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Pretty GirlWeary girl, weary girl, all alone:
When caught in a silent war,
Ties of spider's silk and fears of steel
Don't seem to stretch very far.
"Fatty girl, fatty girl," they called.
Beneath sympathy, beyond trust, past these false layers,
Nobody cared for a girl with no voice,
And no one had an ear for a wordless prayer.
Gloomy girl, gloomy girl, all alone:
Today is the day.
Sweet shelter is long gone,
But the stars are leading the way.
"Ugly girl, ugly girl," they hissed
And felt their pedestals grow.
Ignore their pushing; find strength,
Don't let weakness show.
Lovely girl, lovely girl, all alone:
Carry those weapons high.
The end of the battle is near.
Be fierce; don't cry.
"Never, girl; never, girl," they swore,
And shook their heads in shame.
Flaunting their pity, parading their certainty,
Their ignorance caused further pain.
Pretty girl, pretty girl, all alone:
To hide weapons is an act of treason.
Don't depend on isolation;
Hearts aren't hidden for a reason.
Patience, girl, patience,
Are You Happy, Now?"Hey," I called out, into the chasm between awake and asleep. "Give me Beauty."
"Hey," my echo snapped back, it's voice ripping into the small valley of dead, dry land I call my home. "Give me Beauty."
"Please," I said aloud, my trembling voice resonating into the blankness between hopes and failures. "Give me something to Dream."
"Please," my echo answered, its hollow voice tearing through the dead garden I spend all of my time in. "Give me something to Dream."
"Hey," I cried one evening, begging an answer from the fine line between anger and joy. "Give me something to Feel."
"Hey," my echo called back, the emptiness in its voice washing across my numb body. "Give me something to Feel."
"Hey!" I shrieked into the darkness, needing to be heard. "I've given up. Are you happy now?"
"Hey," my echo whispered, unconcerned. "Are you happy, now?"
I WonderI wonder how many desperate questions die behind trembling lips,
Choked back down a throat gone sore with silence,
For fear of a frozen answer.
I wonder how many hearts cease their beating,
Paralyzed under a glistening layer of frost,
For warm tongues gone still from uncertainty.
I wonder how many begging eyes go unmet,
Avoided at all cost for no reason other than
The simple refusal to risk being hurt.
Lake of SoulsOn a fine line between wind-whipped desert-lands
And cutting, shimmering icicles,
A vast stone basin rests in obsidian stone.
Liquid gas, like silver silk, laps at its diamond rim
As ghostly light flashes from the frozen mist.
Above, stars cry tears of sick yellow
As the fumes of the frightened sting their eyes.
Dusk reigns heavily, and neither ice nor fire survive,
Here in the Lake of Souls.
Pained cries weave in helpless chorus,
Echoing off mirrored walls,
Punctuated by bodiless hissing and soft rustling.
Faces materialize from the dank air:
Small girls, tough men, kings that melt to peasants,
And wise women that soften into betrayed little boys
With mouths as hard as tigers' teeth.
People who have walked along blue beaches
And gritty city streets
Reach out to stroke the intangible waters,
Only to scream and withdraw as freezing heat
Burns their fingertips,
Here in the Lake of Souls.
Skin rots under soggy soil, useless for keeping secrets,
And bones are ripped apart by tugging roots,
You're Beautiful, You KnowYou're beautiful, you know.
You don't see it because you're afraid to love yourself.
You need to learn to forget about the shadows lying behind you
And focus on the rainbow that glistens beneath your skin.
You're sweet, you know.
Your goofy grins hold so much concern and gentleness.
There are no spirits you can't lift, no laughter you can't spark.
Nothing can beat your gentle touch or your warm hugs.
You're strong, you know.
You're not afraid to jump in mud puddles or change lives.
You make your mark solid and dark.
Don't let anyone hold you back; you deserve more than that.
I love you, you know.
Beauty counts more in the heart than in the face.
Gentleness and concern is worth more than wit.
Strength has a greater meaning when founded on heavy dousing of pain.
You are my world, you know.
Word-WeavingI wield a pen as my paintbrush, and I load it with sights, smells, and heavy ideas. With ink, I stretch the fabric of myself across a patient page.
I tell of small rooms darkened for comfort. I tell of angelic pigeons that flutter weightlessly on puffs of wind, their backs hot under feathers warmed from the searing sun. I describe clouds that tumble across one another; that swirl in eddies and churn up lightning as yellow as butter. Rainfall is not just for dancing, nor just for tears: jeweled rain plops on waxy leaves and drops into powdery dust, rolls from asphalt to call blind worms from muddy caverns, and rat-a-tats on vast lakes, teasing hungry fish whose silver sides snap through blue depths.
Stories of fear spill from my hand: stories of loss, stories of incessant pain that burns through hearts and leaves charred holes begging weakly for salve. I tell about lies coated with cream cheese frosting, not spoken to hurt, but to heal.
Words hold me in their grasps, working
Please...If you can do nothing else for me, then exist.
If you cannot find your path beside mine, then seek it far and wide. For my sake, turn your face to the sunrise, take in your last breaths of night air, and train your heart on the noon-day sun. Hide not among the gravestones and roses, but seek the mountain wildflowers; they remind me of you.
If you cannot give me your gaze or your touch, then give me one promise: that even though I cannot see you, I can believe that you still walk this earth; that even though I cannot hear you, I can believe that we will meet again. Give me this, and I will try to let you go.
Its peaceful, isnt it?
The sky so clear and bright,
And the moon so wide awake, casting pale phantoms onto the field.
The night would be perfect for dancing,
If it wasnt for those delicate, blinking lights that rest underfoot.
