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Wide Open SpacesSome sick fuck
Half inanimate object
The man, forty stories up
Hurt me, hurt me
The closest to the edge on the day she was meant to bow
"Thank you, I'm all better now"
Forty story man doesn't look out
at her feet
on the other side
This song goes out to you, ghost boy.And maybe you
too much of your own music
I am violin string, broke on lonesome.
You are an LSD trip inspired tattoo,
words to your tongue you can't take back.
and my head said
you won't fucking forget
you can't stop dreaming of
in all it's grand cliché
and the music.
my speakers are broken
but that never
the words from flowering out into the air
and so can you blame me
to your name
People are big and scarySometimes
a human life is too big
and I am too small
and I think
if I squeeze hard enough
that I'll disappear completely
I don't believe in godAnd, as hard as it is to believe sometimes, you just want to feel like someone is guiding you.
Dragging your hands forward to the asphalt.
Pinning your wrist bones to the skin of your palms.
As you, or was it Jesus, who saved you from falling head first.
Into the man-made black, flat as waves.
The taste of your bleeding tongue.
The sky, trees and houses tipped around you like the cateye of a marble.
And some sufferer, buried in regret and silence.
Both creeping towards our death day where, goddamn, we finally get to read the answers in the back of the book.
Do single-cell organisms go to heaven?
And why allow me to learn my lesson.
But yet I keep writing, starting every sentence with "And"
Comes with a swordOne day I'll tell them everything I never talked about
The women at the support group
the strongest people I've ever met.
Jawbones made of steel and fractured jade
He pushed her up against a wall and broke her nose
Her eyes fill will glistening compassion
when she speaks of him.
How can you not see how brave you are?
The strongest people I've ever met
Fighting wars we cannot speak of outside this room.
I wonder how many of us will live through love
And of all the prayers for me, I hope my prayer for them is answered
Because some will return to their husbands fists.
The sun is shining outside
so I pray that they resist.
Praying mantisThe praying mantis
in my spot
on my sofa
I eye him from across the room
with his hands, brown spikes clasped together,
prays about as much as I do.
And equally as sucessful.
In the dark shade of the room.
His glassy eyes watch me watch him,
the light from the window reflected like TV screens.
His arms still fixed
the tips touching
still muttering under his breath.
He stays for long
but I daren't break his trance
in my chair
in my space
with nowhere to go but home.
SuckerEvery little thing
You mustn't be so forgetful
This is you
I'll sit on my porch when you go.
And through Monday, too.
Why not April, September?
This is me keeping secrets behind sour eyes
And my heart doesn't lay still
for very long
My insides twist
when I wonder where you are
This is me,
When you lose a best friendWhen we said friends forever and
crossed pinkies like grade-schoolers,
I could only believe those words
lodged in your heart
like they did mine
because every time I think back
I can't help but remember the
under star lit constellations,
and study sessions where we
learned more about each other
than we did Biology
but now it's clear
that each beat of your heart
has made those words fade,
and you could care less
about crossed pinkies
but I'll still see you,
and hear your voice
and I'll still wish
the meaning hadn't changed-
Forgiveness takes twoThe words are struggling
to tumble off my tongue,
and despite having
a fleshy cushion
to rest on,
they stain my teeth
and sting like acid
"I'm sorry," I stutter,
but the bitter taste
doesn't leave my tongue-
not because the words weren't true,
but because I know
I won't hear,
She's an artistShe's an artist.
Always seems to be daydreaming,
She draws to escape her pain.
Cause for a single moment,
When her work is done.
It seems like there is no more rain.
And she could finally touch the sun.
The one that shines so brightly in her paintings.
But then it's gone,
So she keeps drawing,
She's become good at escaping.
Running from reality.
Because dreams are the only things she wants,
Her imagination is the only thing she's ever known.
And it's sad really...
Because she tries so hard to be happy.
But the most beautiful thing she could ever create.
Was that smile upon her face,
And that is the one thing that remains blank.
Waiting to someday be something more than,
At peace within this tranquil garden,
I picture the moments where I've made you smile.
Those times are endlessly precious to me,
I think they're worth the while.
They're worth the time I've spent with you,
Even if it wasn't long.
I only wish I'd spent a little more,
Before our love was gone.
Mommy Is A Super HeroMommy Is A Super Hero
Standing before his class, he held his tiny report,
“Who is your super hero?” Was written in yellow chalk on the green board.
Exhaling his breath, the curly haired boy closed his little eyes,
“Don't be ashamed of yourself” His mother's words rung in his ears, “And don't ever cry.”
He began to read aloud, with a shaky voice.
to his class, he told his mother's story.
At age fifteen, she was a beauty queen,
the most beautiful girl in all of the world.
She flaunted her silky hair, bore her bare legs,
prided her breast. The boys treated her like she was a treasure chest.
They respected her rules, they “looked, but didn't touch”,
but there was one older man, who from her, wanted too much.
All alone he met her, he approached her in the alley,
and all his mother told him, was that this man had treated her badly.
But what the boy didn't know was that she was taken against her will,
and that two months later, she turned up ext
Still HereSuicide is a
Thought that frequently lurks
In my mind, wich
Lets it overcome the
Laughter and happiness
Here I still fight, however
Enduring this sad life
Reviving my hopes
Embracing the gift of life
cenotaph of stormsthe first thunderstorm
was triggered by a blunt pair
of scissors, sparking violently
against the lightning,
shaking in the wind.
the downpour pierced,
tattooed with no ink but
the dark bleakness
of an overcast morning,
infiltrating uniformed wrists.
hid behind the music block,
shaky raindrops rioting
fears, she fractured.
the second storm
wept a two year downpour
outline that dripped from wrist
to hip, sidelong silhouette glances
obscured by the rain.
stalictidal waves shuddered
frozen, until icy glass
fell in stained shards from
the stillness inside.
thinner, brittler, growing
in flurries of sleet and hail,
her outline was never filled,
though the floods threatened
the third thunderstorm
was a mist-ridden melancholia,
a dream for permanence
smeared in ink through
fueled by the hope
that just this once,
the rain would spark a
rebirth beneath the ground.
instead, a tsunami
washed away the ink
as tides so often do.
smotherher spine was dusk
and unmade nests,
but he tried to live there
he was neither nocturnal
nor a dawn-believer,
so he suffocated
in the birdhouse of her ribs.
between my vertebrae, you are (cemeterial)oh, these writers never speak; they
claw words out of bird carcasses,
poets pecking viscera like necropolitans.
they count their ribs to remind you
of a corpse or of a matchstick. dry bones
between fissured wrists & funeral pyres,
these have been dying days &
they're all mortuaries.
a dangerous hallucinationThe light coming through the window was bright,
much too bright.
Even though my eyes were closed
I could see it-
The skin of my arms prickled,
sweat dripped from my brow.
It was two in the afternoon but…
the sun was setting
through the window facing east.
I should have seen the hutch,
shelves lined with bone china
decorated with delicate leaves and vines.
I was so thirsty
and reaching for cups that should have been there.
Instead I found a billboard of butterflies,
the colors raging
more than any rainbow
I'd ever seen.
Their wings fluttered and flashed
yet somehow they moved in slow motion.
I wanted to stand,
wanted to reach out and touch them but…
I couldn't move,
and yet I laughed
ignoring my dry mouth
and the tingling in my feet.
There was a tempest
on the rise
and in my blood.
A sugar rush disguised
as a riot of butterflies
and they were swarming me.
There was a small vial
of insulin in my pocket
that I nev
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More