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the new thing
like sweet fruit and charcoal
like starlight and the skin between your fingers
the forbidden thing
that will unmake my being
then wash me up on your fresh shores
with the thing that is morning love
you smelled like snowmy heart is a thing i wrote out
on the back of your hand, one night,
in ballpoint pen,
while you were sleeping soundly,
milky white and deep blue and wrapped in my love;
in the dark,
i closed my eyes and breathed your being's poetry,
filled with nirvana.
perry streeti can remember the name but not the number
of a big modern house
where i spent boundless afternoons
with her dolls and her corn chips
and her bony child’s body
and her silky child’s hair.
i can remember the name
but not the number
of this ancient sunlit dusty happiness
and that alone is a gap in me
so painfully wide
the first day of springyou are new in the way flowers are new:
brilliant green, soft purple,
the good smell of rain and soil.
let the miserable winter wind
chase its own tail for a while;
there’s something beautifulwonderfulmine
at the end of a sunlit driveway.
our heartsyour heart
is a tiny wild grey-brown bird
and my love is a pair of cupped hands.
is a tinny flitting silver fish
and your love is a pool, dark and deep.
the moral is,
some things are worth holding still for.
it sounds like you have
shards of obsidian
in your heart,
is that correct?
(he's more than he was now,
he's more than a trench coat and red hair,
he is pain now,
and a broken mirror)
tell me everything.
manufacturethere's such reassurance
in the squeak creak
of old parts,
wooden wheels leather belts
brittle rubber rain wet glass
there's such horror
in the silence
and i tasted the vineyardleaning on a splintering fence post
with cool grass beneath my bare feet
and a cool breeze around my face.
the pink-orange sky was soft
and streaked with bands of silhouetted cloud
and the perfect swans were on the still warm pond
and the sand dunes were growing blue with shadows
and in the beyond, the ocean was speaking.
it was this moment where i felt
nothing is wrong here;
nothing can be bad
when all this beauty is touching you.
it's within you, here it is.
when i came back here,
i grabbed my face with my right hand
and cried and cried to have felt that.
because it means
maybe someday i can go home.
when a poet's heart breakswhen a poet's heart breaks
bottles hit the floor
pacing feet pitter-patter
on cracked linoleum
and all quiet lips can think
and loudest minds can say is
you you you you you.
when a poet's heart breaks
words and verses and lines
of poe and dickinson and frost
cover the peeling paint of alabaster walls
while colorblind ears and deaf eyes
make no motion to stop the rain
and silent screams echo
throughout the never-ending night.
when a poet's heart breaks
sour whiskey tinges the air
pill bottles scatter across the floor
a twitch, then two hours later
waking up in the bathtub
breath coming in clouds
limbs a tangled fumbling mess
eyes now accustomed to the pitch black
when a poet's heart breaks
clouds cover broken slices
of abandoned sunlight and
the stars cease to glimmer
or rather, the eyes of storybooks gods
burn out and
there is no such thing as summer anymore
when a poet's
starsi pray that someday soon, in a lonesome winter, your bones will cease to ache.
regrets will no longer break your morals like glass figurines,
you will not ask God to pardon your sins.
you will forgive yourself.
i hope, for your sake, that your butterfly-flutter eyes
will only be dampened with tears worthy of shedding.
your glory will shine out of those 2 crystal windows
and you will finally know what freedom feels like.
one day, in the midst of a dreary december, i wish for your wings to open wide
and carry you to heights far past any you have ever experienced.
your lungs will become blooming forests
with snippets of poetry carved into the tree trunks.
you will no longer be broken, but instead, crack into miniscule pieces
of yourself until all of the grace & goodness
buried deep within the crevices of your flesh
is soaked up by the atmosphere.
i am awaiting the day that i can finally lay next to someone i call lover
and point up at the stars to show him
fragments of you scatte
ashthe first time i looked into your eyes
was one year after meeting you.
my toes barely dipped into the pond
of blue before i realized there wasn't
much to swim to.
i fooled myself long ago into thinking that
if i was ever brave enough, i could plunge
into your endless depths and bathe in purity.
soak up your little-boy grins and weave laughter
with you, creating the most infinite soundtrack.
but when our irises finally connected,
i felt the make-believe ropes i had looped
through your fingers snap like convictions
too heavy to maintain.
it was the first time in a while
that i had a name for the reason
i was broken.
i shook in a rhythm so violent
our bones couldn't dance to it.
instead, they cracked in half
and crumbled to ash; remains
of what we never were.
water stainsmy father's silhouette painted on
the canvas of waves
assures me that
water stains are not permanent.
darkened fabric means nothing more than
the fruit of possibility spoiling on countertops.
i ask grown men for more answers
than there are chandeliers
in my parents' abandoned mansion.
the creases of my grandmother's forehead
skitter over concern and
land on laugh lines.
i've always been a clever joker,
spreading lips like a contagion.
they could never catch me;
my intoxicating serpent
slithering through sidewalk cracks
breaking backs as children do.
my limbs may have expanded,
but i am just a hot air balloon.
if there is anything
pavements & dark rooms have taught me,
it is that
broken means i'll be okay again.
and if your heart do hurt theeonce upon a time—
except that’s not true, because this story
is still happening, so let me start over.
there’s a girl who lives in a small town
who is afraid of falling and snakes and thunder and love and
commitment and herself and gas stations.
this is a good premise for a character because
you can already see her problem: she’s going to fall in love.
there’s a boy because there is always a boy.
this boy is in love with music and leaving.
let’s call him Q, and let’s call the girl G and let’s say
that G is in love with Q but she’s not sure if
he’s a person or an ideal, and he might be horrible
as both but she loves him for his smile and his eyes
and she’s young enough to think that that’s enough.
spoiler alert: it’s not enough.
now, let’s give G some flaws because every good character has flaws.
let’s say she laughs a bit too loudly and her eyes are close together
and she has no sens
cinderella died yesterday"burn your tiaras,
bury your fairy godmother.
it's time for you to grow up now, you're
no peter pan.
forget never never land.
stars are just burning balls of gas that are
slowly running out of time- they can't
hear your wishes.
cast aside your dr. seuss books like you will
later cast aside your bibles.
after all, a fairy tale is a fairytale is a fairytale.
life will teach you that.
grace, you were born into a role
only a very strong girl can play.
see, society will hate you for being
what they don't want to believe.
surrender your throne, your castle is under siege.
stop being fascinated with the sky,
you'll never go there.
keep your feet on the ground, and steady yourself
before you help another.
your brain is more logical than your heart,
therefore take your instructions from it.
promises can be broken as easily as can be made.
do not rely on something as weak as miracles and love-
and if you only have one piece of armor,
defend your back from the people you trust the most.
SurrealismThree a.m., and
God is in my bathtub
a freshwater moon
in the mother-of-pearl sky.
on the way to school:
lined like Jupiter.
waking and dreaming.
Cloud gazing in
the rain—tears of the
in a darkened sky.
i was someone.I was someone before I met you, too.
I had what I needed
My child mind dreamed of dragons and glitter rain.
I sang myself to sleep each night,
A cradlesong like stars flickering
Knowing that someday I'd be everything I wanted to be.
Your eyes will no longer be the prison
That holds me.
I will believe in the myths again
If it's what will save me.
I choose the life I live.
And I choose a life that is danced, not staggered through;
A life that embraces mystery.
I choose to accept what you have done to me,
But not let it consume me.
I was someone before I met you, too.
longdead leafa longdead leaf
burnt brown in the depth of green
cups a handful of fresh water
a leaf left behind
holds something of worth
forgoing death with its dead body
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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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