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XI. i think the word is 'disassociation', actuallythere is some kind of
and i think i might be dying
or worse, losing sight
of memory and feeling
my arms are aching
with the weight of existing
i am not myself, i am
VIII. it took a long time to get there, tooi was halfway to the edge of the universe
bent on destroying the idea of nothing,
when i remembered i forgot my soul
deep in the flower beds at home,
so i gasped; miniscule fragments
of stars got stuck
in the dips of my teeth and on my tongue
and the universe filled the gap of my soul.
and i think i might have discovered a god there,
sitting on the precipice into nothing
and laughing at the prospect of mortality.
we all join them in the end,
but even a god cannot exist
without existence to be had.
VII. it's like we were made for each otherstrange, how each gap between your ribs
is the perfect width for my index finger,
and how each breath you take expands
your breasts perfectly into my hands.
wonderful, how when we kiss,
it feels like the whole universe
has condensed into that one perfect moment
of just you, and me.
perfect, how each touch i give
returns me smiles and kisses,
and how soft your hips are under my palms.
VI. didnt you get with the times?!when we kiss, i feel at peace,
and when you plait my hair
and put tiny little flowers
among the twists, i feel whole.
people like to say im strange,
or that my life must be hard;
but i love you right around the world
and i dont think that's unnatural
I. i looked out the window and saw so many flowersspring tastes fresh on my lips,
rain alighting on the grass
with a refreshing caress, and
the sweet calls of the swallows are near.
sitting under the old oak, hiding
from the cool sun's gaze
that is too cold for sleeveless shirts
but too warm for your girlfriend's sweater.
you think you see life
blooming under your palms
as you rest them on the dirt
and when you breathe,
you feel like there are tiny flowers
growing from your throat.
II. trigger warningi see;
the white crescents at the tops of my nails
extend down my whole fingers
as i dig as hard as i can into the wall
things blurring and difficulty breathing
and im clutching as hard as i can
but i dont feel anything
people staring and judging at laughing
at the poor pathetic thing that cannot
hold their composure because of one little thing?!
i dont see
because my vision has left me along with my breath
abandoning me in a wash of cold sweat
and a feeling like death-
The Female SuicideTwenty years of nursing
emergency room wounds
and my grandmother
puts down her fork, rubs
her brow and tells me
the female suicide
is a more methodical,
A woman will close
the curtains, cleanse
their apartment of clutter
for the first time in months
and proceed to overdose
in the comfort of their
A woman will do this
because she is aware
someone will have to
discover her like this.
Someone will have to
bury her like this.
My grandmother says this
because when my uncle speaks
paramedic about the male
he pronounced dead from
a house’s television antenna
he never mentions a burial.
To you who writes until you bleed and cry and diei. You aren't the ruins of Greece.
You don't combust into fascination when the black
rose you planted years ago finally bloom and poison
your veins and stop your heart beat in black splotches
and dirty grenade. The Earth won't mould trees or
ocean or clouds into your image when rust seeps into
your wrist, turning you into a sculpture of grey hands
and silver blood. You won't smile knowing a spider is
creeping up your throat, spider webbing your tongue and robbing your voice away.
ii. You can't tame a wild boar with tombstone nails.
You don't have to get why your wounds rot like
the speed of a full-on hail storm and why others
have bowstring smile and pretty eyes all the
damn time. You don't have to know why your
musical box blasts in gunfires and thunderbolts
while other have rose tattoos exploding in fierce
fireworks and adrenaline-rushing stage fire. You
can't tame a wild boar with tombstone nails and
scraped metallic heart. You can't love yourse
the cultivation of neophiliai.
give in to it:
the insatiable restlessness
that haunts, heavy
in a familiar corner
of your eyeline.
drive toward the night.
halt only when you
can no longer
trace paths of neon
from streetlight to fingertip;
never quite reach the
eventually, stop trying.
look over the paper city
resting fragile below;
tear it to shreds
with vicious intent
forget that you have
loved and hoped and
for a moment
there is only you,
the night, and the need
desire like you've
never wanted anything,
search for the novel,
for the fantastical
and the faintest hint
of something new
in the sky-glow.
stand so high atop
wonder how they do not
under the weight
of all this empty
A Ball Of CherriesImagine life
like a ball of cherries.
