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Scarecrow Green W. Body ImageSCARECROW
the trees are still green.
ive got a boy in each ear screaming in a strained falsetto, "find god, then fuck, rub war paint over your collar and choke those dreams of adolescent fancy!"
maybe not in that order.
i feel that those might be reasonable demands.
if not, ill stay a virgin forever and stop posting my barely lucid projections on cross walk buttons so the world can join me in confusion.
ive decided to marry myself to this moment, a rubber band ring on my finger and everything.
i cant tell if theyre asking for a fire or a union.
all i can hear is sex and murder, a whisper of masturbation.
the feral cry signifies a busted climax so maybe these boys are in love and the songs merely rut against each other.
its a valid enough theory.
a part of me hopes that they become beautiful monsters when the lights go out.
for them my heart goes.
today ive decided not to believe in love.
its a silly little thing, not suitable for children my age
"just jealous 'cause we're young and in love."
im jotting this down overlooking stairs to the concrete people playing evergreen games until the grass hits and feet sink against the movement.
my fear is the position to topple into bodily harm, she told me because my statements were laced, hardly contrary to the truth. and my knees are buckling, body sways forward and panic spray paints my senses 'til they're all bright yellow. i fall backwards on my ass, knees pressed tight to my chest so i can breathe normal again.
luckily no ones noticed that its happened for the third time tonight.
it might be a bit cliche to proclaim myself toeing the edges of our small existence 63 percent of the time.
eyes closed and learning how to meditate, recite the best poem ever written to the better half of my memory that sits in the dark until special moments when i wish to remember how to make decisions based on my mistakes.
this is different.
im listening to someone else's favorite song, strike to my ski
Sunglassesi look down and my hands are clasped, the light washing over them in broken stretches, intervals like broken clockwork. fingers interlocked atop the plaid fabric draped down and around my hips.
for the past hour or so ive been writing in my head.
about boys and girls.
those who i have, haven't, should've and desperately want to kiss. im 16, so honestly, theres nothing else for me to write about.
i wanted to start this with a sentence in my mental draft that would state, more or less, 'i tell him i love him but im not sure by what definition i hold it, perhaps whichever he feels it to be.'
something like that.
its about a boy who ive kissed despite knowing just how much i should not have. because my decision making skills are just about as flawed as my parents' are.
i guess i wouldve gotten all poetic about it too. about the songs hes sang to me and how hes just a stepping stone that i paused at, knowing it was merely 'til i truly get what i want (sniff, i say, 'what i had'), but no mat
Blackbirdthe sound of breathing over labored guitar chords.
he says 'rooftop', i think E minor, maybe binary code.
its just that simple.
with an arpeggio inhale and the positioning of awkward fingertips.
now hes humming something i cant discern and the song is supposed to be about lonliness, he says, a thin mouth tilted up in the corner.
'lovely melancholy' i say to myself.
but i hear moonlight and silver glinting off earlobes, hollowed in the dark.
dont believe theyre lonely, more but reaching out from the edges.
scribbles in the corner of papers with outstretched arms, to use figurative language.
a tendency to ask what i am writing, always thinking it be about himself (8th grade memories floating like notebook paper, i remember, small smile and bright eyes.)
right now the sound is repetition, shifting soft and to a feeling--green grass like comforters and arena seating.
and i can hear what this is asking for, a mirror imaged and a sideways glance through crowds.
to break his concentration, th
Counter Topi need to make that night seem more poetic when i write it down.
inject some sorry romanticism into those few moments.
felt like i had no face and even with the lilt of eyebrows, creases in the corners of my forced smile, the expression wouldnt have mattered anyway.
they dont explain it to you in those middle school classes.
the overwhelming sense of power found in sometimes hazel eyes, bright in dimly-lit rooms.
yet crippled in knowing how these things tend to mean nothing.
how my knees give out and quiver.
how in the minutes before, my lips mirrored the action, trying not to weep for the need of piteous decisions.
and voices are obsolete.
but breathing means everything.
i might actually call that my own, unless imagination runs wild and my skin goes blank for an open canvas---close your eyes and see anyone else you want to hold.
