|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
On a Notebook, She WroteIf I left this somewhere
Or if life left me
And this is the only piece of me you know
Please take a minute
To cradle this in your hands
And then read its pages
And know you now know me
On the days where I could not find myself
And in moments where I knew myself too well.
And you can keep me
Or let me go,
But please do not throw me away.
The CourtThe first time I saw you:
The flag salute.
They told us not to stare.
I could not help but notice
Your knuckles, bruised.
You spoke like your tongue was swollen.
You told your jokes in Spanish.
When you said his name
You never set foot on the asphalt.
We sat in the grass in the outfield
Watching kids play basketball.
I wonder if you saw them.
I wonder if you were somewhere else.
They dribble the ball.
He takes the first swing at your head.
They stop, looking for a pass.
You push him, kids are gathering.
They spot an open, an arm blocks the path.
You are on the ground. He is on top of you.
He is punching you. He takes a swing at your head.
You push him. Off of you. Climb on top.
You punch. You don't stop.
You don't hear anyone. Especially not him.
You take the last swing at his head.
It cracks against the pavement.
Cheers erupt. Nothing, but net.
The last time I saw you:
The six o'clock news.
My father turns off the television.
My mother calls you a murderer.
I remember when y
I think this was a poem at one point in timeI like to tell the story
of when my mother dropped me as a baby
to save my sister
who was drowning in a pool
and I start to think of my childhood
when my father
sang the same lullaby
to my sister and i
as he sat in the hallway
where we each could see him
from our separate rooms
and everything was dark
except for the light in the hallway
which cast shadows over his face
and he always looked tired
and always tucked us in at 7 pm
and my parents said i was
a peaceful sleeper as a baby
and my mother had heart attacks
and ran to my crib
to make sure i was breathing
because i never cried
and before i went to kindergarten
i lied in bed and thought
what happens when people die?
and i was scared
because i realized
i did not want to be forgotten
and i did not want to forget myself
and i didn’t know
if dead people could eat mcdonald’s fries.
so i ran out to my father in the living room
and i cried to him
and he told me not to worry
and he said my mother would be home from c
It is.The other day I heard some boys
talking in the hallway.
They were complaining about poetry,
when they knew nothing about it.
Shakespeare and Robert Frost,
What they learn in a classroom.
A class is a class,
just like any other.
English becomes Biology
When taking a poem and dissecting it.
Word by line by stanza,
Cutting it with clear definition.
But that is not poetry.
Poetry is not writing.
It can not be explained in thirty minutes.
Like a machine,
It can be taken apart,
but is only useful when the pieces are together.
and that's all it can be.
It is a language,
And even though you speak it,
only a poet will understand it.
It is not about.
It is not roads or paths
Or women or snow
Or stairs or homes.
It is not only your heart
and how it beats,
It is your gut
and how it wrenches.
It is your eyes
and how they crinkle.
It is your palms
and how they sweat.
It's the bend in our knees,
And the way our spines curve.
It is the little twitches of our mouths.
It is our ears and
Mother's AgingMom owns a red tanktop,
That she's had for five long years.
It has a little hole she's never bothered to patch,
and it hangs on her body,
the way it never used to.
And time's been hard on it,
fading it from bright red to grey,
Just like time's been hard on the roots of her hair,
fading them from bright red to grey.
Mom can't read her favorite books,
Her eyes are weak,
And she's too stubborn to wear the glasses
that she's had for five long years,
because she thinks the lenses are too big.
And William Golding collects dust on the bookshelf
Because he hasn't been used in years,
Just like her body collects dust in the canyons of her skin,
Because it hasn't really been used in years.
Mom's knitting needles lie in a basket
that sits right next to her chair.
She doesn't reach for them,
She hasn't in five long years,
because she doesn't use them,
because she can't hold them.
And her hands shake like a city in an earthquake,
whenever she tries to hold mine.
Just like her eyes flood like a city
angeliathere's a story i could tell,
one i know so very well,
of a girl with a single dream;
one to fly with beautiful wings.
and there's a girl that i know,
one who's never seen the snow.
at her window, during the day,
she likes to view the birds so far away.
there's a story i've been told,
one about a girl so very bold.
she sprouted wings and away she flew
just like she always wanted to.
but there's a reason girls can't fly
and so this girl fell from the sky.
she fell silently towards the ground,
landing in my arms, safe and sound.
there are many things this girl can do,
some of which she never knew.
flying is not for boy nor girl,
but down here we have a better world.
and so it was a secret that i told her,
one i believed would keep her on the ground for sure,
"the bird does not wish to fly,
it simply envies you and i."
of course she didn't believe me,
so i tried to help her see clearly,
that everytime a songbird sings,
it's a simple wish to lose it's wings.
all birds wish their wings woul
X-23Maybe her name was Lily: a beauty like no other.
In the summer you would see her in the park,
Bright and graceful, her arms opening,
her fingers stretching, a bright red in her cheeks.
She welcomed all, she welcomed you.
Whenever I needed, she even welcomed me,
her eyes holding specks of her adventures. A mere peek
into her existence.
Maybe her name was Iris, a pleasant voice to have around.
She was kind, one of a million,
but one nonetheless.
She had a whicker chair in the garden. On days
that held summer breezes I sat with her,
her breath of watermelon and voice of divinity.
I would listen to her tell a million stories,
none of which I could understand.
Maybe her name was Ivy and she looked frail and dull.
She was ordinary by visage, but I'd witnessed
her amazing strength, her lengthy patience. Her ability,
one to conquer any task. She waited and prevailed.
When she spoke her words grew,
they slipped through stones, but never once
did they skip your mind. She broke through
Never Grow UpMaggie was four when her family moved to a subdivision, a new one. One with houses that held no people, one with no children to play with. Maggie bounced a ball against the garage door and Maggie played the piano when her mother told her to. Maggie read the books her parents gave her about fish and giants and princesses and dogs and boys who never grew up and Maggie played with her dolls. In the evening she watched tv with her daddy, curled up on his lap, and as he ran his fingers through her hair he explained it all to her. Wars, money, disasters, heroes, religion, people she needed to know about, people he despised She sat and listened to him speak, but never understood a word he said. Instead she'd put one ear to his belly and as she'd listen to him talk she'd listen to his insides make foreign noises and giggle and he'd smile at her as he ran his fingers through her hair and explained it all.
As time went by the houses filled with people and furniture and pets and children. Lots of
If Beauty Had a FaceIf you know Abigail you know
She's one of a kind.
She'll zip your mouth and leave you speechless.
She'll hold your hand and tell you she'll be yours.
But then you see her with someone else.
And when you see her
She'll turn your eyes to green.
She'll take your inspiration and
She'll steal what made you
No one wants to share her.
She's a gift, whether
Honestly, I don't believe anyone cares.
Because when you have Abigail
You have it all.
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
She sits on the street in the pouring rain.
for her prince to show up and take all of her
passes her by
[g oo db y e]
[g oo db y e]
as she sits and she waits under a soaking
But she swears that he'll be the next
Keep in Touch!
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