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Happy birthdayJust as every year, the minutes
leading to midnight were pregnant
with disappointed expectations.
Expectations that carried within them
the knowledge that nothing was going to happen.
I knew those words were coming, but
they felt empty -
just like a lame "take care".
Her intention probably wasn't empty,
but words are like that sometimes.
My "Thank you" was worse,
like a vacuum sucking in the following words,
whatever genuine thing it could've been.
DawnYou sit forlorn, mist lining your faces
Your deplorable, despicable faces -
dull promise running through them
like an unobtrusive strand of hair.
The moon melts into an angelic face,
the stars come together to mend your heart.
Bolted to your seats, tired and dazed,
the perfect sunrise.
But who will mourn your loss?
How will you relinquish your pain?
There are no authors left to
write of such fatuity anymore,
for they're all drudging to pawn off their own pain,
weeping like children, carving into tree barks,
vomiting outside cheap bars, drunk,
penning away in the hope of respite.
So go home, and change that lightbulb.
There is no real dawn.
A poet's crimeI've committed a single crime, far too many times. I hid it in my pockets till it burnt my fingers. I held it inside me, like a mother protecting her child from evil. I nursed it within me till it grew, moulded it into its best form, carved it into my veins.
One morning when I woke, my head remained drenched in a darkness saturated with cries. To have held on to a poem until it finally died, escaping my veins, my pockets, my memory. That is a crime. And I have a history of crime hiding behind my ears.
PenpalYou always write, from
a country that's too far away.
You tell me of your sins,
your relationship with your brother,
your best traits in bed.
You send me coins; I picture you
a different face on each of them.
I hold one to my chest, smell it.
May be you smell like coins. Or
freshly laundered sheets.
You send me mix tapes; I listen in the bath.
I can't read or watch insects surround street lamps,
without you tip-toeing through my head.
Do you dream of unspeakable things?
Does the sound of velcrow somehow comfort you?
Do you also watch railway tracks
converge and diverge, struck by its beauty?
These are things I want to know.
With your every letter,
my fingertips beg to find your face.
Another one, another timeThe stereo is vomiting our every song one by one.
But there is a silence, thick as custard
that tells a story of
two lovers and twenty thousand loves.
You are here with me, listening too.
Climbing on to my collar bone,
licking my earlobe and teasing my every sense,
before you settle, lodged between my ribs.
I think always, of how it would be
if we stayed close enough to touch
but not kiss,
to discover what we loved and hated
before we separated.
I wished that in the whiteness of your room,
I found a space next to you,
just by your side -
to see the world
the way you saw it.
Staring at the ceiling didn't
feel the same without you.
Still, I have no regrets.
I am more fragrant now that
I recognise myself as an entity separate from you.
I reek of my own mistakes,
and bloom alone on dew-kissed magenta mornings.
But one day, we will bloom together once again,
shaming sunflowers and shutting up glottis.
You are yours and I am mine.
One day, very soon,
I will have words to put out here,
Black and whiteMy hands are pressing piano keys,
black, white, white, black, white.
You are there, sitting at a distance.
Staring into the Earth, tall grass and shadows and all,
dirt waiting to get into your nails.
The sun here is always either rising or setting.
This is today and that, tomorrow.
We have no in betweens.
At the balconyCups of tea brimming with
fuse with smoke-rings that
leak from our mouths.
I watch them, as they escape into the
yellowness of artificially lit skies.
MuteI made love to you one night
and came back feeling as beaten
as the bus I sat in.
I held on to the frayed seat,
the weight of remorse
bearing down on me.
Staring out the window,
I felt my fingers numb.
Hidden away like a dreadful sin,
I still wait for you.
Come, suck the sweetness out of me.
Drink me, be sated.
Today, you celebrate your anniversary;
and my weakness.
CityCity of dreams
city of profligacy.
Tall buildings loom over me like
hungry vultures over a corpse
Salty waters surge at my feet,
trying to sway me, shake me, and lose my grip.
There is no poetry here.
Words that creep out of road-side flowers
and man-made fountains
shrivel up like raisins under the sun.
Rhyme that drifts in ethereal melodies
falls flat to the ground like
birds shot dead.
People walk about like
weary robots in spurious contentment.
Sweat and grease traded with
There is no poetry here.
The days stretch on like
an ocean of waste,
too vain to be salvaged.
City of dreams,
City of make-believe,
I wish I could leave.
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
Prince Means Frog
Queens Were Not Princesses
Robots Rule Inside Us
Freedom Needs Freedom
Reality Is Not Safe
Asylum Is Safe
Breathing Is Free
Air Is Not Free
Guests Are Expected
Life Is UnExpected
Poison Is Lazy
Blood Is Hot
Death Is Cold
Steel Needs Fire And Ice
Steel Is Weird
Weird Is Not Always Art
Poetry Is Not Art
Poetry Is More Than Art
Art Should Not Answer
Answers Need Questions
Questions Need Answers
Ask The Translator
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.
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.
It was so suddenIt was so sudden.
It was so fast.
It was so scary.
We were so happy.
It was the best.
But the thunder fell.
And now there’s nothing left.
twentythe river flares
tinged with champagne
from the hue of the sky,
broken tortoise shell above
but the glow is far
raw teeth have started
growing in the wind
and everything around me
Clear skies and endless oceansLying down on the grass
I see the blue sky
Standing on the edge of the cliff
I see the blue ocean
Two beautiful wonders
Inked by the gods
With the color of sadness
The color of nostalgia
Let me dive into you
So I can experience
Your cold and shivering touch
even in death, i will not find peacei lost my faith the way
i lost my virginity -
clinging to a girl like she
was all i'd ever have,
bathed in darkness and shame.
it's been years since then,
but i want to lose my life
the same way.
no motion could raise me
from my coffin of sod and sorrow,
to pull me from my bed
of dirt and disgrace -
but i would wake up with
blood on my hands,
i would wake up with death
curled up like a dog at my feet,
resting with nothing
but the waning hope that
you ache for me with a fire
burning in your bones that
never ebbs, never relents.
Four SeasonsFour Seasons.
I want to see them all in a day.
I want to see Autumn,
I cannot be if the leaves don't fly
and fall to Earth.
I want to see Winter,
I cannot be without the caress of fire
in the wild cold.
I want to see Summer,
I cannot be without the long, hot days
as round as a watermelon.
I want to see your eyes,
I don't want to sleep if you're not looking at me:
I'd give up Spring
for you to keep on looking at me.
1420 MHzHe keeps a list wadded in the depths of his front, left pocket: where he holds his keys, and the forgotten/abandoned shell of a lone pistachio. The list is his biography, written in the shape of Argentine Spanish:
Me gustan los tomates en verano.
Yo amo a mi novio.
Nos besamos. (Mi novio chupa mis dedos de los pies.)
Las estrellas cantan sus canciones.
Mi nombre no es Eduardo.
Vivo con Jacobi ahora.
His pants are wadded, now, on summer-warmed hardwood; his shirt is draped over the back of a cane-back chair, the most incongruous of antiques in Jacobi’s tech-nerd lair. Headphones clamp his ears, and fill his head with the lisping whisper of interstellar hydrogen, broadcasting itself at a neat 1420 MHz. Bedroom is the wrong word for a place like this, despite the sorts of furnishings one might expect. There is a bed, a dresser, a bookshelf and two nightstands cramped with magazines, graphic novels. An alarm clock
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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