|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
the vomiting crowd of coney islandthe destructive walls are shaded
in grey and i am remembering
every feeling i have forgotten-
i am terrified.
this is a city that never sleeps,
the bones of my chest thrumming
like taxi cabs in the streets,
my fingers shaking
in want for comfort and solace
i am not standing
in lorca's vomiting crowd-
i am his vomiting crowd,
looking high and low
and between my clenched fists
for catharsis and purification,
for the reason of this illness
pressed against my skin,
for the indefinable sickness
i drown in like bubbles of spit
day in and day out.
i fear the restraints
i've placed for myself,
that they may not be there
or are not in fact real.
i am caught within a sticking web
of decaying sweetness,
coney island's cotton candy,
yet it is not a trap.
i am afraid of love
and that it holds me back.
i am afraid of love
because i am used to skin on skin,
when the drum beats meet.
i am afraid of love
because it is so far stretched
over these thousand miles,
that i fear it mig
constellations are just bodiesyou left me in my bed-
i was crying-
when you walked down my stairs
for the last time.
you were to spend the night-
you lived hours away-
until you told me
you couldn't do this
i was fine-
you were just a constellation-
until your words
forced images of my last love
before my mind's eye.
i cried before you-
i hadn't cried in months-
but i didn't cry for you.
in retrospect, as you closed my door-
it was the last time-
my only thought is
why didn't we fuck
before saying goodbye?
first weekend and realisationsyou begin to talk
because talking means that
someone else can't
&you start to realise
(as most girls do)
that you have a boyfriend
he's not just a boyfriend;
he's your boyfriend
&he's not just better than
anyone else in the world
he's better than
anything else in the world
&you would trade years off your life
to spend a little longer with him
or to see him smile when he's sad
or to feel his face in your hair
the way he does when he hugs you
&you can't feel it
because right now he's too far away
but distance is only the space between
point a and point b
between you&between me
&if you give it just a little more time
you'll realise nothing has changed
and the disjointed rhythms
your heart beats out like a drum
sticks like a song in your head
the moment you watch recognition
hit his eyes
when you walk in.
spoiled little girli have turned my body
into a void
so that i can love
instead of my heart.
i feel nothing
so i feel nothing
but your skin has not
in a week
and it has me
loves completely vanilla,
though there once were poems
of red clay and sun;
kisses with no ridges
and i cannot seem to
find a way to stay captivated;
touches when i cannot remember,
so i run
when i see the silhouette of his face,
like nightlights or fireflies
of a dark room
i seem to have almost
i think you have spoiled me terribly
because i feel nothing
and kiss no one
and no one
has touched me
the end, actuallylassitude builds
nests in my bones
as effective at becoming airborne
as the words "i'm sorry"
they just refused to try
the most prominent thought
circling my head
like the words that could soar
there is a big chance
we will not make it through the night,
that i will never be held
in the cage of your eyes
and trapped by a heart
i must be committing
but i do not know which ones-
there just might be
on the number of tears
you can shed
over one person;
we are not snakes
and cannot remove our skin
so we cry instead
but through the heat
i felt that sadness made
over the phone
i saw no end to us
where there would be
no end to us.
alpengloweverything hard-kept in the heart is falling onto paper. each word so well-fought to be kept within the chest becomes a snowflake from november skies, but the winds are unseasonably warm and a fire is kindled inside each bone in place of a bitter chill.
there are ten thousand things i can never tell you.
the way that wars are fought, i wage battles among my selves to keep the quiet. you will never hear my voice, too soft like the pillow beneath your head each time our bodies find each other, say how my breath becomes a porch swing when we touch and i sway.
i can never call you by any name, given at birth or given by heart. you will never see my cheeks flush fires when asked what you are called, or feel the tremulous tunnels i do as your mouth twists into the shapes of words like "beautiful," or "babe."
i cannot tell you of the poems i write to keep my lips locked tightly; not even a winter wind can howl through its denseness, not even the chimneys stoked to keep the c
virgin culturethere's a little more to love than lust
and a little more to a person than a label.
