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Novel Bound by Shoe StringsThe plot is unknown,
The future left untold,
But you won't write alone,
we'll just let it all unfold...
In this novel bound by shoe strings,
we will write only the best scenes,
Tear apart the suffering,
and carry ourselves into infinity.
Happily ever after is, in fact, real,
but happiness is only one thing you feel,
we must cope with how we must heal,
and strive for the everlasting serenity,
Love is but a fairytale,
A ship that will forever sail,
an emotion, that will never fail,
In this novel, I just wrote a calamity.
The plot is well known,
The future is now told,
and we wrote it all in stone,
a stone that is always hard and cold...
My Idea of PerfectionYou know I show my interest in the things that you say,
and everyday you greet me with a smile stretched across your face,
I like the color of your hair under fluorescent lighting,
and the difference between when we argue, and when we're fighting.
You put your hand in my back pocket as we walk along,
You tell me sometimes it doesn't feel right, but I know that it doesn't feel wrong...
The sky will never be grey...
so long as you choose to stay,
The sun will sometimes shine bright,
and the sky will never change to night,
so long as you choose to stay.
You think that your laugh isn't very easy on the ears,
you know I find it to be just about the cutest thing I've heard in years,
I like the way you say my name, unsure of how to say it,
You know your way around a guitar, and I love the way that you play it,
Remember the time that you slept in my bed all day long?
This is just my idea of perfection, and I know nothing can ever go wrong...
The sky will never be grey...
so long as you choose
I Need MoreMy love, why do you try to hide
the smile that keeps me warm?
I need more than just the cold.
Sweet love that has disappeared,
where do you go when you feel worn?
I need more than what feels old.
Brother that I think so dearly of,
why do you do what you do?
I need more than what I'm told.
Dear one that thinks highly of me,
why can't you tell me the truth?
I need more than I can hold.
Metaphorical AngelsThere's a color for every season,
A mood set by the regularity.
There's a truth behind every reason,
you just get it metaphorically.
You fly like metaphorical angels,
soaring high in the heavens,
yet you're so down to earth.
You're the mood of this season,
Sad, but happy to see it's you.
I'd call you, but I don't have a reason,
and I don't think I'd get through...
You're like the metaphorical angels,
when you're around, the stress lessens,
you're just so down to earth...
for any of it to be true.
You can't say that you don't
smell the smells of this season.
You can't say that you won't
give me at least one good reason,
for turning out to be better than I had imagined.
You're turning out to be better than I had imagined.
You say you're no metaphorical angel.
Tell no lies and ask no questions,
Bring me down to Earth.
I'm only speaking metaphorically...
Stylized PortraitsYou love him more than he'll ever know.
But didn't you say that about the other guy three days ago?
How emotions change when we don't really know them.
Oh, how it must be to live in a world
where one relationship only lasts a week.
I love you, baby.
You say the sky is my limit,
so long as I stay within it.
No one lives past the surface.
No one lives where we know they don't live.
But what else is out there?
I keep secrets closer than any enemy or friend.
I keep them safe inside, where no one can get to them.
You can take all of my friends and enemies,
but I've always got my secrets.
And you don't know them.
Stylized portraits that portray the evil as the innocent.
The quality of the art is not always a matter of opinion, but a matter of intent.
Did you make this to express yourself?
Was it as shallow as most? Or was it deep like some?
I never know what's really going on.
Just My OpinionYou're the curse that slips from his lips,
and skin against my finger tips,
You cloud my spectacles,
And forgive me if I say it,
but you are the being of perfection.
Just my opinion.
Sometimes I'd lay by myself,
to get the feeling of being alone.
I would randomly pinch myself,
to make sure I was alive.
I still don't believe it.
Just my opinion.
I never met anyone with the same name as me,
until I worked in retail serving the old women.
He was tall, skinny, and not too handsome.
Darker, maybe latino.
His name was written on his mechanics' uniform.
The "O" in the middle stared at me like an open eye.
He wrote me a check, which I needed his license for.
I got to double check, to make sure he wasn't a "fake",
Like the ones I'd found on myspace.
They want to be different.
All of them want to be different.
Just my opinion.
The decade that served me most was the decade I loved the most.
I like my years like I like my men:
Fun and short.
It's already twenty-ten.
I always hated the number 0,
UnderstandShe spoke in terms I couldn't quite understand,
She told me she understood the likes of socialism,
And how capitalism will make our classes more divided.
She spoke in terms I wouldn't quite understand,
She told me how everything is unfair under our "Conservatives",
And how they don't care about anyone but the rich.
She spoke in terms that I knew weren't right,
But she made me feel good to believe what I believe.
I didn't feel self-conscious, or the least bit worried,
I knew that somehow she couldn't quite understand.
Wendy Was My GirlWendy was my girl. She wore her hair in a bun. She kept her natural blond hair, and when it was grey, she kept it that way, too. She liked the cold, and she liked the snow. She never liked to get a tan. She took her shoes off at the door. She never asked for anything unless she was asked first. She was quiet, but she was polite. She never thought about herself when someone else was in need.
Wendy would talk about herself only when asked for her opinion. She listened to every detail, and would repeat them if asked. She never forgot a face, and especially their name. She always forgot her birthday, but always remembered mine. She could never forget our anniversary, though I did.
Wendy told me all the stories of her childhood, the ones I wasn't there to live. She told me stories of her high school, the one that was our rival. She told me stories of right before we met, in college, Junior year.
