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are you intentionally oblivious?i told you i couldnt sleep
and when i finally did i had nightmares
it felt as if i was clawing my way out of a well
and i told you through typos that i was scared
phasing in and out of sleep paralysis
eyelids like lead, drowning in a sense of being deep underwater
I told you I was terrified of falling asleep again, of the vivid, awful dreams
and your response was
"yeah, im tired too."
RepetitionI'm going to write about Leo again, but this time, I'm going to be truthful about it.
It happens often that I wish he'd never found me, or I him.
That we had remained strangers,
going about our lives,
Ignorant to what we were missing (good and bad).
Though physical space and mental walls separate us, I still cannot find love elsewhere
You've taken my heart and now it beats in your hands
and though I attract others with unexplained magnetism,
I am not considering them the same way
and I never will.
You make things harder, you dogged and figurative lion
you, who loses English in intensity
you, who loses time to whiskey,
you, who loses music to guitars
who writes in secret, and can't sleep at night
who hates the cold but can't stand heat either,
and leaves into the dark to fall further
into depressive abuse of your own mind.
You are not perfect and neither am I. I still wonder if you even know how to hold conversation,
or if everything is one sided and two dimensional to you.
Talk to me,
To all of you.I wish I could stop stating that I don't know what to say, but I’ve found it is the best way to start something new. Yes I continue to write the same words in different phrases, different statements, yet still just as meaningful. I have found that others look for the connections, the burning trees and drums, the references to oceans and the way I fabricate fire each time (its always changing). They search for the contradictions, find each way I illustrate inversions and start words with the same letters. Its just what happens, and thats really all I can say about it.
I’ve had many tell me that artistry is a reflection of the mind- and I can say this is true.
To you, who say otherwise, you know, its only out of fear of judgement.
I am not afraid to say that this is me, that these words, disturbing, vexing, and altogether strange (yet relatable), are my reflections. Reflections on mentality, reflections on emotions and opinions and what may seem like just-more-melodram
You cant buy my mentality.You know, for what its worth, I have to say this,
that, after everything ive been through
after the exhaustion, that tired feeling that
only few of us share
theres still enough to keep me going.
I may need the rest, and I may endure the
restlessness, but there is no difference between
life getting easier, or continuing to be difficult.
like everyone else and
I write, like many do (yet they refuse to admit)
and I paint, I burn pages with charcoal
I stain paper with ink in the form of
landscapes or trees.
and I strategize the next word to illustrate
no matter which pen I use.
Nights of drug-addicts, keeping me up
dont slow this,
they make me grateful
for what could have been (to other friends)
and I relish the fact that it was me
and not you. not her. not my sister, however metaphorical that may be
and I say
Dear lonely, violent escapist
thank you- thank you for thinking you could take me
so I may warn all the others
who might have been within your grasp.
snowfall beaconsThere isn't much for me to write about lately.
I could contemplate the cold, the mountains and snow
or I could lament the distance between us,
create a metaphorical connection between you and
the way I see my breath
every time I speak
Every time I breathe.
I could draw pictures in the frost
on car windows, begging to be washed,
wander down the main street with smoke in my hand,
again exhaling visibility. Is it you in the air I see?
You're simply farther down the monochrome asphalt,
always a sorrowful step ahead of me.
You know I could sleep at night,
and avoid the insomnia,
but we both know the impossibility behind the sun
how it blinds us in its haze and reflections
and the dark is always easier to deal with.
We are night-born creatures, you and I
We find our lifetimes in the silence of snowfall,
slave to the backdrop of three-hours-past-midnight
and the lack of noise you only find
in small towns like this one.
Still, in the soundlessness and absent light
we'll continue to find one an
Ive found a place to wait
The sun rises every morning I am here,
Over mountains and into the valley
gradually, beams through trees and buildings.
I have blues in my ears and cold hands again,
Though my coffee keeps them warm,
(one at a time)
and the flag decides if I can see,
unblinded by the light
shining over the ridge.
Some nights I'm here for hours,
through since midnight
wreathed in smoke, alone
I disregard my inability to breathe.
Oh, purple shadows and
train steam, rumbling, rambling black engines
golden cars rolling past
tell me this wooden bench will lure you forth
back to me,
what ever I may be waiting for.
I have cotton in my journal,
and a cigarette receipt
and I am sure there is a metaphor behind it
for the waterfalls and fire.
But it does not matter,
I've found a place to wait
And I've got something to wait for.
The train leaves in two hours,
Be there. (I will)
Of that, at least, I can be sure.
breathe deeper the mountain air
I find temptation everywhere
An invitation to stray
To give in
To absent desires and emotions.
I wish it was different,
That I could see you
Without falling, or flying
Through every wave of denial,
I wish you would come find me
Console my longing heart.