you can try to sum me up in five words or less and you'll find those words,
but you won't be able to reduce me to them.
you can't turn me into something that can be thrust,
down the grapevine
when there's something more to me than the colour of my eyes or the size of my chest.
and that's something we could all do with remembering.
but this is the culture we were born into.
where the length of your hair is more important than the sincerity of your words,
and nothing matters as much as the kardashians' latest scandal or talking some hot chick into bed.
i'm nineteen. i understand. but i'm frequently finding myself writhing in my own reassurance that i exist.
my name is melissa, i am a liberal, college-going female who doesn't remember what her own house looks like but remembers her childhood telephone number
and i'm not sure if that's ok. is it normal, am i the only one in this goddamn world wh
barcelona is burningi owe you an apology-
you, in the crowd,
the one panicking about reading
or the mess at home
or the sheer volume of people
pressing into you like corners;
the woman who birthed me into this world
through hours of agony
as though that wasn't enough
because doctor appointment after therapy appointment after residential stay after thirtieth pound lost,
i've put you through countless
warped into months of agony
you never asked for;
and you, oh, mostly you.
you, because as hard as i've beaten my own heart into the wall,
and as deep as i let you bury mine,
i know, somehow, i managed to do the same to you.
you left, and i left two weeks after.
every night was a terror;
every morning was a letdown.
i ached constantly
and threw myself into books
like they would become oxygen masks until i could breathe on my own again.
and here's the thing, you know,
because you would knock my legs out from under me again and again.
"let's fall back in love," you'd say,
and i would fall to
i'm not your symphony but i'm orchestrated anywaysit's not easy to explain --
but i'm a rushed symphony of heartbeats, quick breaths and hiccups. i'm not made of skin and bones, but a complicated sentence structure and thoughts that i spew out before i even finish them.
i'm messy in all the wrong ways.
and i'm not right in any of the ways that matter. but still you're always here, picking me up when i fall, kissing me goodnight, making a life with me one day at a time. and you haven't gone yet but i'm always moving so how long can you stay. how long can i expect it. how long is too long when you're living and loving and breathing and hell, if i can't stay still i'll mess this up for sure. i just need a minute, to think, to stop, to be. so i can be yours forever.
all i know is that i'm a constant frenzy -- a kaleidoscope of words and ideas and minutes and clumsy steps and i don't know what i'm doing, but i'm always shifting and moving and growing and going and going
and going and
until i'm standing still again.
no one can stop
maybe you never belonged to meI can still feel the weight of your lips on the curve of my collarbone. Sometimes, it feels paralyzing, crushing, absolute. Sometimes, it feels like home. Like everything.
I once heard that when you can't fall asleep it means you're awake in someone else's dream. I wonder which one of us was dreaming that night, because everything was too quiet, too easy, too perfect. You used to fall asleep next to me, your body curled against mine. It's a warmth that's not easy to forget. A hidden smile tucked into pillows and sheets. It's easy to think these things will last forever when you're tangled up together. For me, the strings of my life will always be tangled up in yours. Forever tied to you. No matter hard they attempt to fray. To fall apart. To sever.
It's snowing for the first time this year. Soft and gentle, glittering in the sunlight, falling in large flakes, easy and quiet – nothing at all like the storm that rages inside of me, turning up the corners of my heart, throwing shrapnel
tributarythere are rivers that take me to oceans
and i need to see where they meet at the mouth
like they knew how much effort it had taken
for them both to reach that point.
there are rivers that are shallow and i tell you that they are your soul.
beautiful, beautiful but never enough to drown me.
the world's first ever bachelor museumhey Irony,
no? what if i
your best friend's
abacus & didn't
even call back?
do you remember
the time i snuck
into your guesthouse
and fell in
with your cuckold
futon? i chiseled
a wedding ring out of
Philosophy's fossil fingers
to Plato. we eloped
in a cave (twas such
a feeble affair) where
i vowed to burn my
when i set your diary
on fire? me neither.
