the laundry closet. All sorts of assortments of clothing fell on the sleepy Italian. He try to crawl away, but the weight of dresses and parasols were far too much. He laid there with a pile of clothes on his back.
"Well, at least it's the nice laundry smell..."
He started to doze off once more, letting the warm clothes overcome all of his senses,
Maria's little feet pattered against the hard wood. In her small voice, she mumbled, "They'll never find me here!"
She ran down the hall into her large room. The large balcony window was open, and the sun was se
Holy Ghost: Chapter 1Maria had awoken from her deep slumber.
"Aye, today seems like a wonderful day, I must seize it! Hehe, sounds like something Grandpa would say..."
She stirred, but oddly enough, bumped into something. Under her covers was her older brother, Feliciano Vargas, dozing off. She smiled, kissed her brothers drool-drenched cheek, and went on the other side of the bed. To her surprise, she found yet another body! This time it was her other, more serious brother Lovino, deep in sleep.
"Even when he sleeps, he seems so pensive!"
She quietly went over her brothers and tiptoed out the door.
"Pleasant dreams, my brothers."
She closed the grand doors, leaving her brothers to dream.
Maria Constantina Vargas. That's what it said on the card the Vargas twins received so many years ago. It was like a present from God. Well, it WAS a present from God, as addressed in the gold-ordained letter. "Take good care of her. Love, God." It was strange. The brothers were devout Catholics, but this, they could
Running through my veins,
Like marathons, it rolls
Down my spine
Up again along that line
Heading towards the crook of my neck
I got to make sure
That I'm all set and checked
Like the bomb I am.
Because this heart
Is just too big
And this soul
Is too large
For this small,
Body to take.
Take them down
Take them all down
Because this world spins too fast
And I can't make it last.
It's too loud for you guys to take
The ringing in your ear might make it break.
It's just fascinating!
Thousands of pieces fly
Making their places in the earth, wind, waters, and sky.
My words are that powerful
I will reach you with my lines
I don't need any other sign
Before I blaze
Ten years old
Nine years to come
Eight years gone
Seven years lost
Six years remembered
Five years forget
Four years gone
Three years my return.
Two years done.
There is always one more year to go.
There Was A GirlThere was a girl, maybe 3 or 4 years old
And she didn't understand how real this world was.
This girl lived life happily, until one day.
One day, her daddy left her
And her sister.
And her mommy.
She watched him turn his back.
And all she heard from him was
"I give up. I can't handle you crazies anymore."
Her mommy cried.
Her family cried.
Heck, that little girl cried too.
But not because he left, no.
Because she thought it was her fault.
She thought she hurt everybody.
Was it because she didn't like her daddy?
Is that why everyone was sad?
She lived life like that for awhile.
Thinking she caused pain for others.
She was quiet, scared to talk, scared to stand up for herself.
Her daddy always told her that she was better off with him in her life.
Always telling her that her mother
Who worked from 9 to 5 and came home to cook the dinner
Wasn't doing a good job.
She hated herself as a mother.
She thought she wasn't a good daughter.
A good sister.
A good friend.
Then, she realized
Silly NotionsAt times, I don't much understand.
The world is so very fast
How is it possible to keep track.
Then again, you come to me
And find the guts to say
You don't very much like me.
I don't very much care
It's funny how
You think I might care
I do care, to some extent,
About you, that is.
Why come up with such a notion?
Don't I try to be nice and considerate?
So what if I'm different, isn't everybody?
Do I need an excuse to voice my views?
This is who I am, I'm already made, no need for extra clay.
I have no need for your silly notions.
What? Please, don't roll those eyes.
Because those who do that,
Just can't face the harsh reality
That silly notions, such as yours
Will never receive good criticism in our very changing world.
Good-bye. Have a nice day.
And please, make sure
To wipe that disgust off your face.
Like Any...Normal Day?Arthur was making his way through the International School of Worlds. He had a pile of history books that Veronique had forgotten to return to the library.
"Oh dear...it's another one of THOSE days..." Arthur grumbled to himself, not paying attention to where he was walking to. He knew the halls of the school like the back of his hand, usually dodging the other walking nations. However, this time, he crashed into someone out of uniform.
Rubbing his head, he asked in a fury
"Excuse ME, but watch where YOU are going...Why aren't you in uniform? Do you know I am school president? I can get you detention.
The young girl bowed furiously in the middle of her apologies. Her voice was sweet and high, almost like another person he knew. She had long, raven black hair, untied, that ended right at the base of her back. Her clothes were...not very much in style, but not very raggedy either. Her large brown eyes contrasted strangely with her tan skin.
