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Nighttime Ramblings and InsufficiencyYou drop your jaw,
and you pull words out from
hiding, deep in your throat.
You wretch up a mass of
unfiltered, unedited, reality
because you believe that's what it is
to be understood.
You leave a trail of mutterings
wherever you go
no one will ever want me
it's not enough
and i'm sorry, i'm
so so sorry
Do you remember the difference between
a shadow and a ghost? (the world ends
the day the sun won't shine)
Instead of sleeping (maybe
tomorrow won't come if you
don't say goodnight) you wait;
you will not be remembered, and
that is the scariest part-
you were never loud enough.
i'm so sorry
The night presses too hard,
pulling you down, even though
you plead for one more day to prove
you aren't just passing through.
In the margins, you breathe:
Epilogues like EpitaphsOnce upon a vapid day in
a town full of glazed-eyed murmurs
ultimately amounting to nothing, she
met a boy who said he'd calculated the
probabilities of wishes and knew what it felt like
to breathe a dream. He told her he'd write
her the world, he'd tell of the promises the
oceans kept and the way the stars never
quite compared to her eyes
but he lied.
And she figured love fancied
narcissism the same way she believed herself
deliquescent. (because we're always looking
for the prettiest ways to say we're
Then on a broken night that tasted of
lucid intoxication and blind reminiscing,
she met a boy built of big words
whose heart sounded authentic [enough],
and when he called her beautiful,
she really believed him.
that is, until the wind stole him away
in the form of a pretty girl who meant
more and was worth less. She
concluded that love feared dying alone
(just as much as she did) and
maybe it wasn't such a travesty to succumb
and let substantiality crash over you. Maybe
Staying for the Seasonyou were born
of a broken cradle
where no one taught you
how to breathe
you need the stars
like nourishment, but
they just don't feel
you live like a heart attack,
an insufferable shuddering,
a socially aware illness without
the will to pull through
it's a sad truth when we
look up in the mirror, and
only see ourselves-
but it's okay.
write it on the walls, it's
okay, you just need a
little more sleep.
(wake up. it's nearly
December and you're
ColorblindI gave away my name today
and it might be a metaphor, but I think
we only remember the quietest suicides
the walls are thin enough to listen
as the angels try to scratch free;
bloodied fingernails and God says everyone
screws up, sometimes
I'm waiting for a silent night.
I only ever believed in solid ground
and depressions' tides, and sometimes,
those little wounds I nursed deep
within my vocal chords (because
my voice is dying, too)
I can see the beautiful people, now
overdosing on their own opiums of
self-acquittal and dissolution
they ran out of ways to ask for help.
I'm fragile, but my glass ribs
aren't holding much
and I'm through trying to find something
different, because it's scary to know
what exactly's the same
yesterday I was someone else and
tomorrow I'm further into inevitabilities of
who I promised I'd never be--
I'm waiting for a happy ending,
but if you love something
you let it go.
admittance is defeatthey called you beautiful
with porcelain eyes about to crack
and cigarette skin crumbling
away, a knotted spine and
you were never gracious.
you're slipping underneath, this
virulent smog masks a paper sky that
never allowed a dream and
you're afraid because it's soaking in
your pores again, unattainable and unoriginal;
the meaning of life never meant enough-
you were never hopeful.
there's a getaway map on the underside
of your pillow, and a lifetime of secrets
on the underside of your bones
you're a walking travesty:
your chest ticks, dull
your wrist beats, dying
time is keeping you but
you were never patient.
you lie large enough to make us believe you
don't entertain nightmares, but what if
no one could hear you scream?
remarkable, it seems
caged birds really know how
to sing out
(you were always beautiful)
the flies are in the food, again.
festering, feeding- because i sewed
shut my lips when you warned me
they were a gaping wound.
silence is the best kind of infection;
you can't know what's kept inside
i carry little girl dreams
of dying and coming back
diseased, depraved, an atrocity;
at least then I'd be something
worth writing home about
i deserve more than what
i am- i am selfish and
greedy, but not strong
to steal a life worth living
(look at me now, mom
i'm growing into the
ugly thoughts i birthed.
