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my howls are silentI, too, see the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness. We are decomposing too early, our souls dying before our bodies can catch up. We are silently ravenous, a quiet craze in our hearts, not quite the same as your generation, Ginsberg. We do not shriek "Holy! Holy! Holy!" as we burn. We drown soundlessly.
The overeducated, proud products of postmodernism dissolve in a lukewarm soup of ennui, bored balloons filled with hubris rather than helium. Fragile dolls with flaking bones and hair and skin like flowers wilting, weighed down by indomitable wills and insecurities... these plastic girls starve to death and diabetes in the car beside me, fantasizing about food in the passenger seat. Former nymphets gouge symbols into themselves, the bleeding crags physical outlets for the demonic depression, for the memories of beloved older brothers molesting them in the living room, while her mother sits at a hospital bedside beside a fading father.
I see the most remarkable minds crippl
your song reminds me of swimmingslipping into the cool cerulean blue
unwrapping myself in this u n d e r w a t e r world
until I am mentally naked
beneath the liquid ceiling
my mask m e l t s away
sugar and spices and everything niceness
and all my pretendings drift apart, dissolve
I swallow the sound, and it swallows me whole. The church bells are echoing in my head, their clangs in my heart, shaking me, reaching into my thoughts and rendering me speechless. Your Lolita, your Rosita, a Maria. I want to be all of them for you. The idea frightens me, and the cold fingers of fear clamp around the beating organ beneath my breasts and squeeze, and again all words leave me. Years of ingrained love of tradition and devotion to conservatism beat against my brow, and the threat of discovery and migraines plague my mind. Moths pester me, tickling the walls of my stomach; and coals burn slowly beneath, Hell's Gate, II, simmering. I apply my cherry chapstick with shaking hands, tossing furtive glances towards my family, paranoid that I'll be discovered fraternizing with another potential lover yet again.
And discovery, this time, would prove fatal, lethal, to my stuttering heart, that bird named Moses dying in its birdcage, my ribcage.
Dear , Dear $@&&$@,
I am disgusted by my longing for you. It revolts me, repulses me. My craving for someone to openly feel affection for me transforms me into a twisted, hideous beast; a manipulative, whiny bitch; and a petty, simpering airhead. I despise myself. I detest what I've mutated into, this sick creature. You could have loved me once, but these rusted knives of sentences, covered in my blood and vomit, have warned you away. Beware: Keep fleeing.
For I long to be your little snowflake girl, your petite American muse. I want to bask in your so-white smiles, bathe in your dark and wild eyes. I adore your funny Anwar nose and your Ralph Lauren cologne. I want to be present, cheering you on, when you graduate in fifty days. I want to be standing there when you celebrate your doctor-ship, when you're holding your med school diploma in a de
no, pleaseI think, despite all the objections against love that I so boastfully proclaim, what I crave most is for someone to steal away my gaze, hold me softly by the shoulders, silence me, and tell me quite seriously that they love me.
oceanThe Ocean's tides flow and ebb like the moon's,
Waxing and waning, never sleeping, no,
Thinking they can tame her, foolish buffoons,
Tried to control her, she dealt the death blow.
Drowning in her fury, unwise sailors,
Thought they could rule her, break her, chain her,
Murdered with a vengeance, curse'd horrors,
Their corpses lost, no killer much crueler.
Volatile, barbaric in nature,
Deceptively sweet, secretly sour,
Seemingly benign, not one may conquer,
Poise'd to pounce, waiting to devour.
Violent, unrestrained creature this,
None can resist her luring, deadly kiss.
You Were My SunshineThere, in a too clean room and in a too white bed, lied a young girl. She had very pretty brown hair and very tired brown eyes that she tried to keep open despite everything. In one hand in was a much smaller hand, in the other hand was a piece of folded paper.
Gasping, she tightened her hand, not for a second loosening her grip on the slim fingers in her palm. Sliding her right hand to her left, the young girl deposited the yellowing page in, letting the second hand clench around it. Exchanging the paper from the first hand to the second, the owner of the hand- the young girl's friend- unfolded it gently. Written on the faded slip was a collection of words:
"Hello, my darling, my sweet.
May I please twist you a tale?
Do not worry, it shall be neat;
I can promise you that, at least.
Before I get started,
Let me ask you one thing.
Oh, my darling, my dear, my sweet;
Have you seen the invisible rain?
I know you have painted with
The colors of the wind.
