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Firefly Jan 2016
I stroke these flames,
And pat my tail,
Tapping the dust away.
I whisper to these dead flames,
And look above,
Begging for the relieve by day.
No longer do I glow in Night,
It was sudden, this cold,
And the darkness in here scares me,
The flutter of my wings echo in hollowed oak,
Making me jump,
Making me wish to rip them from this back,
If only I could reach; stretch further,
But ah! I cannot.
But as my heart took another leap,
And I saw shadows on my wooden walls,
I looked to the skies with watering eyes,
As seven billon lights floated in the night,
And the world was lit,
As if it were day.
A smile appeared to my lampyridae lips,
I was barely conscious of the wind leading me away,
I was humming a beautiful melody of my forefathers,
A song sung with the restoration of hope,
The world can light itself during dark!
They are finally here,
People! Man! **** sapiens!
And the world has lit the dark for them,
The sun is warm;
The wind is sweet, for them.
And though sad, we are happy to no longer be needed,
We love this world, but others await, dormant, eager to be lit.
So we disappear this day,
Hardly noticing the return of bioluminescence,
Etching in our memories,
Seven billion stars and the Moon's beautiful crescence.

                      Love and Light
                            from firefly
There are currently more than 7 billion people in this world, who are capable of producing bioluminescence when they do good deeds; help each other_; hug someone who is sad, give that homeless guy on the street warm blankets and hot soup, take an orphaned child in and love him as your own, give a sweet rose to a girl crying because the "beautiful" skinny girl at her school called her ugly..... Will we ever be seven billion but one...and not one species separated so thoroughly?
Please love! Please produce light! Please let's change.

Crescence was a word used by H. Brooke in his poem 'Universal Beauty' ...a poem this one is only a meek imitation of....I'll post it after this one, please read :)
Kayli Marie Nov 2015
Constantly aware
of my
input
and output,
I am the most inefficient
worker bee.
Fur wet with honey,
I cling to the insides of
hives and lose
my wings,
unable to peel them back
away from one another.

A fortress much more a home
than a homicide,
rose thorns are hardly my sting,
so I weave in and out
of their buds and barbed wire.
I am not supposed to feel
a thing.

I die for my cause.
I am what I make.

I forage in the afternoon,
and then free my sting
from my skin
decidedly.
there are still crickets outside although it is mid october

i try to tread softly on the way to class
or to breakfast
the quiet spot that i pull high up over my head so no one can hear

the noise of the cricket that cast itself under my boot
oh! little surprise!
i am so sorry
but your scream was only a crunch
that rang out two weeks ago
i still remember
not actually about crickets (though this did happen) but rather a summary of a state of mind
KILLME Sep 2015
I squished a bug
rubbed him out of existence with my thumb
quick, minimal, forgettable experience

I wonder,
are people like that?
Am I like that?
Katie Elzinga Jun 2015
You were a giant garden, growing beauty as I, the small bug, admired all that you were and everything you became. I saw the air you breathed in and the seeds you spewed out; my spots and wings were nothing magical to you. You made life, with help from the sun, and all I did was eat everything you created. I destroyed your flowers, slowly and softly - but it took a bigger toll than I had thought it would. I thrived off the misery I caused you. You lived for life and I lived for destruction; for chaos is the only disorder that keeps us sane.
little prose piece i wrote a while ago - hope you enjoy c:
Glottonous May 2015
I come upon a dead butterfly in the parking lot.
The blackest asphalt sets off the shimmering seafoam scales of his one remaining wing:
A wedge of Luna and lime
against a tarmac night sky.
I wonder where the other wing is,
And when he lost it.
It might have cracked off and blown away
long after he was dead,
Like a sheet of snowflakes.
But he probably lost it while he was still living,
Hit by a car or an ignorant wayward step,
Left to flutter and stumble to his demise
Like a wounded soldier or a choking fish;
A cerulean one-winged sailboat
Overturned on the vast black pavement.
An observant poem.
MsAmendable Apr 2015
To take a life
(Like crush a bug)
It's just a fly...
I made it die
This is why I shouldn't be awake so late
Joey Dec 2014
Little lady luck
bug crawls up and
stuck, I try to save her
reach for her gently
but too strong and maybe
I should've gone slower
now she is dead
and my heart it has lowered
fix her a nice bed
of dirt
and fill it with leafs
she will sleep long
though her life was so brief
miss her already
though it doesn't matter much
in the long run
but now the popcorn is done
and so back to the movie
pick up and smoke
and now what was I doing?
Sylvie Barton Nov 2014
if i were a bird
then perhaps the june-bugs would love me
and they would stretch out their legs to me
embracing in the dirt
like the man with the gun
and the girl with the blue-eyed flower
growing and fading all at once
(a sort of commentary on how we think being above people will make them love us, but that only makes them fear us?)
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