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GhostWhen the lights are out
and the house is quiet,
when yesterday's clothes are strewn about
and the only sound's the creaky picket
fence, when everyone's asleep,
I finally wake up.
I go through my routine:
drink tea from my favorite cup,
read a magazine - stories on deep
sea creatures (ghostly and alien-like),
fold the still unsorted clean
linen, with stitched-in names, Mike
and Jane, names I don't quite remember.
I go through the drawers
and smell the bunches of lavender
tucked between the shirts, his n' hers.
Sometimes I get close to the beds
(on my tippy toes though no one
can hear me) and watch the children slumber,
their chests rise and fall, stunned
at how alive they look while asleep, how red
their cheeks and kips can be even when the sun
is nowhere to be seen. Alive, asleep, unencumbered.
In a moment of foolish bravery, as though on a mission,
I startle myself: I kiss Mike and Jane's
untroubled brows. They feel nothing,
perhaps a slight coolness, a breeze. The pain's
all mine, th
Merry-go-roundI can't get off this merry-go-round.
Every time I try to dismount the horse
I nearly tumble to the ground.
So I hold on for dear life; the sound
of the carousel becomes a dizzying force.
I can't get off this merry-go-round.
Like a fox hiding from bloodhounds,
I am frozen. I have no recourse.
I nearly tumble to the ground.
From every side I am surrounded;
I search for an exit, I cry myself hoarse.
I can't get off this merry-go-round.
So there it is, my life an endless circle - I'm bound
to keep repeating the same mistakes. I can't change course -
I'll certainly tumble to the ground.
Worse than the old dreams in which I drowned,
fear overtakes me, my past filled with remorse.
I can't get off this merry-go-round;
I know I'll tumble to the ground.
SpriteI cried myself to sleep last night,
the muffled sobs were dampening
the pillow, tears expanding
into lakes - and then, a light
shone through the window - a sprite
descending from the sky. Her green
translucent wings paused between
each fluttering to slow her flight.
She landed gently on the sill,
the steady rhythm of her wings
echoing my whimpering
coming to a standstill.
The sprite held out her glowing white
wand and whispered words, serene
and kind, and stars shot out, a scene
from another world, a sight
I couldn't, wouldn't miss. I willed
my eyes to dry and caught the sprinkling
stars on my tongue like falling
snow until I'd had my fill.
I lay in bed and stared at bright
suspended fairy dust twinkling,
winking at me as she flew, circling
me. I closed my eyes, enjoyed the quiet
water running through the stream
outside, the slowly flapping wings
above my head, all sounds leading
me to finally sleep and dream.
CrackMy favorite teacup has a crack in it,
a hairline fracture stained brown
by all the tea I drink in it.
Sometimes I wonder if the tea will seep
through, if the cup will be forever half empty,
but I still use it.
I study each of the painted ravens
flying on the rim, ready to take off
into the air.
One day, I took the cup
and poured some tea -
earl grey - and stirred the sugar in.
I tapped the spoon on the edge
of the cup - it made a chiming sound.
I brought the cup up to my mouth
and drank. I hit a snag -
a tiny chip cut my lip.
Blood dripped down my chin
and into the tea.
The sharp sting and iron smell
overwhelmed me. I dropped the cup
and just before it broke,
the ravens flew away and disappeared.
Untitled promptIt is hard to move wearing this dark, heavy cloak,
wet and sagging, dragging on the ground
amassing debris, leaving a muddy trail behind.
I trip, ripping the seam on a sharp snag;
I tug at the fabric still caught
in the jagged branches, shredding it,
threads running the entire length
of this musty velvet cloak.
I wipe the blood of my hands
and dirt from my brow
and shed this outer layer
Here I am:
naked, uncloaked, unburdened.
untitled project part 4They went into Sir Henrys study and lightly shut the door, but the draft pushed it back an inch. I knew it wasnt becoming, but curiosity got the better of me - again.
I thought we settled this matter, said James.
Not quite, replied his brother. Though for the time being, you are determined to be unreasonable. I know, I know. We must help her. But for how long, James? And how do we know she is who she says she is?
But she hasnt said, has she? She lost her memory.
Did she really? How can we be sure? For all we know, it could be a ploy.
A ploy to do what? James said, incredulously. I thought I heard him snicker.
I dont know, replied his brother. Clothes, food and shelter seem like a pretty good deal to me.
Oh for Gods sake, dont be ridiculous!