bathe me in Aphrodite's
amniotic fluid. love is a
business--none of mine--
governed by mapmakers
(those tyrants of foxhole
a blissful abyss
i fell in
truth with thy beauteous
masque. unwrap vanity's
divine vines & develop an
eating disorder; develop a
God complex. develop my
Kodak collection of those
times you don't remember
& hang them
in celluloid galleries
i fell in
with your satire,
enriched by your
trudging, sludging, oh what the hellthere is a man in a room. it is dark. darker than black. blacker than dark. one of those two. it was not always this way.
he was born outside the room. he was born into lights and cities and plane crashes and cancer like all the rest of us. and he didn't like it. so he went into a room and stayed there. he took with him a light. a soft, yellow orb. in the darkness, it became a sort of savior. a glowing sphere of salvation that was with him always. light feathered past it's edges, gradually disappearing and becoming the darkness. the light never said a word. the man said many words that went unheard and buried themselves in the corners of his room. he eventually forgot what he looked like. he forgot his mother's name. the light was enough.
and the light burned out, metaphorically speaking, as all lights do, because nothing retains its energy forever. energy cannot stay in one place always. it doesn't disappear, just slowly slinks elsewhere. but the man did not remember this. he could no
it's hard to love a trainwreckNote to self: Do not fall.
apart. Do not fall in love
with a Scientologist. Do
not let a coin make life-
changing decisions. Do
not listen to the leaves,
or to Honest Abe; he
says Heads, but I say
Tails. Do not listen to
the Devil on your left
shoulder; shrug your
right one, but do not
listen to the angel,
either. Do not listen
to your libido; listen
to your heart, even
when you're going
deaf. Do not listen
to The All-American
you're depressed. Do not
listen to this. Do not take
my advice. Do not take a
chance. Do not take two
pills. Do not take Physics;
do not take out the trash.
Do not take out all of this
on your boyfriend. Do not
take the easy way out; it
is not worth the pain. Do
not take that which does
not belong to you; do not
take candy from babies. I
am a baby&you're candy.
Do not take off the week;
do not take off your shirt;
do not take off.
Devious Journal Entrywhat are you reading?
"Creating a Marriage You'll Love".
... it's a book.
of course it's a book.
no, I mean, I thought maybe it was some article you came across or something... but it's a book. you went out and bought a whole book about marriage.
you know, for most men, that would be a big deal. I'm just saying. most men would head for the hills if their girlfriend came home with a book like that.
oh, not me. I'm in love with you. I'm staying right here.
UndeservedI don't deserve to be an artist.
I don't know how to hold deep meaningful conversations with strangers.
I don't lament at night about a lover I have lost.
I don't watch the white smoke ebb into darkness.
I don't spend lonely nights admiring the true beauty of the world.
I don't sleep restlessly from the truth of suffering within this world.
I don't lie through my smiles or struggle to create them.
But I do think I am a writer.
I am completely, irreparably damaged.
I cry all night over old words and emotional baggage.
I weep over my lost innocence.
I spend nights wishing for skin against my own
I long for insomnia to inspire me.
I beg for worlds to collide so I can breathe.
So am I writer really?
Or just another misguided artist?
ReflectionsVal's pursuit led him to the foul beast's domain. The hollowed-out cavern reeked of blood and rancid meat. The dim light he had seen as he charged through the tunnel after the monster could now be identified: torches. Rows of mysteriously lit torches lined the walls of the huge cave. At its center was a substantially large labyrinth of mirrors.
He spotted the beast entering.
He spun his silver broadsword in his hand and hurried in behind it.
His garb was a simple blue and white crusader's leather with thick armored pads and reinforcing steel studs. Lightweight and flexible, but quite effective defense against blunt blows and – in a pinch – the slashing claws of the unholy spawn of the earth. All monster-hunters wore a similar variety in Val's experience. It would serve him well in these close quarters of the mirrored maze.
Right, left, forward, left, right he turned, always catching a glimpse of the beast's tail as he wove his way through the corridors. Every so often he sp
Keep in Touch!
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