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Wings Of LeadShe's a condor
trying to dive
off of a mountain of quicksand,
trying to soar
on wings of lead,
chained to the ground.
She's a hawk
that I so want to set free,
lest I disappoint
and become chained
to this godforsaken desert
She's an eagle
and her wish to fly free
reverberates through me
and whether I want to or not
I will break those chains.
I will become the air beneath her wings,
the cliff off which she'll leap,
the feathers to lift her leaden arms,
the blade to break her chains.
And with my fall,
she will fly.
Ashen DiaryShe wrote everything
in that old diary of hers,
always smelling of tangerines
looking torn and beaten
from all the corners and crooks
she's hidden it in.
She shoved hours of every day
between the cracking covers
of that book,
hoping to save them for the future,
when she'll no longer be able to remember,
incapable of reliving her past.
Pouring out her soul onto the pages
through the tip
of her black sharpie,
recording her life
minute by minute.
She didn't know
that putting her life on paper
would take the life
out of her.
I didn't know either.
And now I would kill
to read the her hidden behind covers.
I'd die to read the her
who opened up over the pages.
Street AirOn my way to my house,
no longer a home,
I try desperately
to beat the frigid street air
out of my blackened,
The air that constantly lingers
only to remind me
that she breathes
Moonlight In My DreamI'll spend it with you,
I'll waste away the night,
living my fantasies
under the watchful moonlight.
In my little world in a dream,
lit up so bright.
We watch the moonlight shine.
I'll lead you along,
holding your hand,
through the winding paths
in my heart's wooded lands.
In my little world in a dream,
the dream you light up so bright.
We watch the moonlight quiver.
We'll reach the end,
the finish to all the lanes,
and a decision will have to be penned.
A decision that may leave me pained.
In my little world in a dream,
how bright the moonlight was.
How bright it was when we watched.
How bright it was when it went out.
A Boy and a Rose"A rose by any other name
would smell as sweet"
This was said by... Some old man.
I believe, though, he is wrong.
He may have been gifted and wise,
but surely, he was not sane.
You, my rose, are the only rose I'll ever touch,
as I adore all of you,
all petals and thorns.
And I will bleed profusely for you,
with no need for a crutch,
asking only for a touch.
I have found that no other rose
smells of such honey-sweetness;
guess that old man was wrong.
Only in your splendour do I find myself
ten times as strong.
But this opulent rose,
so tender its petals are,
will wither away,
when comes the fall of stars,
or when the snow comes knocking,
asking to play.
Such sorrow and loss will leave me,
a distraught little boy,
with my scarlet soul on my rose's stabbing thorns.
And a hole in my heart.
Tender ScarsFor him,
broken bones would set
burns would heal
in mere minutes,
cuts would close
in just seconds.
But the lashes she gave him,
the scars she left,
carved out years ago
into his heart,
to this day,
tender to the touch,
can never truly restore.
There I StoodI remembered the way she smelled
just as well as I can feel
the way her skin
would flow over mine
whenever we touched.
She hated her home.
It was a living hell.
Her mother had died long ago,
and her father was out of control.
Bringing home with him
only the stench of booze,
when he came home, that is.
He would beat her regularly,
the old bastard.
He did it
only because she was so similar
to her mother,
both so beautiful.
I had given her my old pocket watch.
I was fond of that watch,
with its silent ticking that was never silent,
as long as you knew
what to listen for.
She seemed like she loved it more than I.
She cared for it.
Maybe because it was from me,
she wore it around her neck every day,
on a mismatching copper-toned chain,
but she didn't care.
She had promised me
she would love it
and treasure it
for as long as she lived.
But then her father came home one day
drunker than ever before, this time.
And he took her by force.
They say she must have been barely alive
Not EnoughShe wears not her heart on her sleeve
but rather flaunts mine.
It's something about her,
more than too much,
enough to tempt time itself;
and I fear
that I'm simply
Toxic DreamsTake another sip of our poison,
another taste of our toxic wine,
another cup of our something potent,
guaranteed to make you feel
far better than just fine,
and soon enough
you'll be okay with the pain
while you slowly,
lose your mind.
Take another needle of ours,
filled to the brim
with pleasure tinted blue
so you won't feel the need to scream
as we take more of your time;
more of you.
Take another moment here,
or another month,
take all the time you need with your dreams
because, whether you like it or not,
you'll have to go back,
though they surely won't miss you there.
slumber.though i am weary
with eyes of sand –
arms limply sway,
& are held at a cotton bay;
the night so freely
& so the stars burn
in the collapse
InspirationMy lover inspired, and life flooded in
through the folded, blue curtains
from her nose to her chin.
She wanted to whisper, but there just wasn’t time.
I squeezed her hand, but she couldn’t hold mine.
All that life had left her, the hospital air,
in a sterile environment
where lives are laid bare.
It journeyed the room,
that chasm of space
between her weathered lips
and my blue, curtained face.
I tore down my walls
and rushed to inspire,
but her life had escaped me,
IntrovertI didn't notice you were there!
I got lost in my own world, again.
No set of walls will feel like a prison.
