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Musings I don't know if there is a god
all I know is that I love the sky
sometimes I yearn to be a part of the stars
put a few (million) light years
between those star lit lights
and the ones that glow dimly above the cities
(but they are bright enough
to drown out the stars)
I'm told it's a shame
that I can't bask in the beauty
of the surety of afterlife
(if every religion believes
those who don't believe
burn in hell, then aren't we all going down?)
but I think the most beautiful thing
is knowing that we are all cosmic dust
and one day you and I will no longer be different
we will be the same ash that burns in a
or the same ice that coats a planet
no one can even fathom
and I think it is beautiful
that seven billion people live and breathe
what is the point?
but the beautiful thing is
there isn't one
and if there is a god
I can tell you I will find him
in no c
A ShiverDark eyes and faded Cargo
Shorts washed out
Like the remnants
Of what she
Red crescent stains printed on
The rim of a Coffee mug,
But she couldn't drink
Because every time
She did she
She is a piece of glass that
Doesn't feel the razor
Of all the things she is and
Feels, when you ask
Her what she hates
Most about this
She says in a breath, a shiver,
A whispered word,
UntitledI am no sunshine dripping from your curtains,
but the shadows that spill between the cracks of
your forgotten concrete walls-
the ones you used to let me under
but now blockade me
as if you don't remember I was once permitted through.
I am the seeping darkness you've forgotten
as you have found far darker darkness-
discovered demons that were the catalyst
to make you forget that I had them too.
But I will not pretend I can't see the light-
just beyond my fingertips.
I still reach for it, do you?
I would love to be enlightened, doll,
if you have the time.
I used to be the something,
the one that kept you down
but you've found the shattered pieces of something
and you've clung and thrown me the shards.
Isn't it sad that more than the memories of you I remember
I recall the memories of them-
So preoccupied with pretty
Well if the mirror could turn you inside out, baby
I think you'd find you'd curl away from yourself
like tobacco smoke.
Well guess what? You've still got your looks an
The Poet and the SpiderWith script as thin as spider's legs,
she scrawls her web
of metaphors and lies.
Mapped across the backs of her hands,
with ink veins she weaves
a silver spun tale of
thin, spidery lashes and
that leave a bad taste behind.
She fears the tickle on her skin,
the itching sting as it bites.
She fear the sticky, dew encapsuled
web as it strangles and swallows her.
When asked of her fascination with the creature,
though she fears it so,
the poet has none left to say but
that it is a metaphor,
you tremble at that which sits on your palm
(The fearsome, eight legged monster)
but you do not flinch as it bites.
Thaw me Before I BurnShe lay still, enclosed by a quilt of ice,
and there she softly sang a sweet surmise,
by this she dreamed the false truths should suffice-
with snow monsters at her decieving side.
He is the sun streaked sky and sun stained love,
The warmth of molten gold and honest light,
his face turned at the blazing skies above-
with truth to warm frigid souls of mankind.
Held by the coldest hearts and colder eyes,
with companions carved out of artic snow,
Ice creatures sparkling as the frozen sea-
yet despite their chill she still loves them so.
His blazes burn hot and punish the touch,
for sometimes honesty does not trump lies,
when heated honor cools to blunt remarks-
his love can even decieve truthful eyes.
She reigns an ice army, fragile and stiff,
shaped with her hands and solid patience,
and yet she does not feel their frosted bite-
when they turn and expose her to the wind.
He is the king atop a flaming throne,
shaped up by his own blistered fingertips,
and yet directness cuts him like a kn
A is for Analytical, C is for crazy.Fluid candelight hollows the bruises under his eyes,
carves his face into shadows and highlights.
He sits, steady and quiet, and listens.
They whisper and laugh and sigh,
chatter like mockingbirds.
(He believes it's all code. They whisper his secrets and laugh at him.
They mock him, those mockingbirds.
His head says he's too smart to fall for friendship.)
No one's quite sure why he wont trust,
a wire loose in his brain, they say.
A thinker, she is, with faded phrases and calculations.
She is wrapped around a train of thought
that twists and mutilates until it is no longer recognizable.
Recreation of her thoughts are futile,
she cannot explain the clockwork of her brain.
(She measures the tapping of their foot, the glance of their eyes.
They spill and spit their words,
and she knows they calculate the way they will cut.)
She is awkward, pauses before she speaks,
has to sort through her train wreck of thoughts, they say.
Blurring the line of personality and silence,
The Intelligent Are So SadA cascade of words parade around,
with thoughts of atoms and connotation.
She is brilliant, they say,
but she knows she is lost.
Numbers are her companion,
she understands their mean, average.
Words can twist her brain,
she loves the wonder they bring.
She is intelligent, they say,
she doesn't feel clever enough.
Sometimes she feels clever too much.
Excusez-moi, in perfect French,
but nothing is gained by perfect word tense.
She is clever, they say.
But she is not clever the way they know.
She sees things as they are,
and she prefers her thoughts to the world.
She knows she loves them more than they in return,
and her friends will be there until they wont.
Friends reassure her, you'll be okay,
she puts a smile on her face.
She loves them as much as any,
even though there aren't many.
They bring out the best in her,
the happy girl,
not swamped by words.
The one who isn't drowning in formula.
Test scores and numbers don't mark you smart,
she knows this now,
engraved in her
Ink GravesLetterless words and pageless books-
and ink blots on the flowers;
Ghosts scratch their heads and tap their pens,
all across the hours.
Winds can howl and cease to be,
by one twitch of my pen;
I spoke of writing a poem tonight,
and by dawn I've written ten.
