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NearnessWhat can I say to sky eyes like that,
Reaching beyond my skin to deeper brain matter
To still my tongue from a rare full heart?
I am not here most days, nor am I there, but in his native dimensions I am
Suddenly blood red here.
And hands that hold with steady grip;
He is a standing shelter from the cold entirety
That engulfs my person;
why i keep you (on the inside of my head)it’s a big feeling when you realise
how close we are to each other in this endless universe.
what seems so far to us
could be a step for someone else;
like an ant on a daisy
saying to another ant on a daisy but an inch away,
"I am too far away."
we are too small for this sky,
too small, and we look up
and the sight of the space is too much for one of us.
we need to eat,
we need to drink,
we need to sleep,
we need to be close.
(i need to be close to you and this is why i keep you
on the inside of my head.)
still on nights like this, it seems
that the drainage holes of Heaven
make me feel like you are just around the corner
instead of across the deepest sea.
Quiet AnswersIt's God, you see
The muse that makes us all seek our completion
It's the hungry hunter
Searching for his meal;
It's when we put
Our words onto a highway to be ridden
That we realise
The stories could be real.
And for so long
I've held it all inside a bony prison
For fear that others
Would not understand;
But here it is,
The truth that is all that really matters:
It is Love I write,
And Love will heal all man.
From a Great HeightConfused, I sat
on the edge of my mind
and asked, why
do we feel like dying
when the only solution
Half-lightI imagine you here.
When I wake, when I drift,
When I daydream
Or take the elevator.
I see you in the curtain-light of dusk,
And passing through the hallway.
I imagine you sweeping the stardust
Off the kitchen counter, and saying
How strange I am. Your hands
Engulf mine and I imagine
You tracing constellations on my back
As I fall slowly, softly asleep,
three twenty a.m., or misty dawn for you I am miles away from you, and I can’t sleep.
I can’t think straight, either. I have been sick today and everything seems sad and strange and blown out of proportion. I know that I should be trying to rest, but instead I sit in the darkness of my room and listen to the night sounds. Cars pass by outside and cut through wind; their headlights travel across my ceiling, leaving shadows as the sound of their motors lingers in the dim lit air. I breathe and try to remember what night sounds like from your bedroom window. Ah, it comes back to me. The sound of stillness, of moonlight and the Milky Way coursing through the arteries of the sky; sleeping animals and fog creeping swiftly down the summer hill before the first light appears.
Thinking of those things makes my body relax. I breathe again and notice my headache is gone. Sitting soberly with my legs under my quilts, I feel the winter on my hands. It isn't as if I miss your hands linking with mine; no, it’s
we have stars, you and I I have stars on my shirt.
You have stars on your car seat covers, and in your night sky,
And I have city lights and aeroplanes that fly low over my apartment buildings. At least it looks very low from my windowsill. I wave and wonder if, from up there, they can see the plaid pants I’m wearing just like I saw and felt everything when I lifted off from your country.
Life is a funny thing. So is love. So are people. I think we have a hard time reconciling the good with the evil; the happy with the sad; the joy with the hurt; the you with the me.
We lean too far towards one side, and we dream too much about it all. We try to cut holes in ourselves so that other people’s odd puzzle arms will fit perfectly into ourselves and so we can go “Look! We fit!” and pretend that we are soul mates. But that’s not how it works. We cannot expect to find perfection with imperfect people and surroundings. The only thing that ever can be perfect is the God in how we
Home is More than a Nounhome is our souls
and what we do with them.
not the decadent tramp of well-worn
boots on familiar sidewalks,
not the shadowed breath of cool
pine in the summer afternoons,
not the heart-dreams of sleep, not the
safety of curtains
nor the wildness of your lovesick thoughts
like the largest thesaurus.
our lives are what our souls say to each other,
their cores being the the earth
of our purpose, and the roots
of our reason.
so you see,
our home is our souls
and what we do with them.
his name is calmi still have our secret codes
from many, many years ago
the legend written on notebook paper in his
scratchy twelve-year-old handwriting.
but as it were, we had no need
for scribbled languages of our own
when we felt it in the air, and in the electricity
of when he looked at me
and the lyrics of all-too-perfect songs
that i wished i could sing someday.
then like that splintering moment
when you realise that you have dreamt this dream before...
we were sparks in the silver winter, and something of a shooting star;
miles above the earth
and he was the only thing that kept my fires burning.
because he was my safety, my belonging,
familiarity and mystery
all in one.
he was growing up, and
he was the lyrics that i will scatter like sugar crystals
throughout my life.
and i could have spent every hour of my waking day with him,
every hour of sleep-filled night and
still lie gazing at his turned face
as if it were the face of everything.
i could have wasted
time with him
but instead i, in my g
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,
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
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.
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
Ideationlocked in a room
with only one escape,
or so it seems.
your hands shake and you drop the key.
Suddenly you're unsure.
Do I want to pick it up?
Do I want to find it?
Do I want to leave?
you think to yourself
there's no other choice.
find the key or corrode, or rust
wear down the hinge
use sadness as the key.
You have the answer now.
Just open the door.
Just walk outside and don't look back.
Let yourself leave with no regrets.
And yet you can't.
You're afraid, you think,
but you are actually strong.
Don't run away.
Don't take that leap.
VI I. Today I am Vanilla tea
on balmy days when the air is still
fresh with the scent of cicadas
and mown grass baked in the sun
clippings stuck to your feet as you
my bedspread is white and so is my coffin.i can feel
the night closing
the stars are breaking
empty glass bottles
inside of my
mouth, and they taste like
ambien. bitter, then
but you still can't close your fucking eyes
little blue pills for
eyes– it was winter and i
dreams of nothing more than
nothing. the devil
tied chains around all the
vessels in my
body. laughed, and by god i
laughed too (and laughedandlaughedandlaughed).
this will all be over soon i swear i will take everything off your skin and bones and burn it up
and then january took the world
in it's grip and i
drowned in the snow that
will never hydrate the
can you hear that it's the night and it's so beautiful so come here darling and we'll watch the sun rise and set and rise and
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,
a sensory afternoongolden-turning,
bare skin, muscles aching...
we closed our salty eyes
and feeling the sun, spread our l i m b s
on the surface of the echoing blanket
while leaves dappled the amber of the long, late day
the smell of petrol and strawberry-marmalade
washed over us,
after warm, sleepy wave
a caramel jawline, caught in the corner of my eyes
spoke to me of a hanging mid-afternoon, sad and sweet
like a decade-old song in the air.
but our fingers were long and limp on our laps
through lines of flushed rhythm, my seafoam blood was smiling,
my heart a wine-press,
my eyes shutting their flicker lenses
to paint this skin-glowing picture
with drowsy, syncopating brush strokes
on the september backseat we sat...
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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