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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
nightblind insightslover let me quiver out my phase
and swallow flack
like darling terraforms.
that misplow the verges
with eve-run clamor.
hand in hair
and tongue unchecked prodding
from riverbed to soft canal.
bit lip stammer
rubbing rushes in time
and my cheeks flush and rival
Secret LoveSecret love
For the time declared
That the royal were the Heaven sent
Then no mere mortal could touch
Let alone look upon the face
So the lady served in Ur
Yet every night she lay alone
And dreamed of a secret love
Still many nights passed by
But she could only dream
One eve toward the date of her birth
The lady heard of one man
Bold and proud in his heart
She was certain he could share
She disguised as a common woman then
And rushed to meet him in the grove
They searched for a secret spot
Therein they looked into each other's eyes
And vowed to love until they died
It has been long years
But we remember, she and I
We meet again like before
To resume our tender secret love
There are moments when we need only silence
When neither I compose verse nor we listen to music
Anyone lost deep and not caring to be found
Will know the wherefore and the why
His words of devotion are my poetry
Her voice and sighs of delight are my music
That is all we need
We are deep
Lost and happy to be lost
Poetry and music
To each other
Lament kruchego spaczeniaZatonąć w głębokich oczach,
Ciemnych duszy przezroczach,
Nie ujrzeć przenigdy dnia.
Chłonąć ciepło jej ciała,
Istotę radości, gdy cała
W cichych oddechach drga.
Sycić się ust jej ruchem
Gdy rozmownym rozlewa się duchem
W poezji swych jasnych myśli.
Czynić lepszym każdy jej dzień,
Przeganiać z twarzy ten cień,
Co w smutku czasem sens wyśni.
Karmić się jej widokiem,
Poić codziennie tym słodkim sokiem,
Słowa z warg jej spijać.
Być jej oddanym i wiernym,
Na głos czekać bez przerwy
I uśmiech co nie przemija.
Leżeć na trawie miękkiej
I delektować się dźwiękiem
Obu tętniących serc.
I nucić tylko jej imię,
I widzieć, że Słońce ginie,
I odsunąć od siebie śmierć.
NaphthaDu bist der verwunschene Wald,
Die verbotenen Früchte, die sich meinem Griff entziehen,
Die Magie im Bannkreis, der Nektar der Insektenfalle,
Der Starkstrommagnet ohne Erdung,
Die Verdammnis hinter dem Schwarzschildradius.
Ich bin die Apokalypse,
Wilde Entschlossenheit, Fatalität und vollkommene Vernichtung.
Luzifer und Nemesis, Prometheus und Pandora.
Eiskalt leere ich Naphtha über die Rosen,
über die Wiesen, über die Felder,
über die Sträucher, über die Wälder,
über die Steppe, über die Ranken,
über die Pforten, über die Schranken.
Mit Augen sprühend vor Kriegslust fixiere ich deinen Blick,
zücke ein Streichholz, gleite über die Reibefläche mit dem roten Phosphor,
halte es vor deine Nase, lecke mir über die Lippen
und lasse es nonchalant fallen.
Der Untergrund fängt Feuer, eine Stichflamme schießt empor.
Rund um uns lodert alles lichterloh.
Das Feuer spiegelt sich in deinen Augen,
For A Thousand YearsSomething lept inside me
when I heard your name.
I thought I'd forgotten that sweet, sweet sound.
It feels like decades ago
we wandered in our own direction,
hoping we would find each other
after we found ourselves.
None of what was broken then
is broken now
all of those cracked
we threw away a long time ago
and accepted what they were,
and only what they were;
shards of glass.
There was some beauty
but not enough to collect,
and keep for ourselves.
Just Want To Be Seennot wanting a lover
just needing the
and recognized for being
look at them
each a week
gone for the years
mounting as theyre passing
seen a face
and there a smile
in backward places
a mothers only
a desperate one
in the back
shiny new tires
and a glistening frame
too original to be real
ending up sore
bruised about the mouth
fighting to the last breath
for no particular reason
just needing to
keep an honor
engrained to tell
he says im
still fond of you
speaking in the most
no one needs
just wanting then
and parted beauty
in a little time
relating to a notion
thats been played over and over
while theyre sleeping
wallowing in having nothing
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