"I'm so sorry. I am a cousin to many countries
Sunburnt Tomatoes: Chapter 3It was raining.
She hated the rain.
"Why does it have to rain today out of all days?"
Maria looked out her large window to the garden. The roses weren't shining as they usually were when the sun shined. She left her room, her dress dragging at the tail, for breakfast. She rushed to the kitchen, but she bumped into someone as she made her way.
"Oops sorry-ah, I am terribly sorry, your holiness..."
She bumped into the current Pope at the time, Pope Clement VII. He was a stoic man, his face pointy looking. His long beard was ragged and tangled and gray, and his nose looked as if it was going to point an eye out. He was a Medici, the most powerful family in all of Italy, centralized in Florence.
"Maria, watch where you are going next time. Next time, instead of your eyes wandering the Vatican, let it wander through a Holy Scripture."
He walked away. his red, white, and gold robe gliding along the carpet. She wondered about that man. He always seem to be scheming something.
A Little HopeIt flickered my way.
Like a little piece of hope.
How are you?
Will you help me?
It flickered a yes.
And I followed it.
Out of the dark labyrinth that 'was' my mind.
I was so young.
Looking that far back.
I wonder what that light was really doing there.
Was it there to save another lost soul?
I was lost.
But was I lost enough?
It makes me laugh now.
The thought, I mean.
Hope made its way down the long, dark corridors.
Cobwebs for drapery.
All of this.
Hope floated along.
It ignored all of this.
As it passed
Cobwebs became silver.
Dust was swept away
So windows can be seen.
Look, said the small hope I had left.
I looked and was surprised
At what a world 'could' be like.
I looked at my hope and faith
Gathered in that little ball of light
With tears in my eyes.
Can this really be?
Can such a world really exist?
It flickered a thoughtful yes.
And like the young girl I was
I popped open the window
I can tell you, it was
IdeasIt crawls up my spine.
Through every vertebrae I can feel it.
One, two, three, it went through.
This thing that crawls up my spine.
Right where my neck is.
It sits there.
Making the little hairs stand on end.
Does it really have this much control.
It continues through the back of my neck.
It drills into my skull.
Making one small hole.
Big enough that it can fit itself through.
These monosyllables, these words
Cannot express it.
It courses through my brain.
Swimming through all my thoughts.
Until It lodges itself somewhere
In the soft tissues of my mind.
This wonderful thing we call an idea.
One, two, three more come.
Up my spine,
Through every vertebrae,
Resting at my neck,
Making the small hairs stand,
One, two, three more,
Drill holes my skull,
Courses through my brain,
Swimming in my thoughts,
And they all take their place,
In the vast web that is my mind.
Taking a corner there, and a corner here,
And they work.
These 'its,' these ideas
Today is a regular day for other people
4/13 is just a regular Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday
However, for us
For us Homestuckers
It's not just only a day,
But it's a day that we are all know.
A day when our fandom started
When it ran for a person's mind,
And jump on the Internet and stayed in our hearts
A day a certain boy and a certain girl was born
Which they became iconic
And kick start our random filled adventure
A day where we, Homestuckers,
Remember 4 kids, 4 guardians,
12 trolls and their similar counterparts
A day when we have parties,
Meet up, cosplay as our favorite characters
And join together as this special day goes by
And just because this fandom happen,
And another fandom blossom;
Which is only about fandoms
Is not just a regular day
This day is special
It was our first day as a fandom
And it maybe our last
However, we will show our respect
We will survive as long as the ever-lasting sun
We will go on and on
Today is not a regular day...
the atlantic ocean is big enough to hide secretsin that twilight period of summer turning to fall-
in that bend in the road from september to october-
i couldn't explain it but i so desperately wanted to send a piece of myself to you
so you would have something to look forward to
i said, if there's a force to change the tides and turn the earth
and people think it's the most essential force in this world,
then i know they've never met you.
'who me? little old me?'
yes you, little old you,
you have enough resonance in the beats of your heart
to make armies march,
you have enough light in your smile
to make a blind man see,
you have enough magnitude in everything you do
to cause earthquakes to destroy the world,
or maybe just me:
i would die in your hands if you would only let me.
the beginning of october is stunning when the colours
are like fire engines and fireflies and fireworks.
bright flashes of everything that is beautiful and nothing that is hurt.
but after an immense burst of light;
WickedMorgana, in the cowering darkened city; neon is dead. Theatres all play the same movie, over and over again. No one watches; they’re all in their basements or ancient fallout shelters. Morgana’s heels clack pavement, and the echo goes on forever.