theres nothing at all beautiful to see when i let myself be picked apart for the sake of wanting someone i cant have, even when hes looping his perfect finge
Criss-Cross Designthe light has then adjusted
some twenty times since
weve been staring
with hair caught behind cold ears
and the irises expanding
for there is no way
to go blind in these rooms
with white-washed vision
blotting out dark figures
as they might rise slowly
in some distance
but you might switch these lines
to different angles
looking out windows
see the dull drone
of brown eyes
against brick walls
im writing your movement
as i stare at this pen
conjuring some demon
kill you dead
with the unrelenting desire
of this swirling madness
out the tip and over the page
so i could draw the distance
of just where you migh
be looking and write
those lines back to my eyes
and my mouth
because they are both open, staring
as you look anywhere but for me
Adenei've got a safety pin fastened through a collar and a name i dont know fit under the swollen rasp of my dry tongue.
the name like peril, little girls in sunday dresses, celestial in the songs they sing.
as if i knew that definition.
maybe stringing descriptions along branches and stuck with metal points, rusting red through the sides.
spelling out letters with stick tips in teh dirt and memorizing lines on her knees, with her hands upon the ground.
with hair threaded through like loops about her fingertips, passed through pink tinged lips and breathin in her air through filters, left there speechless.
reflecting the sun and leaving their sketches on tree trunks.
the countours gold, eyes closed and blind to the moment.
spit at her feet and found mud squished through toes, causing dissension among the ranks.
and she speaks quietly to the pins in her shoulders that whatever youre seeing, its not happening.
i say Adene, you draw a picture and the lines overlap.
running like water.
We Can See Thisive found out that these lives are like movies and the voices set are scripted pieces of beauty.
my gaze, taciturn, green grass in graveyards.
lifting his chin with the tips of my fingers.
as if holding the pose, fighting breath under water.
and walking away, found an exit through hanging branches of willows wilting in the heat of some lost summer.
the glances then fashioned are disguised 'round my fingers in trying to remember why i could not look away as he tread over flowers, skipping over their stories held in the words chipped into cold stone.
unless laying on the park bench and closing my eyes, finding letters encrypted in the stones thrown at my feet.
if set to the chorus of the soundtracks so celluloid, you could find our names up in the lights of grocery store tabloids.
because we are stars.
pretending out way through the moment of fake love, shielding faces from sunlight in late afternoons.
Hair Clip in Those Bedroomsdarling
i can hear the quirk in your voice
so i know its not okay
and im not gonna tell you i approve
but hes gone on an ego trip
and it extends beyond the hours of jet lag
that pulls you into his arms
from whence he might throw you upon the ground
to hear his drunken hero stories
the fatigue breathes alcohol into his thoughts
and theres that girl that we know
the one that i love more than the world
who whispers two names into everyones ear
and plays off the repercussions as her innocence
so lets all nod and call this okay
i remember the summer
when we smiled
as they played out the night in the comfort of bedrooms
it was okay wasnt it
the dialogue of deception
and hes lining your ears with it
its not the soar of piano concertos
and sonnets spoken with the bow of stringed instruments
if he looks you in the eyes with sunflowers in your vision
know to stare away
because is it not preconceived in the hours that he travels back in time
back to you
to whisper that hes not sure of what you ar
Calender ManMy steps
ask me why
dead for a full week.
My arms are x's
and my elbows - checkers.
I only see tomorrow.
I only think about the microwave
when it screams
for me to stop.
My lisp is chewy,
to match the scribbles
speckling my elbows.
My steps are heavy."
Hotel California.The dusky, dusty highway
Somewhere in the heart of California
Where the desert sands are golden
And the girl's eyes are molten
I had to find a home for midnight
The hotel seemed just the oasis
My soul needed
She met me at the door
Hair like fire, skin like ice
We spoke not a word,
But I felt - something -
Moonlight night turned
To scorching days,
And instead of leaving I was trapped
Caught in the middle of a vortex
Created by lust, lost, memories
Religious fervor in a misplaced love
Candlelight would only illuminate us
For so long
In this dark and beautiful place
Time dragged it feet, she told me
That woman of fire had the muses for her friends
A broken thing, a fallen angel
A dark and terrible secret she shared
With no one
I almost lost my soul to that
The mirrors on the ceiling were telling
Of the true bloodlust here
I ran, the front cracked open
Her face was caught in my mind's eye
Darkness too terrible and sweet
Made its home in and around the rooms
Weakening my resolv
the pros and cons of incorrect file formatsbecause sometimes
it's worth misbehaving
and sometimes your gums have to bleed
to taste truth
i'll be damned, i did it again.
launched right into the middle
of a ghastly conversation
in my head and
i am a skimmer. pages, crowds,
i pretend that all the relevant information
is readily apparent
or contextually discerned.
but when i met you, dear,
like the library at alexandria ashed
and like they are chuckling warmly
at our memoirs
and weeping briskly at our graves
i have to type everything.
