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overwhelming wordsthere's a lot you can do with words
but sometimes i forget how to do any.
and sometimes i look at a keyboard
and see so many words that come together
from just some of those letters
and there's so much to write
that i don't write at all.
and sometimes i think
i drank deeply from the elixir of life
when i was too young
and when i drank i only drank the words
and i spilled them out in the morning
because the night was too silent to break it.
i wonder if the silence i've kept
is as big as the words i've written.
i'm not writing to be censored
it's not like i do that to myself
when the words come rolling
and i don't let them out,
when i'm running down the street
but don't make a sound,
it's not like i'm afraid to be loud.
i hope you can tell by the heat in my eyes
that my gaze turns steady as soon as i lie.
i hope you know that when i write
and my diction turns from eloquent and quaint
to fucking filthy and raging
that i'm finding myself,
even if that takes years off my life
by looking at
sext: this is for yousext: you are underwater. you are my head swimming as i hold my breath, you are the currents that make my heart beat, you are the waves that sway my hips. the salt of your lips is my favourite taste.
sext: if i am a hurricane, i hope you are the eye of my storm (deep inside of me, at my core).
sext: when you sleep, you are bent; bent, not broken. i will protect you from everything that threatens to shatter you. you are not made of glass, but i will bend (not break) to strengthen you.
sext: i look down and you are between my legs. you kiss me with those lips, before and after, and still there is love.
sext: if i promise you a good morning, i'll send you a poem for when you wake. if i promise you your favourite things, i'll get you strawberries (with the hats cut off), pokemon (always mewtwo), and a puppy (a blue-eyed husky). if i promise to be open, i'll take off my clothes and we can watch as the close falls to the floor. if i promise you smiles, i'll give you a thousand. if i promise
10 ways depression can say i don't love you1. "i'm sorry
i don't want to
come over today."
the clock reads 4pm
and i roll over in my bed
2. "i forgot it was your
i'd forgotten my own
3. "i promise i won't
the ER doesn't believe
it's an accident
4. you asked if i loved you.
i had to sneeze and it
i think you took that
as a no.
5. we haven't had sex in a month.
6. we don't see
we don't see
i even have any.
7. i never answered your text.
it asked if i was okay.
8. "i need you to open yourself
up for me," you said.
i stopped talking.
9. "what do you want from me,
apparently you didn't.
10. tonight i will sleep alone
but not really.
depression will hold me
and stroke my hair,
telling me everything
will never be
for those who want to be in loveyou want to fall in love
hard enough to break your bones and
lighten your feet
lighten your heart
so softly that the butterflies you feel
pattering with their gossamer wings
beneath the cage of your ribs
and the breath,
blue in the summer,
can kiss you and the monarchs
as sweetly as your love
and her lips.
you dream of them at night.
silken like clean bedsheets,
familiar as your favourite chair
when you curl up with
a mug of herbal tea.
you feel at home
with her body curled in yours,
only able to sleep
with her skin under your fingers
scenting the blankets
with something no perfume
could ever mirror.
you write love letters
you dream emptily
unless she is there.
you want to fall in love
the way the gods drink ambrosia,
you want to treat her
better than their nectar,
sweeter than honeybees
and their summer-sticky feet.
you want a love beyond poetry,
from winter flurries
to springtime rosebuds
to summer sweet lemonade
to autumnal red leaves u
two days shy (i'm so sorry)two days hang
like bodies from the gallows.
they swing in fetid winds
and i see myself
i have reaped your wounds
after sewing them shut,
sowing them carefully
for two days shy
of a year.
i feel our blood mixing
and it feels like the hurt
you only have after a
the heart never forgetsI cannot remember where I fell in love;
I can remember where I hated you--
the hallway fluorescent,
white cinderblock walls,
shiny behind alcohol-glazing--
and I can remember where I begged forgiveness--
4am silence finally falling
in the weekend dorms,
frantic fingers dialing your number
but I cannot remember where I fell in love;
I remember the first night we spent together--
we muffled our voices as I beat you in cards,
you pressed yourself against the wall
and I pressed myself against you;
you missed a meeting in the morning
because we forgot to sleep--
but I cannot remember where I fell in love;
the days surrounding your birthday,
where I stayed in your apartment
and shared a bed with a boy
whom I did not let myself see I loved;
the sun filtered,
through the thinly clouded glass;
the nights where the floodlights
thrashed between the blinds
until your body became a barrier
for my shaded eyes;
I cannot remember where I fell in love;
but as soon as the
inner spacei know i can't go back
to who i was
too many seasons,
too many waves
have crashed on the
and i need to look
at myself - hard -
to see that
parts of me
have been eroded
and my shape
life grows on trees
but i do not.