That you have weaved your quilts
Full CircleThe End. The two most powerful words in a writer's arsenal...
But what do they really mean?
It concludes things, it wraps them up, it sums up the entirety of your words. When it all comes tumbling down in an exuberant crescendo of tumultuous recompense...
But it also indicates when the story is over. When the expected actually happens, and things continue on in their natural order... Whatever that order may be is up to the reader. Left to dream, in a nexus, full of dying carbon stars...
That doesn't mean nothing ever happens after that point, it simply means there are no more interesting things to tell those who are viewing the unchained shaded events. Everything after that will be normal, and boring and expected and blah and perchance even blaze'. Business as usual. Nothing more and no less.
What can you do to spice it up? Nothing... Short of writing an entire sequel, that is.
Maybe it was time things came full circle.
And one more thing... I have found the
There was a garden.When I was young, I knew that there was an unkindness in this world. There are men who will stand and shout pleasant ideologies. There are women who will lie through the skin of their teeth to save monsters. I learned by trial, and it was taught. All kings tend to be the worst of men. And we judged the witches wrong.
I was told of a garden, and that it was the start of things. They spoke of a tree, and the serpent here be.
When I grew up, I learned by error. They taught that lying was wrong, and
Who am I to coax the snake from the tree?
I must be careful, they said. There are people painted in greed. Whatever I could give would never be enough. You can't satisfy the boogeyman after all.
A elder handed me my escape, and since I've struggled to be free.
They tried to gown me in their tales, tried to paint me into porcelain. Like a marionette with broken strings, they could try to move me.
No, they cautioned, don't reach so far. The stars will blow away like so much dust. Careful, be wary
Trash that Paints the Water's SurfaceYou will want to buy the new iPhone.
You will be very excited about the new iPhone. You will discuss the various pros and cons of buying the new iPhone with your friends as you play mini-golf one night, and you will all decide it’s probably not worth it.
You will still be ready to soar down the suburban roads to your local mall. You will have your old phone in your pocket, a veritable antique now that something shinier has come out. You will soar down those suburban roads, tires screeching on hot pavement as you wheel around other drivers, desperate to get there quicker. You will be annoyed that those drivers dare to slow you down on such a day as this.
Meanwhile the phone that you will eventually use to sext your girlfriend is sitting in a cool plastic case in a storage room behind your local Apple store, after having been delivered the night before. And though you won’t think about it, the pristine gleaming metal of your new iPhone will bear fingerprints from acro
An Uninvited Guest"Death doesn’t matter. Life doesn’t matter. None of this means anything! We’re all just kings in some demented game of chess. Always playing the defensive, we are destined to lose. To lose our lives. The game was started with our side already missing pieces crucial to our success.
"We die. It’s our design. The meaning of life is really to have a well-timed death. Why pity the dead? Their time is over. It’s like regretting that you let it rain; what’s the point?! Death is inevitable, so why ear it? They have passed on, and considerable mourning is understood. But how much before it’s too much?
"This is the way nature works. A seed is planted; the tree grows. Eventually though, the tree will fall to make room for its children. There’s no knowing what their final moments were like. For all we know, they were at peace with themselves when they died. They might have found true enlightenment. How can you regret only half of a story?
TimeDoor is closed, Lights are off.
Yet no reason for scare, yet there you're.
Lifeless, breathing cold air.
Dead eyes, grey skin.
Life after is not or nor do we care.
Behind you shadow whispers, silence.
Ssh; the word behind you, going up your neck.
Don't run, nothing to fear.
Behind you, Door is closed, Lights are off.
Secularity drifting air particals.
No?, whispers stops, you turn around.
Darkness meets your eyes.
Nor is it North you facing the cold air.
Something bright meets your eyes.
Blinding yet soft.
Whispers behind you;
You turn around again, Nor is it South.
Warm air escapes you, white breath,
You hear a familiar voice.
You smile, yet a tear drop is foaming up.
Red shut eyes you open the door.
Darkness, With a little light source.
You ask yourself; is this the after?
Whisper in the corners, Silence in the dark.
A hand grabs you from behind.
You turn around.
Nor, is it something there.
You can't see what you brain can't understand.
unanchorageWhen I write,
I slip into a damp nothingness, vaguely
and shuffling through a smoggy coma,
shedding the individuality
anchoring me to
It's an abandon of the consensual mind that
an escape in to the symmetrical mess of this planet.
I am not my own,
it is only here where I find
buried inbetween my lungs,
and my heart.
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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