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No CirclesPlease be an angel,
Or I’ll die chasing beauty,
In folded forests we slip,
Hold fast your wit
Or I’ll lose myself on your tongue.
But please be an angel,
I wait for you each night,
A WhisperTo say I loved you in some cliched way,
Like the burning of a thousand suns,
Or with the passion of a Shakespearean tongue,
In terrible metaphors and atrophied puns,
With tired similes and forgettable thumbs,
Through weary eyes or in ways not done,
Would belittle my love,
And that won’t do.
Put simply, nothing loves,
Not how I love you.
I love you below, between and above.
I love you the way you deserve to be loved.
Little VisionsUnnaturally, she falls from trees painted bare by winter in my mind,
Concrete shadows chasing days she swears were yours.
Patiently, unwilling but carefree, she falters peacefully into the waters,
Bubbles, silent, trace letters in the reflection of my world
Trivial, these little matters, we float on by, by airs we float on graces;
Traditions and social uprisings, we gather with our leaves
And by Spring, repaint the trees in airs, in visions of you.
ElizabethEach sacred syllable of your name
Lilts upon my tongue, gifted
Ideal and beautiful, whispered
Zealous and sacred.
Ample and pure, to feed my desires,
Breath in my lungs and air in my fires.
Each holy intonation,
Trapped in my soul.
Hold on to this, lover, this lover I hold.
It's not the end.Sit quiet, not in solitude,
But in peace, be at peace.
Be forgiving, not judgemental,
Once at least, once at least.
Appreciate the sunrise,
Thank the East, thank the East.
Love with all you are,
Love's a feast, Love's a feast.
And when the moments right,
Then you'll know, then you'll know.
And when the stars align,
It will show, it will show.
Live and be the tide,
Ebb and flow, ebb and flow.
And things will be alright,
Take it slow, take it slow.
Remember MeRemember me when it snows
For you know I loved the snow.
Not the cold, nor the ice,
Nor the melt nor the flow.
Not Snowmen, nor snowballs,
Nor freezing, nor toes
That feel frozen, or bitten.
Not smitten by footprints
Or Angels in snow;
Simply the white.
I'm sad when it goes.
So when I, too, am gone,
And the weather turns cold
When the year is still young
And the world growing old
When the day is too long
And sets fear in your bones;
Remember me, happy,
Whenever it snows.
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 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.
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
'The One'Dear The One,
I wish to end our correspondence,
Ive grown dreadfully despondent,
And simply ceased to need you in my life.
I will assume, by first incision,
This is a mutual decision,
How silly of me to think you would ever be my wife.
Though my soul was once unsinkable,
And sins were once unthinkable,
Now I fear to think my soul is rotten.
My will was once unshakeable,
My heart was once unbreakable,
But easily I break, my will forgotten.
Since you value virtue priceless,
And my past is less than viceless,
It is a virtue that my past cannot be saved.
The beast was once untameable,
The whore was once unshameable,
But you went and tamed the whore to be your slave.
If my early indiscretions,
Were believed not in cessation,
Then the issue of your trust has left me shy.
We have come from first impressions,
All the way to last confessions,
I love you, but wish otherwise, so this is my goodbye.
Yours faithfully, as always,
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