my branches are tired,
my limbs heavy.
it is all i can do
to grasp at the leaves.
i let the bark scrape my fingers;
i lick the wounds
and taste the blood,
hot and metallic,
on my tongue.
when i look up,
it's not for too long;
i grow dizzy at the great heights
the stars play in the sky.
i need to remember
that outer space is also
my inner space.
i need to remember that
i can't be who i was
please, i say to the heavens;
i am swallowing whole galaxies
to prove my worth
and earn my keep
in this body.
earth inside methe earth inside of me
is so large that it is crumbling
out of my body,
the dirt on my hands
is far from subtle
but I do not want to look clean--
to look like something
the surges in my blood
swell up like the vigor
of hand washing,
gentle til obsession
then there is blood,
it is licking at my eyes
(in the corners
where once there was darkness),
and still I am
not a day goes by
that I forget,
not one day
that you do not
that I am a sizable sea
at peace (with me)
and have no desire
(in growing waves)
to chew through my wrists,
that I have found
a way to stop you
in my mind;
I try to sleep,
I pray for sleep,
and then the clock reads
4:30pm and the guilt
over my head
til the next time
I go to bed
(my mattress, my bed,
my flower bed;
dirt rows tilled to my brim
because I am unclean
no matter the rain who tries
to dampen and dim
the grave I am in.)
the death of selfi can't find words to
i can't articulate
and blood doesn't stick-
i am stuck with my self
and the monsters
who have inched in,
night by night
until their figures
loom over me,
i am mourning.
the loss of you,
no matter how temporary;
to destroy my body
beyond its crumbling pillars;
the sadness in every cell
that contains the ocean,
wave after wave of thorough dejection,
apathy and agony
that nothing seems to solve.
i do not move.
i exist because it is what i know to do.
i breathe only because it takes effort to stop.
the hole in which i am buried
is filled with heavy, sodden soil
and my blood offerings
and constantly emptying myself
receives no mercy from a deity,
i am mourning
the death of my self.
Cliches I Have Datedi.
Anna collected stardust
like pennies, except
pennies are worth something.
Claire had ink
running through her veins; dead,
from an unsterilized needle.
Robin had birdbones
strung together on windchimes.
Sarah’s eyes were always
to the sky, and never
Lizbeth took my breath away
with every punch to the stomach.
Rosalie had too many things
in her ribcage; emotional adrenaline
triggered her arrhythmia.
Emily left me
for a boy with starrier freckles.
I am one cat away
from a stereotype, or one girl
closer to a happy ending.
ApocalypseContrary to popular misconception, the end of the world is not global warming, a nuclear fallout, or a mechanical uprising. Zombies do not erupt from their graves, aliens do not suddenly decide to invade. There are no horsemen, vengeful Gods or wayward comets. Lightning does not smote the wicked and angels do not lead the worthy to peace. The end of the world is not a mass disaster; there is no exploding sun, tidal wave or earthquake. Instead, it is those quiet moments happening all over the world, every day.
Resting my hand on the gentle curve of my belly, I croon sweet nothings to my baby. I have decided that "it" is a "she", though the ultrasound confirmation is still several weeks away. Still, I have heard her heartbeat, and I am looking forward to hearing it again later today. I sit like this for an hour or so, soaking the sunlight into my skin and communing with the life growing inside me. I am lulled by the sound of traffic in the street, but the unmistakable drone of my hus
From the Rappers, To the RockersWhen did the word“rap” become equivalent to uneducated?
When was hip-hop only reserved for those “ghetto” impolite,
How many of us associate the 808 drums, the slang, and the rhythm
with no good, hood rats who have their pants below their ankles?
Why is it a sin to enjoy such tragedy, such emotion and such beauty
all composed into one, rambunctious, ignorant piece of music?
Sex, money, women and booze,
seems like the only things that rappers know how to use.
But hey, no hate, because I know it's real,
it's the struggle in the hood, so we know how y'all feel.
It started from ages, of days that were black,
when those bored kids hardly had a penny in their lunch sacks.
With the pain that came with living, by not fitting in,
by not liking rock, or music reserved for museums.
It morphed into pain, and embodied “the struggle”
a term tossed around, now we use it to describe our troubles.
