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Why I stay1.
every day you wake me
with a gentleness
I did not know you possessed
you are waiting at the door
stamping your feet
on the frozen ground,
with your bone white teeth
there is a restlessness going around,
something I think
borne of this winter air
I am filled with a longing
not lustful, nor painful,
but rather like a constant
from every direction
as if the particles themselves
that compose my body
are becoming detached
tired of the tension, the constant
push to shove
to deserve your love
We are both foreigners in a house we once shared.Reacquaint me:
your mother died last year; my boyfriend has left.
You wring your hands beneath the table, where you think
I cannot see. I refuse
to care; instead I
line up lovers
between bites of toast.
You've taken to staying out
late, I've taken
to sleeping early. We exchange
carefully chosen words-- the ones
clipped of meaning.
here we are, breathing the same city air,
both of us trying to seize our own brands
of happiness. Yet what is that
but a passing shadow of sun?
In the darkening afternoon
it illuminates us
at our prime. We can no more
than we can trap
the loves of our lives
to our side.
Reacquaint me: let us burn, let us shiver.
These days I am closerThese days I am closer to the place--
I've wanted to remember
for years. These days
I can sometimes smell
the salt of the sea
I catch a glimpse of a small girl,
a blonde pixie cut;
I catch a glimpse of her white slip
and feel the cool and life-filled chill
of early morning biting
I see a window overlooking the bustling
downtown street below.
In the quiet of morning
in this stillness of time
I am close
it is hard
for a city to sag
you never see the pigeons flee
& when a city can offer
there is no excuse
holding only a question
from years ago
the words have gone
by too many
it is hard
to trust what is left:
a pressing gust
the smallness of a voice
across the still
Necessitiesthe line dips again
into the foaming wake, its feathered hooks
already thin trails of feces
streak their white bellies
they lunge for freedom but
soon can only gulp
is it wrong
to look away?
there, the high sun, there a gull
there, the racers, their white sails
on the horizon
& for a moment
at my feet
it is wrong
to look away
sonnet of a changeling childstale pumpkin spice and cinnamon alight
upon this cold expansion of damp air
this untouched day before it trips the snare;
what simple turns can mark the fae's soft flight.
and of this changeling child on wheat-bare earth
who'll flit from fold to field at merry whim?
a swaying dance upon a tree's high limb
will beckon over every call to hearth.
today a brisk and rapid north gust flings
him from his perch within the sweeping oak:
a fallen boy with bruises fresh, and yet--
what mother's hand can pin his fledgling wings
when swath in autumn's auburn leaflined cloak
he'll flee: a seed, a passing silhouette.
to Yellow Plumto Yellow Plum (in blue
afternoon's slit of sun slips
between thick curtains
& woos you to ripeness.
it chooses you
not for flecks of honey-russet
held low in your seam of shadows,
nor your symmetry & swell;
you slink in shade, sink
behind green pear & clementine
& cannot hide
from each spear of light
against these lips
a tea-stain stone
the trashbin floor.
It is enough that I sit here gently
rocking, every glass still
undrunk these quiet
hours, my face
unzippered, my skin
discarded on the floor;
the sigh of the fridge, the creaks
UntitledVanquished wastelands, xeric: yesterday's Zion.
Soil, sunbaked, caves and crumbles. Fossilized boughs line the bank and strain deep into the river's hollow belly, feeling phantom water; they do not know the tight rations of survival to last them through such a blight, and stretch and seek with abandon. Each fruitless endeavour comes as unexpected, induces another strenuous effort.
Sunset teeters, ubiquitous.
Like a coin balanced on the rim of the land, it toys with the temptation of the fall. From time to time it is struck by its own delirium, and licks the edge with a soot-blackened tongue-- but does not waver, does not bow its head in the least. It has made a bet with the earth; which will outlast the other?
Nearer, osprey perch: querulous, resisting.
One has just caught a plump fish, a rare event that merits not celebration but deep-rooted suspicion. The fish are few, and t
In a world with no mercy
Day after day
Until the end
The day I die
And then maybe
I'll find some peace
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.
I am me. Who are you?I am fragments
of every person
I've met; every
memory made; every
bond formed and tie broken.
I am an orchestra
of people's opinions;
each snide comment
each casual remark
each passing compliment
I am a library
of forgotten lies
and fake smiles
and empty promises.
I am a sky of hope;
filled with stars
which carry the wishes
of the people I have encountered
I am never alone
for their influence will forever
taint my soul and
remind me of their hopes,
dreams and pain.
This is who I am.
Who are you?
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
on remembering to breathe:i.
you can't hold it in for forever.
your lungs weren't
made to bear the weight
of this world, they weren't made
to left unexpanded
and unexplained -
it is not phenomenon that wakes you
when paralysis hits in the
night, it is physiology telling you that
not everything happens on automatic, okay?
(at least not for always)
you're born like a time bomb, with
only so many beats of
your heart in place to tick away day by day -
your words, they're the same.
there's a time limit
on your tongue, so say something that
means something - use words
that dig in and rip out hearts, use words that
curl around your fingers and worm their
way into your soul.
use words to make something
beautiful. something remembered.
never leave three things
left unsaid because they can be three
words that mean everything -
i'm not telling you to save your breath.
i'm begging you not to waste it.
sing. sing enough to take your breath
away because even though
it leaves you gasping, it fills up that
train station souvenirsthe vibrations of the train rumble below me;
the clatter of my teacup on the table creates
an urban symphony that curls through the air,
igniting a flare of nostalgia inside my brain.
it wraps its dark tentacles around my frontal
cortex, pulling me deeper into the distant past
as the train bears me farther into my future.
then I am left with the king:
the plastic clicks as he thuds back and forth
and the pawn
who can only look forward
is still stuck
then I must decide:
the quick and painless way
into the pocket of white guards ahead,
or should I instead keep running
in frantic circles,
tighter and tighter?
I see triumph in your eyes and instead I--
lost in the web
of strategies I will never know
losing a game I've never known how to win
I call defeat
there is a metaphor there
and something about life
and the other people
ReflectionsVal's pursuit led him to the foul beast's domain. The hollowed-out cavern reeked of blood and rancid meat. The dim light he had seen as he charged through the tunnel after the monster could now be identified: torches. Rows of mysteriously lit torches lined the walls of the huge cave. At its center was a substantially large labyrinth of mirrors.
He spotted the beast entering.
He spun his silver broadsword in his hand and hurried in behind it.
His garb was a simple blue and white crusader's leather with thick armored pads and reinforcing steel studs. Lightweight and flexible, but quite effective defense against blunt blows and – in a pinch – the slashing claws of the unholy spawn of the earth. All monster-hunters wore a similar variety in Val's experience. It would serve him well in these close quarters of the mirrored maze.
Right, left, forward, left, right he turned, always catching a glimpse of the beast's tail as he wove his way through the corridors. Every so often he sp
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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