Feast on your tins of peanut butter and crackers; Morgana feasts on minds. Minds like yours, soft like veal. Everyone said this night would come, but no one believed it would be now. How could it be, when just yesterday the playgrounds were filled with sunlight and laughter?
Lightning cracks sky and illumes devastation, wretchedness, emptiness. Lions have escaped the zoos, and roam the streets hungry and fierce. The wind howls your name as you sit in the darkness wearing your foil hat. Morgana laughs, and laughs, and laughs.
And the echo goes on forever; like carnival music at a funeral, like a grave robber’s laugh, like handbills flying down an alley for a play that was never produced; like a child lost in the crowds, like t
The Story of a Boy. [An Original Poem-thing]
The Story of a Boy.
This is the story of a boy.
Who had lost his mother.
He had a father.
Who did not a care.
The poor little boy.
He never had friends.
All alone in a town.
Which was almost a barren land.
At the age of seven.
Something new happened.
A family moved in.
Into the barren town.
They had a little girl.
With her lovely dark curls.
And new friends they became.
The lonely boy and the bonny gal.
But the boy, he wasn’t.
What he seemed to be.
In his head there were demons.
Demons, waiting to be unleashed.
When the day arrived.
And the boy lost his mind.
He tortured the young girl
to her death.
Oh, it was such an evil crime.
The girl she returned
in her reincarnated form.
She was only four,
while the boy was eleven.
Shocked at her resemblance
with the girl he once met.
He tricked her yet again,
and again, she was killed.
Again she returned,
as her soul never rests.
her mind doesn’t remember
but her spirit deman
An Infectious DiseaseSome will say hope is a killer; an infectious disease that plants shitty pipe dreams in the mind, but hope is a good thing, sometimes the only thing that keeps us going. And it comes not from the pipes that won't play or the dreamer's gaze, but from the inside. All you have to do, is find it.
A Priceless FutureA Priceless Future.
Pretty soon we'll need to make payments
Just to be able to walk the pavement.
This added to the taxes on our bank statements.
Proves that any sort of personal attainment,
Will be shared with the government agents.
It’s blatant, we‘re a part of a money laundering arrangement.
Of which there is an infinite number of replacements.
Who are praying and waiting for your disengagement.
Longing for the day that you will become complacent.
Because a filled position in this day in age will always be vacant.
I call this, the reincarnation of enslavement.
Mr. FrostThe cellar, is far more suitable than the attic, but if they prefer the attic, let them have it. It makes no difference to me. Even when they come rattling down the staircase after dark, running dried chalky fingertips, along split cracked walls, or standing motionless behind closed doors with only blackness in their eyes. As if salvation lay on the other side. How amusing they are in the beginning, but their echoes become fewer and fewer as the days grow long. Until they no longer speak the name, Mr. Frost and I know, it's time to kill again.
Ragtime StreetsCrowded city streets
breezes turn to wind
winds to storms
and all that I can see
are strangely foreing faces
falling upon my lips
in misty shadowed eclipse
like drops of acid rain
and all that I can hear
are echoes of their voices
vibrating within me
like eyes of the hurricane
Crowded city streets
unkind ruthless walls of concrete
drapes of gray and halls of steel
no shapes, no trees, no air, no feel
only those strange foreign faces
ghosts of smiles from faraway places
I´ll never see
vibrating within me
Crowded city streets
and light is just a rare wishful dream
and night is just a trick
of neon quiver and toxic plasma gleam
only strange unfamiliar faces
of ghosts from distant forbidden places
blurred in the void
in emptiness of crowd
Crowded city streets
there is no reason for me
to stay to walk
to pray to talk
no place for me
in this crowds of colour and gaze
in this void of awed and amaz
These HandsThese hands,
Worn out from the long years of before.
I find it
Harder to breathe sometimes, I suppose.
But today, for some reason,
I lay here
In my old, musty bed,
Gasping for whatever air I can find.
That was once fresh and young
Is on the verge of total insanity
And slowly, just slowly
Taking away what I thought I loved.
Made these hands
These hands, now thin with age
Has made scratches throughout the decades.
With these hands
I have hurt
The ones I should've loved.
And with these hands
I pray with.
The same hands that I hurt with, I pray.
Please, take my already resting soul.
It is prepared to go.
I am sorry for all the hurt I have caused.
These hands then clench my chest.
My last bit of air, I suppose.
These bloodshot eyes
Slowly come to a close.
These hands then free themselves from their
I can finally rest
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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