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Once MoreSoft satin caresses, sweet lips touch,
sending heat down my spine. Fingers
intertwine, brushing mouth, cheeks,
hair, leaving nothing behind. Desire
controls, your lust craving more,
hiding the picture. Moving lips
show mind’s hunger, representing
wavering ways. Sick of twisted motives,
such childish play, now say her name
once more, rekindling blazing flames.
Red drops of passion puddle upon floor,
draining white fingertips damp, speak
once more. Deepen fresh wounds
with twisted smiles. Say her name
once more, I dare to hear such sounds.
If not, hold your tongue, your eternal
peace, and never move those lips from mine.
Black VinesNear vibrant flowers, emerald vines
curl and crawl across covered meadows.
They embrace, black vines dancing
upon skin. Glorious body art.
Dark ink curls, blossoming first
flowers, flourishing sweet summer.
Yet tips bare brown fruit, withered
wrinkled skin as amber sheds life.
Ink fades grey, dancing patterns cease
as vines drop last fruit into fresh snow.
Resolutions"Camila, open your door, now."
The pounding shook my door against its frame and knocked the pencil out of my hands. I tried to pick it up off my desk but moved too fast,
knocking papers and pencils to the floor. I reached for my supplies when another shout hit my ears.
"Camila, I'm not going to repeat myself."
I grumbled under my breath, saying words I knew I couldn't repeat in a few seconds. I rushed off my seat and over to my closed door. The
pounding never died, leaving my ears throbbing. I covered my ear with one hand and opened my bedroom door with the other to see my mom glowering.
She stood over me, eyes boring into my own. Her lips mashed into a scowl. "You have been ignoring me for the last ten minutes. What are you doing here?"
I swallowed a large lump down my throat. "I-I-I was just-"
A gasp flew past her lips, interrupting me. She shoved past me and entered my room, eyes wide. I knew we were both staring at the same
thing: dozens of sticky notes against my walls.
UmbrellaRain poured from the grey clouds, drenching the brown soil. I watched the weather from the inside of my apartment, watching every drop as it hit the ground.
However, that wasn't the only thing that captured my eyes. Standing at the bus stop was a young man, looking in his twenties. He stood tall against the storm, holding a mere umbrella.
How it help up for this long was beyond me. The wind blew it inside out, leaving the man soaked. He had no reason to hold onto it anymore, yet his fingers wouldn't let go of the handle. He stood as a statue, waiting for the bus.
The rain kept falling.
OpenDark dingy dungeon, alive
with desire. Chains dig
into wrists, seeping
every last drop.
Eyes missing day light,
longing warm love against
Key resting on wooden table
top. Long ago did it call,
Life of a WriterIronic, isn't it,
creating worlds with only pen tip,
lives spun from fragile mind?
Being a writer
is the burden nobody grasps.
Breathing life into human beings,
faith in palm's hands.
They face challenges,
Mock, call us simple,
but try, carry this burden,
world's weight upon shoulders.
Until that day,do not
mock the life of a writer.
When you lose a best friendWhen we said friends forever and
crossed pinkies like grade-schoolers,
I could only believe those words
lodged in your heart
like they did mine
because every time I think back
I can't help but remember the
under star lit constellations,
and study sessions where we
learned more about each other
than we did Biology
but now it's clear
that each beat of your heart
has made those words fade,
and you could care less
about crossed pinkies
but I'll still see you,
and hear your voice
and I'll still wish
the meaning hadn't changed-
At peace within this tranquil garden,
I picture the moments where I've made you smile.
Those times are endlessly precious to me,
I think they're worth the while.
They're worth the time I've spent with you,
Even if it wasn't long.
I only wish I'd spent a little more,
Before our love was gone.
Forgiveness takes twoThe words are struggling
to tumble off my tongue,
and despite having
a fleshy cushion
to rest on,
they stain my teeth
and sting like acid
"I'm sorry," I stutter,
but the bitter taste
doesn't leave my tongue-
not because the words weren't true,
but because I know
I won't hear,
She's an artistShe's an artist.
Always seems to be daydreaming,
She draws to escape her pain.
Cause for a single moment,
When her work is done.
It seems like there is no more rain.
And she could finally touch the sun.
The one that shines so brightly in her paintings.
But then it's gone,
So she keeps drawing,
She's become good at escaping.
Running from reality.
Because dreams are the only things she wants,
Her imagination is the only thing she's ever known.
And it's sad really...
Because she tries so hard to be happy.
But the most beautiful thing she could ever create.
Was that smile upon her face,
And that is the one thing that remains blank.
Waiting to someday be something more than,
Mommy Is A Super HeroMommy Is A Super Hero
Standing before his class, he held his tiny report,
“Who is your super hero?” Was written in yellow chalk on the green board.
Exhaling his breath, the curly haired boy closed his little eyes,
“Don't be ashamed of yourself” His mother's words rung in his ears, “And don't ever cry.”
He began to read aloud, with a shaky voice.
to his class, he told his mother's story.
At age fifteen, she was a beauty queen,
the most beautiful girl in all of the world.
She flaunted her silky hair, bore her bare legs,
prided her breast. The boys treated her like she was a treasure chest.
They respected her rules, they “looked, but didn't touch”,
but there was one older man, who from her, wanted too much.
All alone he met her, he approached her in the alley,
and all his mother told him, was that this man had treated her badly.
But what the boy didn't know was that she was taken against her will,
and that two months later, she turned up ext
Still HereSuicide is a
Thought that frequently lurks
In my mind, wich
Lets it overcome the
Laughter and happiness
Here I still fight, however
Enduring this sad life
Reviving my hopes
Embracing the gift of life
cenotaph of stormsthe first thunderstorm
was triggered by a blunt pair
of scissors, sparking violently
against the lightning,
shaking in the wind.
the downpour pierced,
tattooed with no ink but
the dark bleakness
of an overcast morning,
infiltrating uniformed wrists.
hid behind the music block,
shaky raindrops rioting
fears, she fractured.
the second storm
wept a two year downpour
outline that dripped from wrist
to hip, sidelong silhouette glances
obscured by the rain.
stalictidal waves shuddered
frozen, until icy glass
fell in stained shards from
the stillness inside.
thinner, brittler, growing
in flurries of sleet and hail,
her outline was never filled,
though the floods threatened
the third thunderstorm
was a mist-ridden melancholia,
a dream for permanence
smeared in ink through
fueled by the hope
that just this once,
the rain would spark a
rebirth beneath the ground.
instead, a tsunami
washed away the ink
as tides so often do.
smotherher spine was dusk
and unmade nests,
but he tried to live there
he was neither nocturnal
nor a dawn-believer,
so he suffocated
in the birdhouse of her ribs.
between my vertebrae, you are (cemeterial)oh, these writers never speak; they
claw words out of bird carcasses,
poets pecking viscera like necropolitans.
they count their ribs to remind you
of a corpse or of a matchstick. dry bones
between fissured wrists & funeral pyres,
these have been dying days &
they're all mortuaries.
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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