i think this is what it must feel like
to finally follow through)
there are things you never say:
no one ever wants to
face their mortality
i will die and i will bring
my rotting mind with me;
the sun will rise again, brightly,
a little less burdened
the worst eulogy, it seems,
is a finger pointed towards
a world unwelcoming:
(look at me now, mom
i'm something worth writing
home about, i finally
there's a skeleton's breath
on the back
Deliverancean angel drifts at the edge of the sky
with dwindling wings, she murmurs 'genesis'
and extends her fingers to try
and catch the pieces of a broken world
"sometimes we just need to burn
to have a way to light up the night"
the ground collapses upwards, and the
clouds come tumbling down-- the stars
awake and smile, they set fire to
desiccate all blinded faith
the masses watch on; glazed eyes,
broken spines, excised tongues-- they
are seduced by the twinkling lights
"destruction breeds beauty and
it seems to go both ways"
as the day decays, their time shatters
until those knuckle-dragging fools
find broken moment shrapnel
deep within their flesh
and the oceans scream out,
washing over their wounds to prove
it can never happen again
"if you have guilt, don't
you think you might deserve it?"
the moon eclipses and the angel
decides the battle was lost
long before it began
she kisses the remnants
of a forsaken land, tenderly
"in the end,
emaciated souls fall among the
promises of a better day,
memories drape like skeletons,
and we sleep, hands together,
to try and be pious prior to death.
we forgot how long it takes to take
a life, as we write novels about heroes
and purity that we're too afraid to call
myths. the art of distraction is a
nasty one, at that.
the clouds are rending, it's always
hurricane season when the trees cry and
the oceans mourn. the heavens are
caving on top of us as the children
dance in the rain. purged clean,
washed out, they were expecting to be
free- but there are still spiders in their
throats, crawling through their voices,
and holes in their heads for the breeze
to whistle through.
they're the lucky ones, though, at the
end of the day. their vocabulary
only consists of the word please,
while we have a million ways to say
our only wishes are made to make the
horror corrode away
we're waiting to be saved
Indefinite Tidesshe speaks in vinegar riddles
and bides her time in shipwrecked
ticking off days for the boy
with stormy eyes who promised
he'd be back in a season or
two. he, who was
crafted from the leftover bits of the moon
and the meandering sky with runaway
stars lurking deep beneath his ribcage,
waiting to fall whenever he spoke
like a saint, whose divine sacraments
parted land and birthed lives; like a
sorcerer whose words launched a
thousand sunken ships but
now, she pops pills like reminders,
stabilizers that last 4-6 hours
depending on her ability to forget
and she's lost in herself
again, among faltering brainwaves
and wavering heartbeats and the
whimpering echo of her own worst fears
like: he's gone and he took all
that's good of me with him,
my weighted bones and my bated breath
and my lingering hope, too
that thing with feathers that
cries when it's plucked clean,
skeletal and bare and smooth
enough for me to rest my weary head on.
see, the ocean cracked and regurgitated
Orange JuiceI choked on orange juice today
as I cried for myself at the kitchen table,
remembering the last letter
you wrotehow it created a barrier between
the small hours we'd spent scraping our backs
against tree trunks and now.
I told myself I wouldn't shed a tear
but I was always a good liar.
I cannot make myself forget our conversations
at the edges of street corners, where we sat
feeling the sun paint our skin red, asking why
our hopes got cut out of us as children
and whether friendships lockets meant anything.
It might have been better if we'd never met.
It certainly would have been easier.
But at one time I would have bent over backwards for you
until the bones of my spine broke;
at one time you sat with me in a school cafeteria
and let me have your orange. I never told you this
but I declared you my hero that day.
Our worlds of simplicity once converged
forming our own personal Pangaea
before awkward silences, impulsive desires, and betrayal
pulled them apart.
The first time I met the girl who started a revolution the sky was throwing down so much rain it felt like we were underwater. It was hard to breathe; and maybe that was because of all the rain, but probably it was because I looked at her face, under this dark red hood, and inside I was a story with all these feelings I could never say. I guess those feelings could only ever become words on paper - words in ink - not the kind I could ever speak aloud to anybody, if only because I couldn't bear for a person to see the look on my face while I remembered. Despite how good it felt - so hopeful, so desperately happy for what it was and could become - at the same time it was drowning in this sea, like the sky that day, for the way that everything else wasn't. And I said, what's your name?