James, whispered John, Dont take the lords name in vain. A brie
untitled sestinaWhen the evening turns to night, that dark
velvet blue attenuating the fire
in the sky, at that moment the screams
stop. The children stop moving but for their ragged
breaths. A soft silence sweetly kisses
my face and dissolves into the air, never
leaving any trace behind, never
lingering long enough. When it's dark,
the flowers lower their heads, kiss
the ground and find respite before the fire
of the sun awakens them again. Ragged
and still tired, they open their mouths and scream.
I can't bear to see the tulips scream
at me, vivid red, blood red, their never-
ending wails. Sometimes I lay a ragged
cloth on them to contain their dark
dreams and muffle their fiery
voices, poisonous and ravenous kisses.
I wait for the night's delicate kisses,
the warm breeze that brushes the screams
away for a little while, puts out the fire
in our quiet little hearts. The wind never
reveals our secrets, hushes the darkest
thoughts hidden away in our ragged
minds. On the ground, the crunching of ragged
untitled project 1-2-3They were all gathered inside. Warm. Unfettered by any troubles, any omen. Drinking whiskey by the fire, candles everywhere. How happy they seemed.
It was that night that I came into their lives.
I could feel the blood and water slipping on my skin, the sea salt burning the cuts on my arms and legs, the stones digging in my soles.
It was dark and my eyelashes stuck together, but I could still see XXX (name of house to be determined). I could tell it was enormous.
I trudged on, the stones giving way to thick blades of grass yielding to my feet.
I stopped, frozen, under the willow tree. I could hear dogs barking, but I couldn't tell where they were coming from.
A large man came panting from the corner of the house and fired a warning shot with a rifle. I could see it glinting.
"Who's there? This is private property." He turned around, looking for the intruder, looking for me.
He pointed the rifle in my direction.
"You there? Who are you? What are you doing here? What are you doing on
TonguesIn the middle of a
the words will escape me.
They run off together
like children to a playground
and forget to come home.
They are happy and carefree,
never missing me
as I miss them.
At night, they might
wanter off in dark alleys
and get lost
and sometimes I come across
them again by chance,
gather them in my arms
and hope I never lose them again.
And other times, I forget
ever having needed them
in the first place.
A Poet's EchoCan poetry be felt in the blood, in the veins
with each lyric being harmonized through dreams slain
Each epic speaking of places both far and nigh
With each melancholic elegy seeping pain?
Can verse performed by thunderstorms in the sky
Be what compels us to express our hearts, to cry?
How many poems have been written using tears
As ink, written until our souls have been bled dry?
Have decades of weeping filled the seas with our fears
And our nightmares penetrated mountains likes spears?
Can a poet's echo resound beyond the chain
Of mortality and fate's tyrannical leer?
*Past and Present*One hundred years ago
When summer cast golden glow
Weeping willows, river side
Cast gentle shade, punts could glide.
Mild, quiet summer day
Strawberry smell and smell of hay
Silken dress on a boat
Shaded by parasol, afloat.
Today loud music rocks river
Weeping willows really weep
T/shirt slogans, blue jean rule
Now we’re noisy but very cool.
Poem for Lou ReedTruly singular, an outsider’s outsider,
He learned well life’s hard truths, and was walking proof that
Your thoughts are only as deep as your faults.
Subjected to psychic savagery in his youth,
His mind took on an ever-changing persona
Always shifting between fame and failure.
A misfit, a hustler, a rake, a transformer,
A rogue, but not a charlatan, an objector,
But not a coward, never a coward.
An expert spinner of verse, he possessed a knack
For feel, impact, attitude, style; he always knew
Which words were those worth the listener’s while.
His means and his methods were fittingly erratic:
He would spend his days crafting curiosities
Only to then neglect and forget them.
What was important, though, wasn’t his works or quirks,
Nor his talent for causing a storm at a stroke,
But what he and his friends set in motion.
They would, unwittingly, forever change the way
We’d hear the sounds the mind thought it already kn
I Am: 2I am only the friend you talk with in class, the neighbor you only wave hi to, and the student you pay no attention. I wait and
I wonder when someone will come and question me, question the things I do and why I do them for
I hear this floating voice that belongs to no one and
I see a shape that resembles a person and
I want no more than to mold and sharpen that image into someone... but
I fear that will never happen for
I am only the friend you talk with in class, the neighbor you only wave hi to, and the student you pay no attention.
I pretend to actually talk with my friends, face to face instead over wavelengths of the internet; hear their voice and see their smiles and stupid hand gestures! I felt...