I don't need to leave the house, or my chair, to have fun.
Time spent with family and friends means a lot to me.
But I don't do it just because.
Reading and writing and my love for these don't make me boring.
Living in my own mind comes naturally to me, like breathing.
Of course I don't know what to talk about.
Unless it's deep, meaningful and interesting, I won't say much.
Very good at listening?
I love learning new things and being there for you.
Escape plan: exits, quiet and an excuse.
Over-stimulation is the pits!
Real friends are h
The Deal"So tell me, Miss, ah, Ms. Klein, what gave you the impression that my firm would have any interest in purchasing your eternal soul?"
"Well, I was told that that was what you do?"
"Amongst other things, yes, but the soul market has become quite saturated of late. Definitely not a seller's market I'm afraid, what with the new banking laws and all. What is it you want Ms. Klein?" he asked as he stroked his goatee absentmindedly.
"I want eternal beauty," the attractive young woman said, holding his gaze.
"I, ah, I'm afraid head office no longer allows that sort of thing, Ms Klein," the handsome man replied. "Long term liabilities are frowned upon, and anything without a firm closing date in the agreement can not be made binding under any circumstances. The best we can do is grant you beauty to a specific date."
"Well, we could grant you beauty until, say, December 31st, 2020, for example."
"But that's not even worth it!" she exclaimed, d
PaintYou'd think it's easy to come up with words;
the moisture once again seeps through the September and the cracked paint
into the grey between hallways and second-hand memories;
local minima of motion,
windchill in the kitchen,
mornings that open into nothing at all
the words are broken, stunted and too slow
breaking apart at the touch of a hand
I sit alone in the garden by the ash tree
write songs without melodies
of things I have never seen
and of the soft, slow, tender acuity on a Sunday
that might once more may carry meaning
the mind has mountainsLife is brief.
Fall in love, maidens,
before the crimson bloom
fades from your lips,
before the tides of passion
cool within you,
for those of you
who know no tomorrow.
My earliest memory is listening to my mother sing this song. My mother was a woman who was not beautiful except for when she sang, so she was always singing. I remember sitting at our kitchen table drawing childish pictures, enjoying her sweet soprano thrum through the walls of the house, glass shaking in the cabinet doors with her powerful vibrato.
I remember hating this song.
She always laughed when I told her. “I used to hate it too,” she said, which was really the worst answer possible to a child that wanted to learn.
“Then why do you always sing it?” I couldn’t understand the sudden tightness of her mouth.
“Well,” she said thoughtfully, picking me up and putting me on the counter. I took the large, brightly painted spoon from her and stirred the salad. “I think
Cheyne StokesCheyne Stokes
That was how it started at least. I was sitting in the chair next to his bed and all of a sudden (sudden? how could he have just... slipped?) he was in cheyne stokes.
I dropped the head of his bed down, checked his pulse (Tony! Where was Tony? This was supposed to be Telemetry!) and began...
One and two and three and ...
(Where is everyone? I shouldn't be here!)
Four and five and six and...
(Where is the cart?)
Seven and eight and -
Tony came falling through the door, took one look, called Code and went for the ambu-bag - which wasn't there.
Nine and ten and eleven and -
And Tony just began to breathe for the man lying there - no equipment, no protection, just mouth on mouth - basic, no bells & whistles, just life.
I felt the old man's ribs crack, saw him bounce on the hard mattress with each thrust of my palms, saw the sweat bead on Tony's forehead but none of that mattered - nothing mattered except keeping the blood flowing through the old man's heart and brain.
The BartenderHe takes another crystal cup
from the rack of containers at his side,
wiping it clean,
filling it with tonic and gin,
and all that liquid gold,
then putting it on the counter
for the newest sad sack fresh through the door,
full of sorrow
and ready to drink away his woes.
Sometimes he wishes that it was him
sitting on the chair in front of his place,
emptying his wallet
in exchange for emptying his mind
and his clouded heart
of all their demons.
He has bills to be paid
and debts to be remade.
He wishes that he was the one
talking with this understanding bartender,
who just happens to be such a good listener.
But he knows that can never be.
He has to be the one
who hears all the woes and troubles,
the one who is perpetually prepared
to offer his moral support
in times of need, disaster, and even any mild confusion.
He can't be the one to break or bawl,
can't afford to crumble or fall.
He has to stand, always, an invincible pillar,
reliable, sturdy, robust, and tall.
No matter what demons
hey newton, gravity's flawedi.
starting anew from the flutter
and the sputter of lungs.
a vacant sea filled with feathers
and tumultuous clatter,
ribs in a treacherous pattern
resembling exiting rungs.
i want to wrestle the angels,
your tendency is the ladder.
involved with full indiscretion,
trading lazy for lace.
unspool the curse of the long-
limbs in a languorous flexion
i like the stab of the ankles,
you need the curves intersected.
opting to cull my extents
with trans-dimensional vigor.
spent my dysphoric corrections
on reconnecting lax ends.
lips in a spurious accent
feign a passionate rigor.
i tie myself to the anchor,
you extricate and ascend.
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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