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ScarsThe mind forgets
But the heart remembers
The criss-crossing scars
Show like stars
The streaming tears
And haunting fears
Of the slain
The cries of those
Who never screamed
Praying for life
Without a sound
The pleas for help
The wishes that chance
The pain might dull
And the mind forget
But the heart
Will always remember
GraveA snowy white owl hoots aloud in the night
As I pick up a quill, ink, and begin to write
Some may doubt the tale that I will tell,
But those who believe must listen well:
In the heat of a dreary summer's spell,
I lay on a tomb enclosed in earthy soil
The inscription on the gravestone wasn't there
For this grave was weathered and suffered toil
Who, I wondered, was resting in here?
Sleeping away the decades, tired and worn?
So I asked this question to the air;
"I do not know," it said, "I was not there."
At this I was puzzled, the answer was queer,
The air encompassed the earth, how could it not know?
It was much older than I, and much wiser;
It was the air itself that made life aglow
I turned to the Earth, the tough old miser,
And then asked him that same question.
"Am I supposed to remember every death?"
Was his response, with an angry breath
And so I bothered no more the surly curmudgeon
There was but one option left, the grave itself,
"Who here lies, a giant or a tiny elf?"
And it an
Burning DreamsI stood alone on that massive ship,
Surrounded by all my dreams-
As we drifted to the middle of the sea
I took out a tiny match
And let it drop onto the deck;
"If my dreams must burn," said I,
"So must I."
And the whole ship was set ablaze,
Flames shooting towards the sky-
I perished amongst my dreams,
Surrounded by what I could not achieve
Dark BetrayalI dare not make a sound
I dare not raise my voice
Peering into the dark
That lies in front of me
What will come out next,
To grab my cold bare ankle
And drag me into Hell?
A rustling noise-
And the lights turn back on
You stand there, arms open-
I run into them-
Your hands on my throat,
Your face twisted in a smile
And the darkness
claims another victim
The Human StarThe star fell from the sky
Into my very arms;
"Away with you," said I,
"Return to your siblings above."
I threw him up high,
With all of my might
But he came back down
"No," cried he,
"I want to be human!"
I scoffed and scolded,
"You're perfectly absurd!
You drift peacefully above,
happy as a clam;
Do you not know
Of the pain humans feel?
Who would want to be human?"
Like a child, he huffed and replied,
"I want more than to drift!
Do you not know?
The pain of humans,
their sorrow, disappointment-
Is part of their sweet triumph?
Need I any more reason,
Other than just to be human?"
Hereafter he left,
And I wondered if maybe
It was better to be human
Than to be a star
Untouched BooksDirty fingerprints crust the pages
Of the books of forgotten lore
That have laid here before all ages
Untouched from before-
Unconcerned with reason or rhyme,
Longing for those finger-shaped prints,
They have waited all this time,
To be imprinted with darkened tints
But all that meets them is the chilly air,
And the quiet whispers of phantoms past;
And still they wait with silent flair,
To be marked with fingers again at last
The World of My DreamsOut of the grass sprang gentle hands
that carried me over a field of clovers
And I drifted beneath the clouds,
gazing in the idle wonder
that creeps upon men like curling ivy
There was no bluer sky than that day,
and the trees-
there have never been more hearty trees
than the giant oaks towering above me
as the hands carried me further-
And when I awoke in this mysterious land,
I breathed in the scent of moist grass,
relieved to find that it was not just a dream,
and that the world in which I lived
was as beautiful as the world of my dreams
These Four WallsThese four walls look at me with unsympathetic eyes
While I stare back blankly, longing for blue skies
Wondering at the absence of anything tangible
A white mist fills the room, dreamy, peaceable
And I scream at the walls I cannot decipher
Longing, lusting, wanting, needing-
I want to feel not sleep nor dreaming
But, rather, the chill of a Russian winter,
The roasting inferno of Hell and Purgatory
The shiver of pain, of living and being real
These all tell a morbid, sordid story
But 'tis a better thing than to kneel
Red or AmethystCome to me in the dawn of the month,
When the moon is at the peak of ascent
I will present you with flowers so fine-
Two roses- one red, one amethyst,
But be wary of which one you choose,
For each is beauteous and terrible in power
The red rose brings back your lost love,
While the other bestows a healed heart
So now I shall ask for your choice:
Would you prefer red, or amethyst?