When the bass drops, and the words flow,
it's like a hurric
seek (FFM 13)He's been searching for as long as I've known him; for what, I'm not sure. I can't quite decide if he's certain. But what I do know is this: he's not finding what he's looking for. So often we play out the same scene, the same routine. It hasn't changed in years, and I expect it will continue to be acted years in the future.
Eleven at night, and I'll find him in the library, surrounded by papers. His eyes, they're possessed by a frenzy, a fanaticism. When this happens, I know that we're having one of those nights. I hope that he'll abandon his search, come to bed. He never does. I've given up reprimanding him with any real feeling, and his contempt is only a token gesture. We keep up appearances, but I no longer remember who we think we've been fooling. Ourselves, perhaps.
Twelve, and I curl up in the corner with a book or a notepad, but I never read or write. I fixate upon the veins in his hands as he rummages with increasing distress through myriad photographs, document
Death WishAuthor's note:
I was thinking about how Prime can never die now, after the brouhaha in the aftermath of the '86 movie.
And I proceeded to follow that train of thought gleefully off the Emo-Cliff.
(I have some ideas for funny drabbles; but emo is easier to write! Ha.)
As always, this is set in my personal happy universe...
I visit their tombs today.
The catacombs are vast; as I walk through them, the hollow clatter of my footsteps echoes down the long halls, returning to reverberate in my empty spark.
I follow the groove that my ever-returning feet have worn into the floor, to pay my respects to the friends who have gone ahead without me.
I stop first at the most recently added memorial, and though I know he is no longer here, I whisper, Hello, Ratchet. The able mech wound down in his medbay, as he was teaching a newling apprentice how to hot-wire a transformation sequence. I will miss his gruff amiability.
Next I visit a much more ancient mon
ClingyThere I was, minding my own business, just lookin' out the window and watching the world go past. It was comforting and I was at peace, but it didn't last. Something must've happened because you were as clingy as a white dog's fur on a black suit. You smooched up to me, pulling me into your arms and nuzzling deep into my skin. I tried to move away, but like always, you followed. Your hands batted at me gently, trying to manipulate me back into position. All I wanted was to watch the world outside, but your neediness foiled me again.
I wanted to tell you to get lost, but you don't speak lizard and I don't speak cat. God, I hate your coping mechanisms.
It Never HappenedHave you ever stood
In the rain
And let it pour
Upon your skin
It washing away
All of your pain
And all of your suffering
And cleansing your heart
And your mind
And creating you new
As if the past
And the troubles it contained
June 6, 2014
edit June 25, 2014
I love this man who sleeps
by my side,
still & calm,
despite my scribblings & mutterings
at 3:00 AM,
X-files reruns playing low
in the background &
it is quite possible that we are old,
that we now qualify, somehow,
making me strangely happy
while he rolls his eyes & mutters grumpily
under his breath.
Our wolf tiptoes onto the mattress,
her nose between his shoulder
tail carelessly draped over a foot, here
there is peace
& I know,
without knowing why,
that if I am ever asked what age,
the butterfly effect.no one thinks they can die
until the razor’s pierced too
or until the alcohol’s become too
in order to appreciate the sunset,
some think they may have
to have cancer eating away at their
marrow, lungs, colon,
or some other heartrending method
of being torn down
from the inside out.
to enjoy their loved one’s company,
they must be close to death,
to being forgotten, i’ve heard innumerable
but i’ve always loathed
as a ticket out,
as an excuse not to live life.
as an excuse not to love life.
& i’ve always strained to help others
see past the red blurring
their vision or the hypothetical
/ theoretical (the absolutely terrifyingly
real & not-to-be-underestimated)
/ leviathans devouring their
heart & thoughts
as speared candy
on the tip of their innocent fingernails.
though i suppose to understand
you must’ve once been nailed to
your own pride,
your own promis
Parenting for Sex AddictsThe half-day.
We are not those folks that need an occasion to try. And that’s what they call it, too. Trying. As if the very idea of it is taxing. It’s not taxing and we are not those people.
No. We do not go by some magical calendar. Schedules aren’t really our thing in general. That’d be too organized. Too stuffy. Too… I don’t know… too planned. And we’re not the type of people whom plan.
If we could—plan—our lives would be much different. I think. It’s hard to say because this is how we’ve always been.
Our very togetherness is a result of impulse. I’m almost certain that the amount of time it took us to decide to move in together was significantly shorter than the amount of time it took us to remember each other’s names. We might have had our first conversation moments after that first… what I mean to say is we didn’t plan. Because planning would have been much t
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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