Wendy met me in a coffee shop in town. She was the one that I knew I wanted to spend my life wit
In The Middle Of EverythingI'm as sure as your sailboat floats,
that no one suspects or even knows,
the ground on which I have walked.
I'm as steady as an old bridge,
loosely fastened to the old ridge,
that no one has ever walked...
in a hundred years or so.
So high in the house of your ghost,
that I can see the east coast,
And see the angels coming from beneath.
I speak like an old machine,
not so clear or pristine,
But I beckon for you from the east.
Forget how to tie the ribbons in her hair,
And let's go get some fresh air,
It's the shortest songs that hurt the most.
I've sent a message to you from afar,
But I can't see you where you are,
but we're in the middle of everything.
this is a warning.i.
The first thing you need
to know about people is this:
If you cut off our head,
we will grow two in its place.
We will divide and conquer
until there's nothing left
but tiny gaping mouths,
clacking and salivating
at the crumbs of an empire.
They tell me hurt is like
a paper cut:
quick and forgotten,
Hurt is the first step
off a balcony,
the first gasp
in a chain reaction
screaming from the railing
to beyond the pavement.
When I finally hit the ground,
I looked up and saw my halo
dangling from the edge,
He said, she said,
I wanted, he lost, she won,
I ruined this, I broke your heart,
he left me,
I miss you.
This is nothing new.
Your tragedy is always
what's it like to realize
every slash on your soul
has an identical twin?
What's it like to know
you're going to die
the same way everyone does:
scared and alone?
We are disposable.
The hydra g
Peter Pan EnvyWe molded pirate ships
from heavy storm clouds,
flags puffed up
and scooped out
like handfuls of sand
while the car windows
steamed in the cold.
You told me stories
of a boy in green
and his war with
the hooked man,
said they took
those like us
to the first star on the right
and straight on to morning.
You made me believe
and when life got hard--
mom hopped up on pills,
nights filled with demons--
I breathed wishes
to be stolen away.
No pirate ever darkened my stoop
with his wayward compass
or water-stained maps;
no fairy ever left glitter
smeared on my skin
like good dreams.
I look to the sky
when the wind blows
and hold my breath
with his name on my tongue
all the same.
War and CancerI want to go back
and meet us one more time,
before the war and the cancer
took up so much of the day -
before my father could no longer
remember what the present
was supposed to mean
and your mother
could still get dressed
without losing her way.
I want to know
what it felt like
to board a plane
to somewhere hidden
and not care
if our names and faces
to walk as long
as we wanted
without the sun and moon
creating an argument.
I want to feel you
roll into my arms
where I forgot to cut the grass
and you did not
water the flowers;
to hear you
watching the cardinals
unearth the spring.
And to know once again
how this place
started becoming new.
SeptemberThe summer was so hot
the dogs stuck to the sidewalks
with the newspapers
and the black metal cans
everyone left waiting on the curb.
You could smell it
in the glass pitchers
on table tops,
and the sheets that never
dried on the clothes lines;
the canvas beach bags
mothers dragged wearily
across the sand
and the ice cream trucks
melting across the highways.
Children felt it open
up the windows at night
and find a corner
of the bed to smother,
while fathers baited it on hooks
or mowed it down
in flat, dry stripes
as if begging each other
And the crickets just hummed
beneath the corn silk
and the dry mouth
daring the cats to play
hide and seek -
searching for September.
The Re-Prettify ProjectBreathing in silver filaments
will not make you pretty on the inside.
You cannot polish and buff
lung or aorta
until it is shiny and new.
If you have filled your life with toxins
and allowed your eyes
to cloud over with coal dust
do not, my friend, do not
seek silver linings from anything
but penance and kindness.
Throwing gold-dust over your head
will not administer you a halo.
thirstYou tell me to breathe in
the scent of my tea:
Apple Cinnamon Spice,
it is crisp and infusing
the aroma into my lips.
Honey coasts along my spoon,
apple biting into its
golden flavor. Cinnamon bursts
forth for a brief moment and I am
Note to SelfDate a librarian; they'll read you until your spine falls apart, and still love every page. They'll underline your highlights, your endless seas of profound poetry, as if they've mistaken your manatee appearance for a mermaid. They'll hang off the cliff of your chapter 15 and dive into the next page as if you're about to reveal what they've been looking for. And when they don't find it, they'll tear out your words letter by letter with a hush, asking you oh so sweetly to stay quiet. Finally, they'll bind your broken spine with tape and set you on the shelf for misplaced books until they forget you were ever there, but they won't be done with you. They'll never be done with you; even when it seems your pages, your rib cage and heart, is filled with nothing but dust.
I Like ItYou ask me what I like with those blank eyes,
But I can't get through with any amount of tries,
But here it goes, just one last time:
You know I'm a sucker for green eyes,
A sunrise, cloudy days, and her old ways,
I like the storm clouds, thunder sounds,
Underdogs and morning fog from a mountain top,
When I'm laughing and just can't stop,
Green trees and bumble bees, smiling from ear to ear,
Those three little words that I almost never hear,
I like choclate bars, compact cars, and shooting stars,
Neon signs and all straight lines, silver spoons and afternoons,
I like the tunnel lights, and grander sights,
A colder place, and warmer days,
Video games and funny surnames,
I like foreign lands and foreign tongues,
The feeling of being forever young,
Kite string and the left wing,
Cold soda on a dry throat, pine wood and maybe oak,
Or a nice place for my feet to soak,
Rock music of almost any type, the feeling of creating life,
I like wood smoke and anxious hope,
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