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I hid from you again today
Mind numb, heart cold and freezing
I'll never have the strength to say,
It hurts when it's so easy
It's quiet in this shadow life
I lead beneath the floor
My wit's grown like a broken knife
Not useful anymore
But cutting still, despite its wear
And dangerous to handle:
The universe I carve with care,
A double-edged warm candle
The time I bought to write this out
Was stole from other tasks
Is what you'd say, without a doubt
"...We love you," if I asked
You love me: truth so granite-set
But -- please forgive -- it's hard
When all you see's my silhouette
Not each component shard
I still believe that better days
Are waiting 'round the bend
For now, hello there, Internet! *waves*
*closes eyes, hits send*
DecisionsI taught myself to buy bologna because I like it. There was too much of it for one person to eat over the week it could survive after being opened, so I took out half and put it in the freezer, so I don't have to throw it out like I did the salami. I don't know if once-frozen bologna is as good as fresh, but I know for sure I can't enjoy it at all if it's spoiled and in the trash.
I taught myself to snap at the man at the door when he wanted to quickly convince a signature out of me, promising secret freedom from utility rates unnecessarily high. And we live in a time where you can look up anything at all on the internet at your own convenience. For shame. I could have closed the door in his face, but I wanted to settle our differences with words. He gave me a lot of differences, so he got a lot of words. He told me, coldly, to have a nice day right before he finally left, and I did.
I've been teaching myself to wear skirts and scarves and put flowers in my hair because life is
Childhood Myths"The Easter Bunny is really your parents"
hears a child of seven
"He's not real. He's a myth.
Your parents put those gifts there
because they love you
and you are very special to them."
"Your parents are really the Easter Bunny,"
No one tells the child of nineteen,
who could have figured it out years ago, perhaps,
but didn't want to believe it.
"All these years you saw a superhuman quality
to the way they did exactly everything you couldn't do but needed most
it made you feel safe
but the way you saw your parents,
that's a myth too,
and you only ever believed it
because you were young."
There were only ever two
who are fallible,
who love you.
A child of twenty-one prepares an egg hunt, while the exhausted family sleeps
desperate to prove
that love was always stronger than magic anyway
The Caged Bird's LullabySit and stay a spell,
Before life takes you
I am going to write a love story
Across your lungs
So you can exhale
When you can't
Find the words.
Sing to me
Tragic little song.
The one about how
She broke your name
And took your bones.
I will find each fragmented piece
And clean out
All the maggots.
Your windows are broken,
Cracked and tear-streaked.
Allow me to mend you;
Is far more beautiful
That just a pair of
And we will dance
In the freezing rain.
We can help each other
Wash off all the poisons
To the backs of our minds
And the insides
Of our mouths.
Flying in circles.
I will take you past
The farthest horizons,
Where no cages will
Keep you again.
And I will Always be the MoonWe have gotten so attached to these days and these months,
but a deer doesn't know a Tuesday from a Thursday
and a caribou can't comprehend that it was born on a September afternoon,
but they can understand this instant, this moment, this breath,
only now, no longer the past, and only the future when they get there,
there's a healthy lack of awareness in that,
escaping the fear of death but thriving off the instinct to live,
everything so primal and based off gut reactions,
I guess you could say ignorance is bliss,
but ignorance only actually applies when it comes to humanity,
oh I would like a life like that,
one that is organic, tangible, and ripe with bloody berries,
one where carnal creatures run rampant,
one where we rise from the dirt with muddy thighs
because we were bred into these earthly bodies
to hold seconds in our palms like newborn children,
and to throw our heads back and howl against the awareness that we are dying,
for oh this skin is only our host,
This, I knowI know that breakfast isn't necessary
and I am not an echo of my sister nor am I confused,
I know that culture is stupid
in thinking that poetry has no life of its
own, that unicorns and dragonflies don't live in our hearts,
and that orange juice and chocolate
taste exactly the same.
I know that life has endless mysteries and insane parallels.
Rage is a lot like passion and passion is a lot like rage.
That and an orange and gray striped sock somehow matches
the blue and pink polka-dotted one.
I know that pianos and violins sound a lot like music
but are really a sign that not everything is black and white.
That and trumpets and clarinets are best friends.
I know that there is only one doctor
that I would let cure me.
And there's only one set of parents
I would let help me.
That and spiral notebooks are the devil's handiwork.
Above everything else,
I know that it's all
very, very, complicated.
TemperatureThe effortless crescendo
of adoration; touch-less, thought-less
and the welcoming drift
from reality to possibility.
I am you, only rain drenched,
and my lungs have never fathomed such eloquence.
The anticipated bloom
of nurtured expressions from smiles
to overwhelming pleads for much more than I
can afford; terminals and bare threads.
The burn of knees to unpolished wood floors,
and thirsty poets, comparing snow caps
to symphonic shells.
The journey of dependent lips,
from hurricanes to summer hail.
the want, lackingyour smile is impoverished
slack, I think,
with some kind of pain.
perhaps a memory.
you used to be charming,
deft and bashful and
oh, so sweet.
now you are something
much stranger, wilder.
now you are beautiful.
complicated mechanismsthe disjointed pounding wide-eyed
wonder that you are,
i'll always remember how it twisted my heart
when i realized you had dimples.
i pull up the straps of my dress as
we play cat-and-mouse on the floor
it doesn't fit me quite right
oh, please don't call me by my name
the sound of it on your voice
a little raspy from the sleep you didn't get -
will dilute my blood and thin it out with happiness
and hum inside my brain
i don't think i'll ever know you;
you have gears inside your head
and they are not visible to me.
i would pry inside but it's so delicate
and you don't mess around with complicated
mechanisms that you don't understand.
i am just a sick little girl
weakened by myself
and you and your mysteries hurt me
and of course i cry, do i ever do anything else?
don't let it go to your head.
i will dance
whether you are beside me or not.
The Lives of Petty ThievesJust like you, I couldn't wait to leave this place.
We drew lines across the map from point A to
anywhere we'd rather be but here.
We kept bags packed in the backseat, ready
To leave at a moment's notice, if we decided
Memphis called our names louder than
our worried mothers and fathers could scream.
You and I put ten thousand miles on that car;
We knew we were getting nowhere, but
we couldn't get there fast enough.
You told me we were born with gypsy blood,
ready to run.
I almost thought we were scared to stay in this damn town,
with the cobweb legacies and long-standing rivalries.
We weren't a tragic Romeo and Juliet, we could have been
together forever in a white house with a picket fence.
We could have had a family here, two kids and a hound dog,
beer on Friday nights with our friends
who swore they knew we were meant to be from the moment we met
when I was in love with your best friend and you
were scared to touch me.
I was a hurricane.
You were colder weather.
We had a whirlwind
To depression, for creating days without endWake up to the realization that you've been awake
for seconds, minutes, hours.
You've been awake in this warm, dark room
and you don't know how long it's been
but now you're conscious
and it starts again--
the pain, strong and steady, in your chest.
You gain consciousness in this too warm morning
and your thoughts whir in endless loops
because it's either that or face the weight in your chest.
Light breaks though the window, soft and unwelcome
but you take it as a reluctant gift--
a new distraction from the feelings awake in your chest.
Awake, but not conscious.
So you think yourself in circles a little while longer
waiting for those quiet pains
(the constant reminder)
to gain consciousness.
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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