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Skeletons For The Poised.Cracked windows standing with frames falling halfway off watch-
Dusty cotton masses blow by wishing to fly but cursed by gravity.
Mousy mumbles bounce from paper thin often gossiping walls;
Once held so high in surgically plastic esteem for the filthy rich and their condemned souls.
They hired a fancy wall painter and forgot his name-
More worried about their death adorned secrets known to no living being for long.
They are telling a warning-
You may catch a deathly glimpse,
Of the haunted past,
And see the violence that-
Stained these walls a tainted red.
There is no heaven-
There is no hell.
There's just reality;
I Counted To Three.Just like you asked me to.
Your curiously distanced kiss;
Tracing my thin plumped lips.
I think I knew-
You were leaving;
Before I opened my eyes.
I began to miss you,
I heard your fast paced footsteps cease.
Cancerous LoveShe whispered
(It never escaped the breaking bridges of her mind)
To this mismatched soul mate
Will never deserve her
But still hinders her every thought
Holding her down
With an invisible grasp
Of that stereotypical woe
Claiming something could have been
She had tried a little harder
Fought a little stronger
Once upon a time
Happiness flowed through her
Feeling like her fairy god mother
Told her to follow her heart
She'd write her
Across cracked mirrors
Gleefully termite infested walls
See him smile
I Lost Myself.Somewhere;
Within the ocean's-
Overly sensitive serenity.
I can feel,
My twisted innards unwillingly-
As our burning sun-
Falls beneath a cotton candy horizon.
I'm fishing for my (anchor adorned) sinking personality-
But I think I lost track of my wiggling bait a long time ago.
My Face's Perspective.Covered in a casual masquerade mask-
Mascara smears my stubborn lashes a darker black.
Accidental tears curiously crawl out-
Smearing my painted eyes hidden from other's sight.
Stranger danger attention brings obnoxious embarrassment-
And heat stains my usually uncoloured cheeks a pale pink.
Often I feel I cannot breathe;
As she covers me day after day continuously.
Then there's those awkward moments before our mirror-
I see myself bare,
Only to find I don't recognize myself.
Looking sad without a painted smile-
I think she sees her non-existent dad.
Schizophrenia Is Me.Whisper, whisper - Dear, can you hear?
Into my ear,
They scream- frown,
"Turn (the) volume down!"
Psst... The volume is off dear,
Do you feel fear?
Shh, for you are-
One of us- stars.
Shining bright- invisible,
But only for,
A few hours more.
It's CriminalJust unbelievable-
The way I love you.
Feeling like a million dollars
(In your farmer tanned arms)
When I am-
Alone at night,
I think of you;
Tears in my unworldly eyes
Tossing and turning
In lost thoughts
And tie-dye hippy sheets
Prematurely Beautiful.She lays-
Cold and limp;
With stained hands laid out,
Rusty nails embedded-
Alike to God’s poor son;
Whom some pray to-
On two faced knees.
-In her skin.
Eight feet (b)‘low;
Where we take in our-
Damp need to live.
Her child eyes hold the stain,
Of plain pain-
And faked half assed joy;
Of a life where she lived in a house full of old men.
With not her,
But the blush dusted sea shell she had as her face’s skin.
FairytaleI don't write about love
and happily ever afters
because misery is my mistress
and pain my paramour.
No starry eyes
plucked from the heavens
to tempt me with
Eden's forbidden fruits and
Eve's forgotten secrets.
There are no mysteries
hidden under your skirt
like ribbon tied gifts
to lure my lust and
douse my mind
in impious flames.
The key to my heart
held in my own hands
like an iron vice
that won't be melted
by your imitation love
only pried, from
my cold, dead fingers.
I don't write about love
and happily ever afters
because I can only poison love
and murder the fairytale ending.
Solitude isAbsence is not darkness,
only the channels between
islands of light lining streets,
a golden figure seen
from breathy steps.
Solitude is a seven-starred cape,
black pavements pass like minutes
The alleys of isolation stretch
and gape, with well-lit limits.
A Piano TaleShe broke the piano's heart
when she moved on from Bach
to the beats.
The keys were changed;
from spruce to steel-
doors were unlocked,
and notes were silent.
It was left downplayed,
unloved and forgotten in the back
of the attic, the player grown
and clumsy in her age.
But when the skies darkened
and fires burned bleakly,
fueled by bills and bank notes,
the piano made the sacrifice:
it was auctioned off,
sold for scrap;
but the love of childhood is bittersweet
and we all grow up eventually.
The piano knew this best,
so it went away
and gave her the chance to be happy,
as it had when she was young.