I feel you near and it's driving me
To the edge of Insanity.
Your withdrawal from myself is
Pulling the tension farther
Pulling the tension harder
Making this harder to
-Through rivers of salt, and oceans of mud,
vinegar wine poured in frost glasses
from mountain winds and shale and frozen breath
for fire and burning lavendar, and heated clay
passing levels for each step, higher, frigid altitude
beating drums in your direction,
beating lungs in your reflection.
[you make it harder to breathe]
there is a godI look at this blank page and see the infinite possibilities.
I am underwater.
Drowning in white,
fingers wrapped around the pen,
knowing its the only object that can lift me out.
the only source of lungs,
writing with whatever is left
from my faltering mind.
I wait for my deity,
golden eyes behind dark windows
and heels clicking on pavement,
smoke prevelant. fire in his hands.
cigarettes on the cold ground,
cherry still glowing, alone.
I can tell you he does exist as
another god in a lawless reality.
He is in the somber countenance
of every sinner,
in the shuffled walk of veterans
limping, broken, and alive,
a change behind their eyes.
There was a chain around my neck,
symbolic of his presence- gone,
where his own marks used to be.
It left scars. Like him.
Marking my belief, that soon
He will come back to me.
He is near.
I struggle with the feeling,
of tension spread between us
years waiting, longing
amplified, with every hour passing
and every mile descending
i promise i wont forget, the chain around my neckTell me how you wish to be forgiven
spill your lamentations to the floor
grovel at the feet of every sin youve ever spoken
and drill what prayers are left upon the door.
I know you feel so helpless,
kneeling for the smoke, for the burning trees
hanging another masochistic bullet
for the blood on your black sleeves,
in silver chains around your neck.
You carry a cross, I know
chrome, heavy, leaving bruises and
scars with every step, and every second
crucified to your chest in the irony
of your godless world
held only as a memory
for the irony of your godless years,
your endless years.
oh, my love, your endless fears.
I know you feel so helpless,
how you wish to be forgiven,
I know you carry your chains to feel bound
back to the earth, and to me,
I know your fears, and your lamentations
for I have heard them whispered in your sleep.
You walk through flames and come out unscathed,
dont think I have forgotten
what you come from,
in what fires of hell you were so mercilessly bathed.
Suicide is no joke.Suicide is no joke. There is no coming back from it. Once you have done it, you are gone. Your pain may be over, but the pain to your family and loved ones will never be over. They will be left with countless questions that will forever be unanswered. If you're in pain, you need to let somebody know. There is no use suffering in silence. If you are suffering through depression, the worst thing you can try to do is beat it on your own. Just remember that there are people out there who love you and care for you. Even if you only have one person in your life who cares, that is still one person that would be devastated if you were no longer here.
Suicide is a very final way to deal with life's issues. It is a dark and permanent solution to potentially short term problems. All I ask is for you to stop and think. There is always a solution to your problems. There is always someone out there who can help you. Never think that you're alone because you are not. Some people may understand a lot
It's Too Late When We DieIf you want to die then fine, go die
But before you go, think
Think about every dream you've dreamed
Think about every star you've wished upon
Think about every desire that has ever coursed through your veins
Everyone of those things could become true
Everyone of those things could become a reality
If you go pack you bags now
You will be packing nothing but pain
You will leave this place with nothing but your suffering
So fight, fight everyday
Pour fire into your heart
Harness the hurt
Control the memories
And leave this world old and grey
And leave this world carrying happiness
Don't ever give up because,
It's too late when we die..
Someone SpecialHe sat alone at the train station. Every day, he remained... At the same time, in the same seat, with the same book. His hands never tried to turn to the next page, not even once...
I asked what he was reading. There was no answer. Only the same cold, stoic gaze... Creeping through my retinas. Locked together. No hellos, no goodbyes. Just dark eyes, regarding me with mirthful disdain.
I wanted dearly to break him from his painful reverie... But I eventually realized, no one could do that for him. He had to do it himself... And the timing wasn't right. I could wait for him forever, it wouldn't make the slightest difference...
All of the trains were late... That day, and every day.
I whispered... "I tried."
He whispered back... "It doesn't matter..."
Those three words; each of them a dagger, forever slicing. And I walked away, immortal wounds dripping crimson from my chest...
TendernessHer name was Tenderness. Blue used to call her this way because she was very cute, very lovely, and when Blue saw her the first time, the first emotion he felt was Tenderness. Tenderness was a young paintress, very very talented. Her art was different: she didn't paint with a brush, she painted with her heart! Her colours were her emotions, and her canvas was her soul. Every painting made by her was a masterpiece, a piece of herself consacreted in an eternal work of art. Her paintings were the mirror of herself: soft, delicate...and beautiful!