I feel like they're really there. That people I've never met are with me in my room, sitting next to me- and I really want that. I know
I touch them; emotionally, that is.
I worry about that, actually. I'm happy to know that I've had an impact on people I will never know. And more tha
The Beginningons ago, before time and space,
Was born a set of twins who took its place.
One had eyes of daybreak and hair of sun,
The other, hair of night and eyes of blood.
Born to Laelia, Singer of Light and Love,
Husband to Laelius, God who rules with a fitted glove.
‘Twas a difficult birth, screams echoed through the empty world,
But Laelia was never alone or so the story told.
Lucifer was first, life entered with hollow cries,
Laurentius was next, his smiles greeted by butterflies.
Both welcomed with joyous celebration.
Excited Laelius, humans, his creation.
The Twins then never left each others sides.
Except when heavy choices caused morals to collide.
Death's LoveHe obtained a frightening manifestation
And held the power of creation
Without creating a new individual but becoming something with a strong relation
That kept a sturdy foundation,
As his cells connected, broke apart, and were destroyed during his formation.
Before me he stood, light lurking within his eyes, speaking of temptation.
Then, the déjà vu was overpowering, a suffocating and heartbreaking sensation.
Death played with an individual that people see as a cremation
And how I see as a pure, devilish damnation,
Where I can only vision the house it lived in, being eaten in a conflagration.
The appearance, however, delivered me into salvation,
That, alone, was enough to wash away any frustration.
The longer I stared, the more I studied, there was an alteration
In the depths of my concentration,
Where I began to piece together an understanding of admiration
That Death had somewhere in preservation.
His corpse-like figure had the power of reincarnation
And how he changed for
Why I Hold On TighterThe gunshot echoes penetrating the air,
Increasing tensions in military warfare.
Knives that puncture and slice apart,
Fists of rage that damage skin and heart.
Explosions and smoke so sudden and fast,
No time to recover from the devastating blast.
A moment frozen in time after the disease diagnosed,
Tears falling on a body lifeless and comatose.
Car horns and screeching wheels on the pavement so loud,
Two victims of a crash of the rain from a cloud.
Though all of these things do not fill me with fright,
It is to you, my dear, they make me hold tight.
Vulnerable YouthPaper hearts from bright pink tissue meant for presents,
fanciful butterflies from orange dashed cardboard,
five petaled flowers danced around the sentence
of simplicity, ultimately to discard.
Tender thoughts from censored, guarded minds,
boldly do the simple stubby fingers strive to hide
the gift from Mommy, so that she can't find
the secret depth of the darkest snide.
The gentle pressure of acknowledging gestures
even the meaningless thank you cards
meant to send you on emotional adventures,
only to be shredded on cynical hearts' shards.
But it is the thought that counts,
those sweet little eyes haven't yet been renounced.
NeedlesThe meat is cold from bloodless lust
My organs are damaged
Path be taken down range-
-And end with chilling wall
Forest of needle spires climb
My height cannot ask
Deem the stars they point-
-For reverence physical
Destroyed as winter comes
Invested into my stock
I am bought and brought home
With no escape from the lock
Needle sew a coat of iron
Black with the char left by
Remembrance make me a scion
And kindle a soul inside
Lids have shut and no key breaks
I cannot see between blades
Cut the night to ribbons-
-Now banners to losing way
Imposing in my blindness wait
My feet are icy cold
The forward march is death incarnate-
-Though I am numb to catch
A fabric stolen mask and clothe
The boundary pointed shed
Once streamers bleeding dry wove
The semblance of disjointed ends
No try can match the mind at work
For ochre has my pallor drained
This raiment bears a doubting murk
Through glacier impassive face
My asking wanes with setting freeze
The armour frozen bites
A pleading body already w
JungleI am lost in my own murky mind,
a thick and balmy jungle teeming
with tiny parasites. I find
myself confined without
a compass, nor a sun beaming
its guiding light on me. I doubt
I will find my way, but still
I cut the overreaching
branches -- alien hands poised to scratch and kill
with sticky leaves dripping venom and bile --
clearing a path, to where I don't know...
The fog is dense and the vile
stench of dung worsens with rain.
I stumble in a puddle and notice
the moon's reflection, disappearing again
as the darkening clouds meet the mist.
A silence blankets everything
and muffles my cries, numbs my clenched fists.
I am trapped in my own murky mind,
a thick and balmy jungle with no exit.
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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