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(t)he(y)if they felt the static,
why couldn't they fall back
on nothing again?
if he felt the static
why didn't he play it
through the chords?
fate and a handful of broken ribs.it all became a heartthrob obsession
when your eyes smiled along
with the sun, too,
and my broken bones fluttered along
to my now alive again, heart-rate--
the violin strings i doubt i could play
would ring through your ears like
every thought of your fingers
running through my hair
that would never happen in this poisoned
bone like wisps and heavy rib cages
that i will never get
to caress and fix,
no- i'm not a mechanic
but i'm damn close.
so let me write you a
river of some kind of
sad truth, a riverside woodland
where both of us see
the forest for the trees
"don't fall into the water!"
(i don't have a line of fate on my palm.
does that mean i've already met it?)
butterfly wings over-hardwhen he finally found that
his fabricated wonderland
utopia was a chained
captivity of his illusions-
his thoughts became
chrysalises filled with
butterfly guts & blood
now, who taught him to kill
his thoughts with
(the scent of burgundy ash
and lit cigarettes
is one he already knows.)
by the looks of it,
the body he has
is now painted red;
a forlorn hero,
a walking time machine
stuck in the second
when his neck
kissed his head
stuck in the minute
when his veins cried
and he cried, too
ice, italics. stressed.I. signed, (literally) hopeless (not very) romantic
today i stood outside
for too long and came
back with numb toes and
a cold heart- i mean,
i had one from the start
and just because yours
wants to beat for mine
and i'm easily gullible
does not make me see
you, like i saw the one
and, damn, maybe it’d
just be easier on me
and you and
if i just go back to
breaking my own heart,
the cold can freeze my
heart, sure, but it
still cannot stop
(only i can do that.)
II. signed, jealousy
there is no war here,
only the midst of me
trying not to cry
because i'm already
dead and i'm aware
of it, aware i'm a
velvet-blue canary in a tiger cage
and surprisingly, i
love saying goodbye but
don't like giving u
for myself and forsakeninstinct was a fable of motions
i was never really doing;
in a comatose state of
which they dare call
i found i took too many
steps backward out of
lack of commodities
for his heart was
an exterior shell
and i was breaking
the case -
a star on the rise
who was mislead
in a make believe conversation between hearts;
a headliner news article
lined with shifts of blame
that was never meant
to be lost
hypothermiai haven't slept well since you
became mine and i became yours;
i haven't heard anything but your voice and
the sound of my dying heartbeat over the past weeks
because when i needed you most you fell back too,
we are connected by stars and so many of them that we fall
the same, we crash the same, but we do not
burn the same
(and that's more than a statement on your skin colour.)
green & white will haunt me for the rest of my life,
i never want to hear that sickening word ever again- they are
destroying me from the inside out, you, you, you all are more than
terrorists, your roots fell and broke below him & i,
and what an excuse i have! heartbreak!
and don't you dare tell me that doesn't hurt more
than a blow to the head, don't you dare convince me that
losing your life along with millions of others and being missed hurts more,
never fall in love with a dreamer,
you'll lose yourself in their own
stars, i know better now
i will fall back into hypothermia-
hospitals and stitchesdoctors cannot
mend a heart, they can
only sew the cut
(i learned that yesterday)
ink-filled reality, in the end.i remember thinking my skin was
made of paper because you printed it
with hollow words; black ink, carved verses
that you could play in a different language of
notes and verses.
i'll call you a writer
because you had the ink
but you are a damn
empty threats would be better than empty
kisses, empty dreams, a pair of empty hearts
because when you are missing something
that didn't exist; you are empty too---- heavy chest,
filled with black ink
and, and, and, i have fallen asleep in
my blackened dreams to be waken up every last time
by my torturous, memory, useless thing,
can't remember names or faces
but can remember pain. so easily.
my eyelids have been permanently set on fire;
i see more blackness
ever since i tried holding my ashen-lined breath to see
my last moments only to wake up before i
fucking drowned in ink. i have almost drowned,
you are my fucking sailboat that lost its fucking sail.
words, in the end, are empty- letters form and cause
Her burnt Salvationpry open the wall of my past
maybe you'll see what no one
else wanted too,
But she's cemented to this corner,
where a hundred knocks per hour
finally becomes those empty
whimpers repeating thank you
let the poets cry themselves to sleepit's hard to hate you in the morning
when you're waiting in my dreams
what's lovely in the moonlight
is deadly in sunlight, it seems
you won't write, and you won't call
you don't even say 'hello' anymore
(but i wanted to tell you,
you're still the reason i don't lock my door.)
trysting raysmoonlight kissed the solar rays
beneath my willow tree.
the sky blushed sunrises,
a delayed response of
marigold pink and roses
and the man-on-the-moon
stole away ‘neath golden clouds
until their final tryst.
i sigh misting melancholy on
my windowpanes and mirrors.
ah, forbidden love.
Hello, BeautifulHello, Beautiful;
You don't know me.
I don't know you.
I know people who know you
They were crying
Letters and ink
And I didn't understand.
I know your name,
Their words about
Those always made me smile
And I was so scared,
not to them
not to her
she's so beautiful.
Here are my tears
Because I don't know you,
But I'm really glad you're here.
I don't know you
But I really want to
we're all drunk and always have beenno
i haven't felt smaller than this before
and it could be
because i don't breathe poetry in
and out -
and out -
i write it under my eyebrows
with the precision
of a drunk sniper
toasted into admission
with irony s-st-tutter-ering
down his throat.
you wouldn't take a damned bullet for me.
beautiful is a word kept
for the rise
of her tidal chest,
not my shallow breath,
not my sunset, heartfelt,
i would have disappeared
between your accusing index and
neglected thumb -
don't you feel calmer?
i haven't felt smaller than this
i haven't felt smaller than this before
and it could be
because you found a home between
her stroking index and
comforting thumb -
i haven't forgotten,
no, i still remember
now twenty two penumbrae in the past
didn't stop me
in one of several crevasses
at the bottom of your oceanic mind;
you may have forgotten,
and slept in
on the details,
but i haven't,
society threads her like a needleoh,
she is the child of
clutching needles in the
palm of her mind's eye,
she gnaws and
spits her body slick,
until she can thread
through "perfect" at last.
it's a cruel vision,
and she's been beautiful
oh, it makes me cry.
she's the one with
all membrane and silver,
see-through in the moonlight
i could blow her away
with bated breath and my
whispered, desperate prayer:
love yourself again."
step away from that mirror,
and the scale.
you'll find yourself wanting.
ah, it makes me cry.
i'm not good enoughI had a dream
that I woke up without acne
and that you wanted to date me
like in the movies but I'm sorry
this is not a dream and I'm sorry
that I am waking up with flaws this time
and I am sorry
SacrificeThe blood trickling down my chest
Is the same blood dripping from the bullet on the ground.
The heart that was punctured
Is the same heart still beating for you.
The world that is so stained and bloodied
Is the same world that you live in.
I will protect you
With, regrettably, the only life that I have.
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