Tenderness is a very talented paintress! Tenderness paints with heart and soul! Tenderness probably is looking for perfection in this imperfect world! Tenderness is Artist and Muse at the same time!
Discovery of Titanic On this day in Nineteen-Hundred and Eighty-Five, the great black seas of the North Atlantic were parted by crafts never before seen in this realm. They plunged beneath the surface of the waves, beneath the rolling tide, and as they descended, the sea became dimmer, and dimmer....and dimmer still until all grew black and infinite. The lights from the craft shone upon the strangest of fishes, and many waves of small plankton-creatures glazed past the windows, and on to their way in this strange and ethereal world.
Down, down, down....farther still. Then, with a soft 'plunk', the craft lands upon the sea floor. The white Atlantic sand drifts up in waves, floating in the water like smoke. Drifting around and away. The lights shine on this world, but they do not show much. The ocean is too vast, to immense for them to illumine much. The fishes dart back and forth, curious as to who this intruder really is. They have never seen anything like it in all th
DreamHer name was Dream! Well, to be honest that wasn't her real name: Blue used to call her this way because she was like a Dream. Blue never met such an amzing, intelligent, talented and deep person! Too good to be true...a Dream. But Dream was real!! Dream was one of the greatest poetess of our times. She was a sort of source of inspiration! She was sweet, she was polite...she was a beautiful human being. I'm sure her smile was a sort of shining sun, warm and beautiful! Her face was the representation of sweetness, and her soul was, how to say, the reflection of humanity! Dream was suffering, but despite the suffering, she always comforted the others! Dream was an extraordinary girl! Dream is a living dream!
Dream is a great artist! Dream is an extraordinary girl! Dream is a living beautiful dream! Dream is all the good in this world!!!
In This SpaceMy favorite space in the entire world is the space between my window and my bed, only separated by the brown Chester Drawer that was painted canvas white and now chips away to show tidbits of the chestnut brown. This is my favorite space. A cage between the pages of my sketchbook; torn out. Here, it’s just far enough from you. I can see the smile on your face. And the emptiness in your eyes. I can see how they’ll never match one another again. And it makes me wonder if you can hear me breathing too heavy in order to make myself faint.
This space in between my bed and my window is as big as the space in between your eyes. And I wonder if you can see right through me. Or do you just not pay attention to the sundry voices in my head. In this space, I sat down and watched the rain break the glass. This space is where I watched the ants trail in through the hole in the window’s net. I fed them bread crumbs from my sandwich. Until they infested the spot and expected a yard
FelicityHer name was Felicity! They used to call her this way because she seemed to be always happy. Felicity was a nice girl, very funny and always ready to make you laugh. But Felicity hasn't been always happy. In the past she suffered, we don't know why, we don't know how, but she suffered. Fortunately Felicity doesn't suffer anymore. She's better than she thinks! Felicity loves to watch tv series, probably because she likes to get lost in a world of fantasy, where all the sorrows of the life don't exist. Felicity is a good friend. I think that Felicity is a dreamer too!
Felicity is a young girl who suffered. Felicity is happy now! Felicity loves tv series! Felicity is the need to escape from this world, but also the life that goes on!
grief and forgivenessYou never know how precious something is until it slips through your fingers. You can never understand the pain of loss, until it happens to you.
The words "I know how you feel" coming from a friend, as well intentioned as they are, are meaningless unless they too know that pain.
Sometimes at a time when grieving dominates the heart, the best thing to say is a simple 'I'm sorry".
Don't tell me I'll get over it, because I won't. In time it may become easier to deal with, might hurt less, it will never go away. I will still feel the absence in my life. A hole in my heart that nothing can fill.
Don't say It's been awhile, time to move on. Grief is a process, some people go through it differently, and some take longer to come through it.
If you want to help me, all I need is for you to be there.
I may not always need you to talk, sometimes all I need is someone to listen, to lend a shoulder to cry on.someone who doesn't mind how long I grieve, a friend.
I am not asking for you to sha
There is so much cynicism in regret
And so much sadness in azure clouds
and plum washed horizons.
Sweeping skies and
cherried burns beyond the atmosphere leave me blinded
I spiral every time I remember the sun,
branded in the walls lining my eyes.
[More charcoal on the fire-
run faster, my iron horse.]
I don't wait for trains-
screaming through timid valleys and fearlessly over centuried bridges.
Cast the mountains in their slurry,
(They live forever too)
so do you.
I keep your hurricanes hidden and
covet them until I can hold no more
And I too will scream over cast-iron bridges,
seeking sunlight over the next ridge
seeking solace over the next bridge
dropping ash and polluting trees with more...
and salt water.
With every stone I have ever skipped
I have hoped for a new outcome,
a longer trail of success,
carving valleys there too, in waterlogged earthquakes
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