Emily sits aside nobody,
the Raven, above, waits;
Frost dances in a yellow wood,
among the long lost dates.
A tall, well spoken willow,
looms over the grave;
Protecting every dated word,
and every thought they gave.
I crumple another masterpiece,
with thoughts I'd thought to save;
and as it strikes the baset bottom,
it rests in its ink grave.
The FaderA whisperer of buried words;
with parchment paper fingertips
she spins a tale of love in vain,
to remind her it isn't to remain.
She blends to the wall like a flower,
bends to it like bamboo.
Something lonely about the way,
she stills and waits to fade away.
(a downcast gaze)
They all play pretty charades,
while she sweeps her game of spades
(and to this day- still one she plays )
She paints portraits of Jays,
whispers that they know her name.
She says that one day they will be all that remains
as the little wallflower fades.
this is a warning.i.
The first thing you need
to know about people is this:
If you cut off our head,
we will grow two in its place.
We will divide and conquer
until there's nothing left
but tiny gaping mouths,
clacking and salivating
at the crumbs of an empire.
They tell me hurt is like
a paper cut:
quick and forgotten,
Hurt is the first step
off a balcony,
the first gasp
in a chain reaction
screaming from the railing
to beyond the pavement.
When I finally hit the ground,
I looked up and saw my halo
dangling from the edge,
He said, she said,
I wanted, he lost, she won,
I ruined this, I broke your heart,
he left me,
I miss you.
This is nothing new.
Your tragedy is always
what's it like to realize
every slash on your soul
has an identical twin?
What's it like to know
you're going to die
the same way everyone does:
scared and alone?
We are disposable.
The hydra g
Peter Pan EnvyWe molded pirate ships
from heavy storm clouds,
flags puffed up
and scooped out
like handfuls of sand
while the car windows
steamed in the cold.
You told me stories
of a boy in green
and his war with
the hooked man,
said they took
those like us
to the first star on the right
and straight on to morning.
You made me believe
and when life got hard--
mom hopped up on pills,
nights filled with demons--
I breathed wishes
to be stolen away.
No pirate ever darkened my stoop
with his wayward compass
or water-stained maps;
no fairy ever left glitter
smeared on my skin
like good dreams.
I look to the sky
when the wind blows
and hold my breath
with his name on my tongue
all the same.
War and CancerI want to go back
and meet us one more time,
before the war and the cancer
took up so much of the day -
before my father could no longer
remember what the present
was supposed to mean
and your mother
could still get dressed
without losing her way.
I want to know
what it felt like
to board a plane
to somewhere hidden
and not care
if our names and faces
to walk as long
as we wanted
without the sun and moon
creating an argument.
I want to feel you
roll into my arms
where I forgot to cut the grass
and you did not
water the flowers;
to hear you
watching the cardinals
unearth the spring.
And to know once again
how this place
started becoming new.
The Re-Prettify ProjectBreathing in silver filaments
will not make you pretty on the inside.
You cannot polish and buff
lung or aorta
until it is shiny and new.
If you have filled your life with toxins
and allowed your eyes
to cloud over with coal dust
do not, my friend, do not
seek silver linings from anything
but penance and kindness.
Throwing gold-dust over your head
will not administer you a halo.
SeptemberThe summer was so hot
the dogs stuck to the sidewalks
with the newspapers
and the black metal cans
everyone left waiting on the curb.
You could smell it
in the glass pitchers
on table tops,
and the sheets that never
dried on the clothes lines;
the canvas beach bags
mothers dragged wearily
across the sand
and the ice cream trucks
melting across the highways.
Children felt it open
up the windows at night
and find a corner
of the bed to smother,
while fathers baited it on hooks
or mowed it down
in flat, dry stripes
as if begging each other
And the crickets just hummed
beneath the corn silk
and the dry mouth
daring the cats to play
hide and seek -
searching for September.
thirstYou tell me to breathe in
the scent of my tea:
Apple Cinnamon Spice,
it is crisp and infusing
the aroma into my lips.
Honey coasts along my spoon,
apple biting into its
golden flavor. Cinnamon bursts
forth for a brief moment and I am
It was so suddenIt was so sudden.
It was so fast.
It was so scary.
We were so happy.
It was the best.
But the thunder fell.
And now there’s nothing left.
Note to SelfDate a librarian; they'll read you until your spine falls apart, and still love every page. They'll underline your highlights, your endless seas of profound poetry, as if they've mistaken your manatee appearance for a mermaid. They'll hang off the cliff of your chapter 15 and dive into the next page as if you're about to reveal what they've been looking for. And when they don't find it, they'll tear out your words letter by letter with a hush, asking you oh so sweetly to stay quiet. Finally, they'll bind your broken spine with tape and set you on the shelf for misplaced books until they forget you were ever there, but they won't be done with you. They'll never be done with you; even when it seems your pages, your rib cage and heart, is filled with nothing but dust.
What if the world.What if the world were simply an insignificant speck of dust?
Fluttering away and twisted into the stem
of a blossoming flower on another
We would all be smaller than the cells
that are our building blocks.
What if catastrophes, like earthquakes
were just the imprinted footstep of some higher creature
stepping down on us?
We would drift and spin in the wind
and sparkle in the sun
swirling with millions of other
dust mote planets.
What if thunder and lightining
we just us falling off the edge of the flower- tipping,
and tumbling through the sky,
striking the ground with a boom.
Or maybe our little speck, is drifting in the ocean
and maybe that's why the sky is blue.
If the world were just a speck of dust
maybe it would make sense.
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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