my script's shortcomings aside
my mind requires the fixed-pitch order
of clacking input
or else my notepads dim
as the ink chokes them out.
cannot be skimmed; this rampage
of think and rethink and amend
does not betray its secrets lightly
like the gravity of charybdis
or the way you sway just enough
to sink our ships and your reef
is one that i would lie and cheat and riot to kiss
it's worth misbehaving
and sometimes your gums have
i do not write slam poetry.
i do write, but in quiet syllables
in quieter lobbies. i am quite
self-serving in the way i slide
my breaths through my bottled-up neck.
god forbid my tie slip and
reveal my charlatan wreckage.
god, forbid me from dreck
masquerading as purpose.
i have stenciled my days
in a page i subsequently
every aspect of your life
can be chosen, they drone.
and it's true
until you're unrepentantly introduced
the ink starts to delineate
in your skin, maps your nailbeds and
lets you attempt to rescind
with no hope of actual
there were ten times in my life
that i felt i should document but no,
those moments are only mine and no,
i don't do lists and no,
i am not a writer.
now the ink is caked, thick, choking
my societal obligations in a velvet
blue drawl that i have always
tell me again how
with your life coiled about
your middle finger and your wife
i do not write sla
World Of MagicI lay in blue grass
tickle my nose
and baby unicorns
of red dandelions.
I’m curled up
my head on
his chest and
is pounding in
to grab one…
when I wake up
How ClicheMy heart is breaking
I borrowed trust
You made me pay
I payed with love
You loved my trust
I’m lonely now
With love and lust
I miss your heart
I miss its beat
You beat my heart
Into the street
And where am I
Without a sound
The tears they fall
They tear the ground
I dare not fall
Where you have tripped
Heart on heart
A heart left stripped
Oh oldest friend
Of kiss left loose
I’ve lost my grip;
Lost hand I choose
You chose me now
Oh how cliché
To pick the night
Over the day
We think ourselves
A clever sort
A life made short
So how in death
Is love so shown
Where hatred’s fed
And once was sown
Life after death
Yes aged cliché
There is no death
For those who pray
That trust so given
Gone from hand
Sand of heat
Such fills my eyes
Love oh love
Love is free
Don’t make me pay
.flame-red cars driving by in godspeed
golden chains 'round necks
murmuring kill under your breaths
strike the blade with the hammer
don't hit the anvil
blink once, not twice, you'll miss the lights
murder ain't prompted by the world, but by you
but hey, don't worry
'cause karma won't forget
EverythingWhen everything's good,
And everything's bad.
When everything's cold,
And everything's heat.
When everything's right,
And everything's not.
When you're the best,
Or you're not.
When you need me,
And when you not.
I'm gonna be there...
No matter what.
I Wanted To Be The Soundits raining as i write as i listen to
a song and my life is consumed by
perfection whilst i ignore its
faults and the moment weighs
upon my eyes and overtaken i
begin i want to cry but its
my nature to soak up the outer
layer of every small and lonely pain
just as im not tired
I COULD STAY HERE
BECOME SOMEONE DIFFERENT
BECOME SOMEONE BETTER
i want nothing more than to drown
what i am in my love
for the drops of rain down and
through our drain pipes
because i cant remember the last
moment i felt whole all
encompassing grip of night
and cool air doesnt feel as cold
KEEP ME ALIVE
the sound is dwindling
this song imagined every
moment passing through
the day because im prone to
the obsession settling in fingertips
the rain is falling but i do not
pray and i cant step outside my
legs frozen to the air
hitting the ground, soft sound
through the window i breathe in
i could never be as beautiful.
a dangerous hallucinationThe light coming through the window was bright,
much too bright.
Even though my eyes were closed
I could see it-
The skin of my arms prickled,
sweat dripped from my brow.
It was two in the afternoon but…
the sun was setting
through the window facing east.
I should have seen the hutch,
shelves lined with bone china
decorated with delicate leaves and vines.
I was so thirsty
and reaching for cups that should have been there.
Instead I found a billboard of butterflies,
the colors raging
more than any rainbow
I'd ever seen.
Their wings fluttered and flashed
yet somehow they moved in slow motion.
I wanted to stand,
wanted to reach out and touch them but…
I couldn't move,
and yet I laughed
ignoring my dry mouth
and the tingling in my feet.
There was a tempest
on the rise
and in my blood.
A sugar rush disguised
as a riot of butterflies
and they were swarming me.
There was a small vial
of insulin in my pocket
that I nev
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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