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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.
I screamMy scream is loud.
My scream is honest.
My scream is desperate.
My scream is filled with truth.
Why would nobody hear me?
dearly belovedthese days
your name has been slipping
in and out of my rib cage
my heart forgets to beat.
how even after all these months i still
don't want to believe that
you're dead. how during the
first couple of weeks i prayed
to a god i didn't believe in and begged to know
if death tasted sweet to you. how once,
when the monsters in my head
didn't let me sleep, i
wrote you three poems and then
you were a supernova that
lit up my life for
a few radiant moments before,
like all good things in this
you came to an end.
the sinner in me hopes that you have wings now.
but i think that,
most of all,
i hope you no longer
remember what pain
Those Green Eyes (Or: Don't Lie to Your Kid)Those green eyes -
The green of joy
The green of hope
The green of love and acceptance -
Were always full of lies.
They first lied when I said,
After a nightmare at four am
When I was too small to reach a light switch,
“Will you ever leave me?”
And those eyes said,
Why did those green eyes
Shut when I needed them most?
"Are you okay?"
Would be a red line
That I would etch into myself
Those green eyes melted.
Those green eyes did shine
And I knew what it was -
I was young, not stupid -
But I indulged the lie,
For those green eyes.
"Will it get better?"
I asked one sunny Saturday
At ten in the morning
And those green eyes looked away;
“And you’ll be here forever?”
There were no words.
I made up my own affirmative.
Those green eyes -
When they saw
How I’d rubbed myself raw
notes on a matchbook love.if I were the type
to say how I really felt,
I'd tell you that
I hope you choke on your apologies
like they're arsenic
and your nails are already
with the poison.
I'd let you know
that I'll never be a body
for you to touch
just because I know that's all you want.
I'll never be a fairy in a bottle
at your waist.
this is no storybook, and
I am no myth.
hear my silence,
feel the cold absence
respond to your weak "I'm sorry"s.
I beg you,
stop digging the hole,
stop, just stop.
Hush and watch the flames
engulf the image you sold me.
you can tell me
I'm beautiful as much
as you want,
but I know that it's not enough,
that you'll always want more,
that you've been a wolf
between my legs all this time
and my fingers are bruised
from holding the leash.
now every time you whisper
"please be okay",
I will always tell you that
I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine.
I will forever pretend
that I've grown up from you,
that I've become a mystery
Let me dieGo away
Leave me alone
And let me die
Of this world
I don't want to live
Because there's no light
At the end of this tunnel
So I'll just end my life
Don't try to stop me
And we'll meet again
On the other side
Outside this dark tunnel
I Tear My Skin AwayI Tear My Skin Away
I tear this skin from my body,
Even if the world screams,
That I am only an illusion.
I tear the bones from my legs,
Through pain, I will grow,
Through suffering, I will become.
I rip the muscles from my arms,
These teeth from my jaws...
And with nothing upon me,
I carry on...
Like a broken puppet, still shivering,
Still forcing its way through the darkness;
I tremble for I am nothing...
And yet, I am moving. My voice still screams...
I draw breath into these tired lungs,
As I rip the flesh away...
And I shatter these mirrors before me,
With a voice that will not break:
Because the world cannot label me as nothing,
And I will live for my own sake!
"So tell me, is that all the pain you've got for me?"
Wrists.Wrists are not made,
To be cut up by cold blades.
Blood was meant to stay in your veins,
Not to be drained.
From your body,
You're stronger than that,
I know a person can only take,
Until they break.
And you have your doubts,
And when you lay in bed,
The pain is all you think about.
But you're so much more,
Than your heart aches.
So much more,
Than your demons.
Even if you feel,
Like your dying,
And you are through with trying,
Because all you've been doing lately is crying.
I want you to know,
That no, you're not alone.
And you re going to survive.
Please just drop your knife,
Because you're going to,
Make it out alive.
words, wonderlight has faded and words are heavy,
but there is a delicate magic
twisting between your fingers.
it is all a-scribble
melisma without music;
syllables stitching terra firma
to firmament in intricate
stanzas that require
neither breath nor sound
to echo, infinite,
within the depths
of susurrous souls.
it is cold and it is dark,
but there is a fire in you
and you use it with a fierce grace
that illuminates the shadows,
and ignites the demons
until not even the grey spaces
that haunt and harry
can hold dominion.
they are exposed
they are broken
into shards of sunrise
and rays of a quiet
you scare away the night
with exhalations that blow
away the fogged emptiness
inside, over and over,
sparking fireworks from
what was thought
to be ash.
a dreamI can see our bodies swaying, I can feel our breaths hitching. This is what we've been waiting for, this close proximity. So far apart on the earth, merely inches on a map, now here we are. Our skin scratching, yearning for another touch. Bodies around us envelope us and we are in a cacoon separated from reality. This is just how we wanted it, how it should be. A laugh, a smile, a song, a touch. A kiss, an embrace, closer, an applause, a smile, a laugh, a kiss. We are timed, this moment is not forever, nor is forever in this moment. This is our memory, this is the last scene when I fall asleep. The sand in the hour glass is falling, it's slipping and dropping and landing. The hour glass is glued to the table, the table is nailed to the floor. We need more. Another kiss, another dance, another song, a tear, a heart so torn, a heart so fragile, a hug, an end, a silence. It's over, this is it, a car crash to end our road trip, a journey well lived, now finished. We l
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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