LargesseImagine spraying the donation box grey,
Making it a gravestone and
Bow as if to pray;
But instead inscribe "He gave generously"
On the face of Paternoster square.
Remember to strip the cube clean,
Don your human skin
And bring our carrion
Luggage to be picked apart upon arrival.
The crows would like us to queue at gate nine,
And fill our pockets with cash,
Diplomatic immunity works well, so
We'll be patient until we crash.
The Empire of the Crow is a devious place,
So please remember, Sir, to keep
Antebellum in mind, we can't maintain this pace.
I'm fine."I'm fine"
I see the words on my screen
Reads the words you're willing to share.
But like an iceberg's true form is hidden
You words mean not what they seem
Each time I can see these words
I want to reach out to you
Let my hands travel through the screen
With the speed of light to you
Just so they could hold you
Just so they could catch your tears
Just so they could embrace you
Letting you know you're not alone.
Alas, here I sit and can only stare
At the words appearing on my screen
All I can do is to read and to reply
with three simple letters:
The Ghost Writer.In seeking shadows from a scorching sun,
Whose artificial blazing light
Failed to penetrate the darkness in my heart,
I lay on decomposing, murdered wood.
Hours past upon that bench
Words danced; distorted ballerinas
Colliding in a confused mind.
I saw then behind eyelids closed
The ghost writer of my most beautiful dreams
Who spoke to me between the lines
Of music scores and dusty books;
That spectre adoring none but death.
A phantom that loved with vampiric depth
Immortal though longing for nothingness...
I knew in those stolen moments
-Far from my world of blood stained pages
And endless historic deceptions-
That I would never find him again.
VictoriaI've strangled my muse
and left her basking
in the shallows of the Thames,
encased in London clay.
Within the concrete of a storm drain
I stitched my gap shut and
mimicked a broken mouth
to my sickened managers-
And returning home to my pen and paper
I tried to create something other than stats
My muse drowned slowly, in wheelchair bound
monotony; she must have flooded the vase on her bedside:
those flowers had not wilted from neglect
And I regret her asphyxiation; she had lived without air
in the river bottoms of Cambridgeshire,
whilst I died in the atmosphere of cramped London tubes
and Lincolnshire greens.
Perfectly FlawedShe's hiding
in the corner again,
just like when she was little.
She thinks that if
she turns her back
on the world,
that it won't be able
to see her tears.
no one will hear
But, her corner
isn't as secluded
as she might want.
their own haven,
and there are only
so many places
Sooner or later,
you run into someone.
Someone who is running
from the same things you are,
in the same direction,
to the same place.
It's not fate,
just the world
in all the right ways.
Two lonely jigsaw pieces, sliding into place.
The pieces coming together
are one thing,
but pulling them apart
is nearly impossible.
Some things are just meant to be,
for better and worse.
Purple HeartI wear a purple heart
that isn't mine.
Beating with my chest,
my own heart
bleeds red with it,
staining my days
never to be forgotten.
When courage fails
and we find ourselves
at the eleventh hour,
only to see
all that is left
are broken promises
and unanswered prayers.
You ran into the lion's mouth
and died fighting
If there was ever
a better man than you,
I have not seen him
in my lifetime.
The purple heart,
that you never got to wear
outside your funeral.
Is worth more to me,
than my own life.
I don't wear it
in memory of you,
Or to make the pain
easier to bear.
I wear it for courage,
to get up in the morning
and ignore my wheelchair.
I wear it so I can tell others
about what you did
for a coward like me,
and I'll wear it
till the day I die,
to make you proud
of the life you saved.
Wandering MonarchsHidden in the open-
Smuggled through the night;
And shoved out of sight
To those we may truly delight.
We lay in puddles of overpriced greed,
Beneath a bruised up midnight sky-
Where tipsy masquerade masks taunt and flee
As they hide their double sided faces beneath fake revere.
I think that-
Maybe they are ashamed.
More lost than us.
To depression, for creating days without endWake up to the realization that you've been awake
for seconds, minutes, hours.
You've been awake in this warm, dark room
and you don't know how long it's been
but now you're conscious
and it starts again--
the pain, strong and steady, in your chest.
You gain consciousness in this too warm morning
and your thoughts whir in endless loops
because it's either that or face the weight in your chest.
Light breaks though the window, soft and unwelcome
but you take it as a reluctant gift--
a new distraction from the feelings awake in your chest.
Awake, but not conscious.
So you think yourself in circles a little while longer
waiting for those quiet pains
(the constant reminder)
to gain consciousness.
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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