At first we called her August when I brought her back to Jack's flat, which his parents paid for mostly, and which we used for getting high, mostly. She curled up in the armchair and rarely left it from
where i dance alonei. I mistook a shy boy for a thunderous one in the days when I lived inside his lungs.
ii. I wanted your hands in the early morning, or in 8 o' clock light. (Does it matter? I just wanted you.) Hands like paper cranes, hands like wind chimes. Then we could've been like lovers in a parody: "I love you, I love youno, I don't. But you are beautiful." And while I was not your lover, neither was I your queen. Either way, you wouldn't hold my heart.
iii. Our fingers would've taken flight and then the rest of us, too. Then you would've known of the ballroom in my chest, the migrations inside my body, of the tiny secret nothings that make their way like monarchsas if by instinct, as if they have been here beforefrom ballroom to piano hands to the museum that is my mind to my stomach. But you are the only lost boy afraid to fly.
iv. I was a foreign land and you would not dare travel without a map. But I do not possess a souvenir shop in which to purchase one. I am a des
Caffeinated JellyfishI'd trade my sweetened tea
for your stingray beliefs
but i know that even broken teacups
couldn't fill the cracks between your teeth;
the holes in your bones from all your
haphazard hopes and
i can't fill the void
of a rotten soul
that's been dipped
in too many ice cream cones.
and now, i am a
my hopes are propellers.
i soar through starshine
with sea-stained wings.
i am dangerous.
i am a caffeinated jellyfish;
i've learned that hope only stings.
and the curtains billow
with broken glass echoes and
Mendelssohn's bride waltzing
to better times
She becomes the rain,
and breaks her own heart as the sound
right through us.
I Hold You In My Hearti. In variance to the stagnant nights
and the starving rains, you are
a country waiting
for the sun.
(You deserve so much more than me
if I only come to this land
intending to leave it.
I'm not a girl worth
ii. I know someone
whose heart belongs across the sea.
He has the soul of a star and I know this,
though I do not know him,
I have buried sparrows with
him, too-tall and big-boned.
He made me believe
and believe but sometimes
I forget that he
is still so much a boy.
I will hold you in my heart.
that it is never too late for love.
iv. I want him
still, this silent, dazzling,
He reminds me of the days
were words in my hands
and dreams in my lungs.
(Breathe for me)
and without apology, you
My heartbeat was alive, I
was alive, you
were alive in my
You have made me brave.
(For is it not
the greatest of gifts,
to be loved on this earth,
to be held
Two Cents and Mirror ShardsShe wears her worth around her neck
In the form of
From ninety-three years ago
And rusty locks,
Strung on an iron chain,
Along with broken
Keys that go to
She knows of
She finds them, on
Street corners and in forgotten,
Treating them like
And long-lost friends;
She hangs them near her core
To try and remember
Where all the pieces go,
Where they all come from.
Maybe one day.
Is made of a shattered mirror
In the hopes of
Being able to see
Something that isn't on the outside.
She is not sure
Exactly what that is
None of her parts match;
She constructs herself
Out of odds and ends
That others have thrown away.
She is cracked,
She would not know
How to fix herself
If she was whole.
She strings up
Old bottle caps and
Passages from decaying books
While she tries to fasten together
Shards of glass
That leave empty spaces
She loves them
How else is light
Supposed to shine through
Without a few ho
this is not a suicide notewhat would change if i left?
would you wear your sadness
like a bullet-- raw and fresh and
slung, chafing, into solemn chambers;
or would you swallow it down
to poison your lungs,
steal your breath & dissolve
the remnants of me?
would you smoke yourself out,
a pyre of anger in one fist
smouldering with resentment--
unfueled but hot and bright and
burning our love to ashes;
or would you hang it,
trailing, coiled around your neck
where it will catch, untenanted,
on shards of me and tighten
to choke you?
would you throw in the towel
and jump, too, unfettered
without my soul;
or would you just breathe butterflies,
an exultation of relief and gratitude?
we all fall downI.
my throat did taste
in my eyes
(if only I'd some kerosene
to set these lies afire)
they desired me
my crows to hide...
but they made night
and night did make
a critical November;
radiation killing cancer
a stem for you,
a thorn for me;
a briar mind
to hide unseen
and two cents guessing
I'll Never Know If I Go To SleepHe'll come by night, when memories
resurrect and dreams become real. He'll
steal the air from my lungs, again, and
replace it with promises of a better day.
The sky will open up and I will finally
drop into place.
(the sweetest love story for an insomniac)
He hides in the shallowest holes of my
brain, waiting, waiting- the best things
in life only come to those who've
never been given a chance.
I'm falling apart, like all the worst clichés.
and my knees are bloodied, now, they
weren't built to pray. He said he'd come back
in the stories he carved in my palms.
(can you hear my heart tick? These
days are numbered)
the words he gave me died
and maybe I did, too
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