Reality Verses The DreamReality Verses The Dream.
Above the confines of the earths atmosphere.
I am embraced by the luminous clouds.
With the stars in reaching distance.
Surrounded by the acoustics of the sea.
Accompanied by the alluring scents of nature.
Observing the planets that stand like monuments.
This is the place where my body wants to be.
These are the sights my eyes want to see.
This is place where my mind can be free.
This is the only place where I can truly be me.
Now back to reality.
And the self perpetuating insanity.
Constricted by the codes of a conscripted morality.
Living in a world that is drenched in disparity.
How will I ever be able to see any sort of clarity.
Below the discoloured and tarnished ceiling.
I am held captive by my dishevelled duvet.
With only material possessions at my grasp.
Surrounded by a hybrid of silence and vulgarity.
Accompanied by the foul scents of decay and pollution.
Observing a society that stand and act like naïve slaves.
This is the
I Stand AloneI stand alone
Darkness surrounds me
But I will forever shine brightly
No cloud shall cover me
No mist shall envelope me
Though I am a lone candle
Burning in a empty blankness
I shall not be extinguished
I shall never go out
I'm a single glowing star
On a blanket of blackness
Normally sourrounded by others
But for now I remain singular
Darkness may overcome most
But I will forever shine
Even if it may appear
I stand alone
Silent DancerShe prances around with a skip
and a huge smile paints her lips.
A girl of only three,
if only we knew.
She aspired to be a dancer
if you asked, you'd get no answer.
The little girl was a mute
she refused to break this root.
So she spoke with attitude in her feet
following the steady, clear beat.
With a pirouette here
and a Revoltade there.
The little girl's feet painted
with her moves so tainted,
Her feet were the paint brush
the paint, her hush.
Her untold story
held in high glory.
She left people blown,
still no one heard her tone.
Then the little girl became a teen,
a mere girl of sixteen.
Still she stayed silent,
her moves became more violent.
The moves so sudden and fierce,
intense pain, she felt as it had pierce
the floor with a sigh of relief
she lets away the grief.
The dancer the little girl
was with her swirl and twirl
is now proclaimed
the girl left unnamed.
There is a twist,
the girl never did exist
she's simply a dream from her mother,
who cried a stream.
a word sh
The Clock Struck
The clock struck nine
The illusion of a beautiful woman
What madness can this be?
She is calling out to me
My name my name on her lustful lips
And now my hands pressed on her hips
Oh! Her smile! Her caress!
That croon which must be blessed!
The clock struck ten
The temptations of a temptress
This woman, so beautiful in every way,
With my heart, she does recklessly play
Her eyes so dark, yet brightly glowing
Her hair so soft and gently flowing
Her skin so silky cannot be soiled
But to the touch, is so deathly cold
The clock struck eleven
The prayer without the belief
What this gorgeous being is, I don't bother
Yet hold silent prayer to our heavenly father
But now's not the time to worry with such strife
For tonight may be the rest of my ungodly life
My heart beats profoundly in my chest
"I love you" my words solemnly confessed
The clock struck twelve
The love of a man unloved
"Of course you do" my love left unreturned
But with her so near, I was unco
For a man diesBreathe Slowly,
For a Man dies every second, locked in the grip of the sky.
Walk with every step in mind,
Every twitch of a finger,
Every sound, from your head to the ground,
Keep them in mind.
For a man dies every second, the beginning of an eternal dance with the one in the heavens.
Remember every follicle of hair,
Every eye that stares, every moment of fear,
An evil glare, remember it all.
For a man dies every second, and a child cries for his death.
Live today like you'll wither the next,
For we too, can be locked in the reaper's grip.