Amidst the long, tufted grass,
The thousand tiny sparks burn tiredly.
They are beautiful for a heartbeat,
Until I realize
That the fireflies are dying.
On the air, I can smell the first snowfall
And I know that soon, darkness will reign harshly.
The first step in saying Goodbye is
Accepting that the fireflies are dying.
We had plans, you see,
Plans that would have brought us into another world.
All it would have taken was one night.
Now, though, it will forever be too late:
The fireflies are dying.
I want it to happen,
I want it to work.
But even as I want, I know,
That even while the ground is still warm,
The air is chill,
And the fireflies are dying.
It has been amazing
Holding so much power in the palm of my hand,
Watching it flicker on
GrendelThe night was thick and heavy, and the air that hissed into my lungs was dank. From the top of that high knoll, I could hear the distant, heavy throbbing of the surf, merciless against the cliff, bent on wearing the harsh rock face into nothing but unexceptional pebbles and sand. Below me, the joyful shouts and laughter of men echoed into the air, sounding hollow against the surrounding hills. It was these men my tongue and throat craved, and it was these flesh-and-blood morsels who spent their lives bent on making my life a living hell. Anger coursed through my veins, making my ears ring and the night glow with a bloody halo, but I was willing to wait a while longer. Time was of no consequence to me; rage grew only more potent with patience, and my anger was my strongest weapon.
In the past years, I had heard complaints among the humans of lack of fairness in my game. I wasnt playing fair. I, the great Grendel, the being whose knotted muscle and glistening claw held more
Hey YouHey you.
With the perfect smile,
Even if it hasn't been seen
In a little (or long) while.
I hope you're feeling okay.
And I think you're
Doing really great today;
You are one less day away
From your perfect tomorrow.
Peter Pan EnvyWe molded pirate ships
from heavy storm clouds,
flags puffed up
and scooped out
like handfuls of sand
while the car windows
steamed in the cold.
You told me stories
of a boy in green
and his war with
the hooked man,
said they took
those like us
to the first star on the right
and straight on to morning.
You made me believe
and when life got hard--
mom hopped up on pills,
nights filled with demons--
I breathed wishes
to be stolen away.
No pirate ever darkened my stoop
with his wayward compass
or water-stained maps;
no fairy ever left glitter
smeared on my skin
like good dreams.
I look to the sky
when the wind blows
and hold my breath
with his name on my tongue
all the same.
SeptemberThe summer was so hot
the dogs stuck to the sidewalks
with the newspapers
and the black metal cans
everyone left waiting on the curb.
You could smell it
in the glass pitchers
on table tops,
and the sheets that never
dried on the clothes lines;
the canvas beach bags
mothers dragged wearily
across the sand
and the ice cream trucks
melting across the highways.
Children felt it open
up the windows at night
and find a corner
of the bed to smother,
while fathers baited it on hooks
or mowed it down
in flat, dry stripes
as if begging each other
And the crickets just hummed
beneath the corn silk
and the dry mouth
daring the cats to play
hide and seek -
searching for September.
Note to SelfDate a librarian; they'll read you until your spine falls apart, and still love every page. They'll underline your highlights, your endless seas of profound poetry, as if they've mistaken your manatee appearance for a mermaid. They'll hang off the cliff of your chapter 15 and dive into the next page as if you're about to reveal what they've been looking for. And when they don't find it, they'll tear out your words letter by letter with a hush, asking you oh so sweetly to stay quiet. Finally, they'll bind your broken spine with tape and set you on the shelf for misplaced books until they forget you were ever there, but they won't be done with you. They'll never be done with you; even when it seems your pages, your rib cage and heart, is filled with nothing but dust.
thirstYou tell me to breathe in
the scent of my tea:
Apple Cinnamon Spice,
it is crisp and infusing
the aroma into my lips.
Honey coasts along my spoon,
apple biting into its
golden flavor. Cinnamon bursts
forth for a brief moment and I am
Stormy nightPouring rain
Just another night
In this sad existence
The rain feels refreshing
The darkness is comforting
And they bring a smile
To my melancholic face
I am one with the night
One with the storm
Standing under the streetlight
Waiting for life to happen
More to Come, More to LoveMore to come
More to love
More potbellies bulging seductively
More love handles to lovingly handle
More expanding muffintops to nibble
More inches on the measuring tape
More pounds on the scale
More softening fat bottoms to sit upon
More comfortable living
More people becoming fluffier everyday
More size acceptance
More tubby tolerance
More self-loving wonders
More deliciously sinful food to enjoy
More freedom from guilt and shame
More liberation of libidos
More opening of minds
More unshackling of hearts
More release from constraints
More living large
More emancipation of bodies
More sleeping in
More breakfast in bed
More letting oneself go
More unbuttoning of pants
More flab enveloping abs
More thickening of thighs
More softening of faces
More doubling of chins
More dimpling of cheeks
More fine fat rolls
More cinnamon rolls
More buttery dinner rolls
More swiss chocolate rolls
More ice cream
More biscuits and gravy
More bread and
BetterSomething happens, always happens.
So when I wake to another dreary day,
The sunlight dripping through the shades like teardrops,
I still remember that
There is possibility; always possibility.
Though breakfast is the same sawdust cereal,
I tell myself that lunch
Is better; always better.
Though I am weary to the bone, I dress in the same costume eagerly,
Trying to remind myself that
There could be something; always something.
Though I peer through the same, thick mask,
I am sure that the careful distance I place around myself will
Be worth it; always worth it.
And even though the motion of acting out a joy I dont feel
Seems repetitive, I believe that the security I give others
Is important; always
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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