|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
River, Stay Away From MeI am sorry Ocean
I am sorry
I know I lie
Deeper than you
Standing near the edge
My mistakes are a bit too many
My wounds a little too serious
My passions dead
Ocean I am sorry
That River has ruined me so
River why do you consume me still?
Rushing and making noise, forever onward
But I stay trapped beneath your current
River, will you let me go?
Can I let myself go?
Can I go home?
... I guess not ...
I want to return to Ocean
But you flow in the wrong direction
Pushing me towards your backwards waterfall
I want to leave
Instead I will be disembowled
And my entrails stretched
From River to Ocean
She Stares At Me, And TwitchesFeistiness and Lethality
Poured into a Bowl
Taken from Me
Silver quarters and brown Spoons
All my Treasures
And from where I Sit
I approach the girl in her Sweater
She's thinner than I
I lean in towards Her
And tell Her
"My brown quarters and silver Spoons
Were stolen from me
And poured into a Bowl
With feistiness and Lethality"
She stares at Me
To My Lover +ErrDo I take the inconceivable sensation of you
And stretch it out too thin?
Do I suck dry at your infinitesimal being
Attempting to elaborate on a dot?
How am I to actually love you (or the idea of you)
If you don't even comprehend your existence?
How are we to intermingle and conjoin eternally
When my cognition writhes under intangible supposition?
Oh, my only lover
Does my inflexible stance of anguish
Drive you from my fragile arms?
How am I to escape this aggravating spiral
The Infinite WeightWhen one cannot express any words
And nothing can aptly be spoken
The smell of suffocation begins to surface
On the shoulders of young artists
The smallest weight is placed
To test their perserverance and focus
But within a few years
Their abilities will be compounded
On the shoulders of attractive artists
Lies the sadistic ethereal weight
Where success is at the tip of fingers
And open galleries so, so near
Nothing could ever seem too small
On the shoulders of struggling artists
Rests the infinite weight
Dragging them down into a useless bog
Where all that will await them
Is weakness, apathy, and rejection
When one cannot express any words
And nothing can aptly be spoken
The smell of failure is undeniably near
20 years or 20 mishapsyou are
sexed in a thought
without the action
your belly grows
white as the years
eat me eat me swallow
me whole, spit out the
bones and relish
didn't anyone ever tell you?
didn't anyone ever warn you-
i am thick as water
when it sinks to
you can see
to my insides,
they used to
boil when i danced.
you used to
compliment my hair,
you used to grab my hand
and call me angel
or 20 mishaps?
it's hard to tell
it's hard to care
the artist bleeds turpentineI am a warped and splintering frame
held by rusting nails
swaths of hemp and sheaths of tweed
crucified with acrylics
the cross of Saint Peter
littered with tufts of heathen fur
matted brushes and bathwater
drained from a balneae in Sodom
I ruined myself for relationshipsYou all remember
a time when you were sixteen
and a little insecure ;
we watched them,
kissing passionately in the middle of the street,
mushing their faces in the train station,
licking each other out on the dance floor.
And we were jealous.
We all want to be held tight
touched like we're more tempting
than a double chocolate cake.
I don't know if I do,
What I liked most about us,
were the way we kissed,
closed-lipped, soft and innocent
and the way you touched me
like I'm more precious
than my body weight in gold
could ever be.
the Manifestation of my Internal Pendulum.
Thoughts follow, or don't. Or should.
No fancy moves, no delicate tricks.
Just Time and I. Ticking. Clicking along.
We're all timepieces.
Others do more, better. Louder.
But I'm okay with not.
Twirl, turn, another, open.
Twirl, turn, another, closed.
Click-Clack goes my mind.
TodayToday I realized that it's okay to be tired.
Don't feel guilty.
A troubled heart has no reason to be ashamed.
It's really their fault, anyway.
They were running through your head all night,
And those memories, they still hurt.
And that's okay.
It means you're still alive, you can still feel.
Even if they can't.
Don't ever let go of that.
Be proud, even if it means turning your back
On those that hurt you.
Gaijin PobmaThe mushroom whose theme I listen to all day
1 hour extended
Wild fantasies of loving Goomba nights
Not quite what he'd intended.
I was lost, politically incorrect and broken
But life granted me one last token
Never could I regret when that pathetic pastime
Found itself sundered.
The immature mind thundered
The arcade shook and my controller got angry and ripped itself in half
Gaijin Gomba showed me that Mega Hombre Cinco was a good game.
Thank fucking God he did that or I would be trapped.
I first found his videos
It was a lonely dark night
I felt like everyone hated me
I shrank from every site;
And Youtube again beckoned my sad mouse forth
Before my soul would meet that fading torch.
As soon as I saw that character jump up on the screen, I shrieked
I broke the forth wall for him, courteous to what I seek
The massive glass pane was crushed, and glass shards fell on both of us
He had to go to the emergency room, and he sent me a cease and desist letter the next day.
DemonsSpreading darkly from within
A cloud filled my breast
And slowly pulling me in
Ground me into the dust, depressed
On the dead earth below me
A dripping black hand
Struggled fiercely up to free
The shadows of the demon band
Others nearby glanced my way
Smiled at me, or cursed
With a venomous red spray
Fed my dark and demon-made thirst
Looking behind them I saw
On great poison wings
Creatures, crimson mouths all raw
From speaking unspeakable things
If we had courage to boast
Allied, we could beat
The hellspawned, bloodthirsty ghosts
That hungrily follow our feet
The other side of the coin
Fearing the unknown
No one dares to join
We each have demons of our own
hey newton, gravity's flawedi.
starting anew from the flutter
and the sputter of lungs.
a vacant sea filled with feathers
and tumultuous clatter,
ribs in a treacherous pattern
resembling exiting rungs.
i want to wrestle the angels,
your tendency is the ladder.
involved with full indiscretion,
trading lazy for lace.
unspool the curse of the long-
limbs in a languorous flexion
i like the stab of the ankles,
you need the curves intersected.
opting to cull my extents
with trans-dimensional vigor.
spent my dysphoric corrections
on reconnecting lax ends.
lips in a spurious accent
feign a passionate rigor.
i tie myself to the anchor,
you extricate and ascend.
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