True StrengthWhen we think of strength some words instantly come to mind
But I ask...what is true strength
Cause while physical strength is powerful
Muscles tear, get sore, tire and ultimately can fail in the end
True strength isn't just
Lifting the heaviest object
Winning a fight
Taking physical hardship
True strength...isn't just physical
True strength is
Knowing the limits of what you can do
Saying sorry even when you may not be forgiven
Forgiving others when it is hardest
Allowing others to help and throwing away your pride
Helping those who may have angered you in the past
Volunteering to take the short straw
Telling the truth when it can be unpleasant
Standing up for the right thing when no one else will
Putting yourself outside your comfort zone
Not cutting corners to achieve your goal
Sticking with something until it is done
Taking the pain no one else will
Making the tough decisions when it counts
True strength doesn't come from the heavier weights you
Sonnet XVIWhen life smites me in its wavering course
And colder than winters my winters be,
I look upon Woe with tearful remorse
And wish he would bewail to comfort me.
Yet, tears take a man, and a man alone
Such is the nature of inner downpour
And empty the foyer, vacant the throne
When stormy seas conquer the untrained shore.
Yet, while I speak to airy winds in verse
My rightful purpose I do once more find,
And in frightful pleasure I bless my curse
And to my life, whisper,"Thou art too kind".
To every loved patron my word I give:
Life's will be undone, for thee I shall live.
The Lonely TowerSee the forlorn lover locked in his lonely tower,
Gazing with his telescope every night and every hour,
Till under the brightest moon he spots a scarlet flower.
Walking barefoot on grass that glitters like gold,
She strikes his soul with a smile that thaws the cold.
See the forlorn lover locked in his lonely tower,
Dreaming on his mattress every night and every hour,
While along the dullest sands he feels a vermilion power.
Climbing fingertips on stone that sparkles like sapphire,
She haunts his heart with a honesty that sparks the fire.
See the forlorn lover locked in his lonely tower,
Waiting on his bride every night and every hour.
So above the wildest rivers he hears a crimson shower,
Pouring guilt on desire that dazzles like diamond,
She murders his mind with a muse that wakes the bond.
Ink GravesLetterless words and pageless books-
and ink blots on the flowers;
Ghosts scratch their heads and tap their pens,
all across the hours.
Winds can howl and cease to be,
by one twitch of my pen;
I spoke of writing a poem tonight,
and by dawn I've written ten.
Emily sits aside nobody,
the Raven, above, waits;
Frost dances in a yellow wood,
among the long lost dates.
A tall, well spoken willow,
looms over the grave;
Protecting every dated word,
and every thought they gave.
I crumple another masterpiece,
with thoughts I'd thought to save;
and as it strikes the baset bottom,
it rests in its ink grave.
White RoseI'm searching for a white rose
Among a sea of crimson red
That litter the field in countless throes
Looking for life among the dead
I see one withered black rose,
And one red with gleaming thorns,
But not a hint of white within the rows
Of both the old and the newborns
I stop and sit to take a rest,
Watching blue skies give into red,
Holding this hope within my breast
That I might find life among the dead
I have been searching all my life
As countless others did before me,
Searching for the truth among questions rife,
For a hint of white among a red sea
And forever I will search the field
Where the red roses thrive,
Hoping for the White Rose to yield
And help our souls to revive
IronmanHear me read it
My friends used to call William "Ironman" because the first time we kissed he got a nosebleed and the taste of his blood haunted me for a long time after it. We'd only been twelve years old and apparently the anxiety spiked his blood pressure to the point of combustion... I remember that when we were forced to take sex ed a few years later we were divided into separate classes for boys and girls, in case a diagram of an ovary was too risqué and we became animalistic and started clawing at each other in our seats, but nonetheless when our teacher Ms Jacobs had explained to us what an erection was in my mind all I could picture was the blood rushing to his nose and then the slash of cranberry across my blouse.
With the idea planted in his mind it didn't take long for William's hands to start wandering, but the image persisted. Every time I thought about just letting it happen I wondered what would happen if he got too excite
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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