You can't eat many,
Don't rush to eat them!
Some are soft,
Don't go too slow, you'll lose the taste.
storiesi begin and end with stories
where hummingbird hearts play sonatas
against my ribs and i drown in
early morning light and
the girl in me sinks into the sea
like rusting anchors chained to
ships and i sway port and starboard
the lion in me rises like lazarus
from the savannah where dust swirls
and i begin and end with stories
where i swallow the world and all
the rain and girls and lions in it
where i hold it up like atlas,
where i support jupiter with just
an index finger and where i chase
comets and cup them like fireflies
to hang on my bedroom walls
Blooming Through CrevicesBlooming Through Crevices
People are characters;
their personalities are not to be cracked,
but to bloom.
Codes and signals
Setting our sights
On how to see
Through the cipher.
Optics opting for options
As opposed to conscious.
Ardor replaced by harder
To break through exteriors.
But mortality is only one facet
Of the entirety of humanity.
It is a compass of one being,
But merely a piece of the puzzle
That makes up human composition.
let us not break through empathy
with deductive methodology
but rather with the rhythm
of a honeybee whistling along the hymn
of the wind whispering in the leaves.
humanistic, holistic ideologies
is what the standard can be.
it is the notion of being a metaphor
rather than being something to decipher.
because there are more stars and galaxies
in poetry than there will ever be algebraic
expression curls up with ambiance
under the window pain of a picture frame
because we write more about
broken bones and broken birdsdragonflies buzz between
your tangled fingers
seeking nectar under
your chewed nails,
but the bitter burn
of almond acid will
clip their mosaic wings.
you're centered at
nature's core, a
centrifugal force of gravity,
grasping and dragging
lives to your unforgiving
you strangled the wild
whistling hare underneath
the billowing willow, and
your tongue tripped into
compulsive lies and disbelief.
i mean c'mon, clearly,
it was an accident.
if that's the case
the blue-eyed raven
that crashed to earth
after striking a third
degree burn, should
have survived, but you
plucked feathers from its
wings and drowned it.
you have a way with
decaying everything you
touch, your soul, my
heart, a puppy in a
cardboard box, yet
we all keep coming
back to you.
i think we all know
that even though you
bend and break and
bully the world, you
are the most broken
of all, and i just want
to fix you.
San FranciscoGood lord, how long I've slept this time!
And from what undiluted dream
full of free space and meadows,
brickless and feral,
lost in terrible infant whims,
streaking from trees to the hazel in the dusk,
have I come creaking to this ancient face?
If I ever find le sens de la vie
writhing underleaf in a crooked line of ants
or rippling in a koan made of cigarettes butts
then I’ll go back to San Francisco
and look her beggars in their pupils
and talk to her gypsy witch doctors,
listen to uningestible trumpet masters,
commiserate with the legless street congress,
revisit the subterranean shrine to urine
that sifts through the walkers at 2nd and Market,
and make love to some lost pearl of the Orient.
I’ll interrupt her philosopher queens as they serenade their oracles,
crawl in wretched street machines, carousel coins in rusty slots
that screech down to the wharf of the seal paparazzi
communing with dead architects of gleaming concrete miracles
gunfire echoes.it permeates the very land we stand on.
the rat-at-tat-tat of machine guns
the slick click and tick
of the lock in time with the clock
tick tock bang.
how to justify war?
why take lives for lives for lives for lives for lives
'such a waste' to see
men lying gutted in the fields drowning in blood and bile
missing eyes arms ears legs tongues
bodies used for camouflage
rancid corpses become a safe new skin
gas froths the mouth rolls the eyes corrupts the lungs
blue blooded generals cheer a
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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