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AloneThere were dead leaves on the pavement again.
She walked head down, huddled into her coat (leather and wool, with a silver zip), moving between the glass buildings without looking up at them. The avenue was wide and almost empty, paved with bland white slabs and fallen-through business deals. A particularly sharp gust of wind caused her to shiver and tug her collar up around her neck, and push her dry knuckles deeper into her pockets.
There were shallow steps a little further on, and seemingly without noticing them, she glided down, and her pace became a little more brisk. A few small, dry leaves from one of the ornamental bushes lining the steps caught in the breeze caused by her passage, swirling, rather like dull brown confetti.
As she drew closer to the centre of the city, a few people passed the opposite direction, but she ignored their stares, tucking her chin into her chest. A few blocks further on, she turned and went through the plate glass doors of an office block.
The 4 Steps of Getting Over HimWhen you walk away from
Someone you love,
You feel a thousand, tiny, iron hooks,
Attached to the spool of memory,
Dig into your heart
And pull it out through your back,
Cracking every rib and spine-bone
As you go.
And once you've got away,
You've got to clean the wound,
And plunge your heart into boiling water,
So it doesn't fester
And turn your head rotten.
After the kind of storm
That wails around the corners,
And up the stairs,
You can sit on your bed
And feel the hollowness
In your chest-cavity
Suck at your collarbones.
Once the salt rain has stopped
Stinging your eyes and echoing in your ears,
Go outside, and carry the emptiness
Until you feel your new heart
The DoppelgangerThe first time I saw the other girl, I was standing on one side of the high street. Because it was the end of September, and we were in Britain, it was raining, but the main bulk of water had passed before lunch, so all that was left was the kind of rain that's annoying in its intermittency.
I watched her look in both directions and then cross the road, stepping carefully through the pool of mingled rainwater and rainbow engine oil in the bus bay. She was unusual, not just because she wasn't carrying a handbag, or wearing a coat, but because she was dressed in a chain mail and leather dress, and leggings. The second strange thing was that no one else, and this was a busy street, even in the rain, gave her a second glance. Their gazes slid benevolently over her, like she was an endearing, but not unfamiliar, child. Her booted feet crunched over some shattered glass as she approached, and then the third strange thing happened.
As she got to within a few feet of me, she winked out of exis
Je Suis La NuitThe night belongs to me, in all its whispering shadows
I am the watcher, the seer, the stand-in-the-dark-and-knower
The darkness is the cloak around me, the rough ground my dance floor
I am the silence and the sudden laughter,
And the melancholy melody of the party you weren't invited to.
This is my kingdom, my house of evening adventures,
Full of the clink of wine glasses and the shouting of revellers
My manor, with its well of sorrow and alcohol
I see how the light slides from graffiti and love it,
I smell the smoke of the burning barbecue and smile,
In concrete ginels, behind green gardens.
The stars are my hair-jewels, the moon my fan
The fading reflections from office windows are my dresses
The lipstick I flaunt is the red of cars hurrying home,
My perfume, the river at the end of the day
I prowl without prey, in the shivering anticipation
At the wind-down, in the high before sleep
My spotlight is the amber moon, over bare branches and shingles
My people, my subjects,
Are the quie
They SayThey say "You are stupid."
Not just to me, but to anyone
Who has ever said "I will be free."
They say "You are powerless."
When we say "We will change the world."
They say, they say
Buckle down and make money
Belt up and be us
They say, "Give up"
They say "We are rich, you are poor
Give in already"
They say "Look up.
Don't you wish you were us?
Don't you know you never will be?"
And we look past them,
To the Universe, and think
That is mine
They say "You are tiny, in a big world
And we are large."
And I say:
Sonder (noun)Sonder (noun)
The realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your ownpopulated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and inherited crazinessan epic story that continues invisibly around you like an anthill sprawling deep underground, with elaborate passageways to thousands of other lives that you'll never know existed, in which you might appear only once, as an extra sipping coffee in the background, as a blur of traffic passing on the highway, as a lighted window at dusk.
The Calling DrumsYou drum on my clavicles,
Like they are hollow bird-bones
And I feel the thud of fever
Reverberating through my throat.
This is the tangible pulse of love.
Down my breastbone and ribs,
The rhythm calls,
Setting my feet twitching,
Itching to dance.
Your fingers tattoo my spine
With whispered suggestions
And silk threads on my skin.
Pulling un-seeable angel wings
From my shoulder blades
And sending me spinning into open sky.
Th' Braw MountainsCome to the wild places, the high and lonely places.
Inhale beauty, in the form of icicle air and pine dust.
Touch it, the cold mountain soil, and rejoice.
Let the wind fill you and find the point inside all of us,
Where you reach out over the forest,
And fly without leaving the ground.
Sure and proud, like the eagles around you.
Let your hair lift and whip, flushing your cheeks
And awakening your bones. Spin at the peak of mountains,
Glorying in the cold clean height. Laugh for it.
And when you are tired from the air,
Come and rest on the rough hills, amongst the brown and gold gorse
And feel sunlight thaw the wind-seeds. Watch the loch and love it.
Not for the beauty but because it is there. The comforting age,
The bedrock of your soul.
Stand in the bitter river on sharp stones and know you live,
That the land loves you for its Maker's child.
Exult in the cold and the warmth and above all the immensity
Of the weight of the world around you.
Wrap the landscape around your body,
alcohol confessionThere are three important sentences to stop you going mad, and they are:
1. You do not have to want.
2. You do not need to be hurting.
3. You do not need to cut the dreams from your heart because they will never happen.
(The last one is the most important)
(I should know. I’ve done it too many times)
I’ve lost track of the number of times I told you “I can’t”, and you still seem to think that a shell of words and borrowed confidence means I can. And the irritating thing is, even when my breath is still hitching and my palms are sweaty, I have done it. And then you all applaud and laugh at my lack of self-confidence. So I smile and pretend I don’t want to punch your teeth out.
There are the times when the blackness seems to fill you up and spill out so that all the shadows and the night are just extensions of your own feeling of inability and inconsequence and insignificance.
There are the times when you look into the sunlight and hope that somehow
Cold Heart ExodusNo other worldly tear can make me burn faster than you
My tear, let me hold you. I am so sick and I'm so weak.
Let me whisper my name into your cold heart and let it bleed into me.
For now I know, this elder exodus is nowhere near truth (it'll never be).
Only me, there's only me in this abyss. Only you will know!
There's only us, there's only you of us there's only two.
Let the wits flow. Let this feeling pass away with time.
Did you know that feeling lonely and content at the same time is a rare kind of happiness?
Now you know, so just leave me be! Leave me alone, I must be happy.
Cold Heart Exodus, I want to leave it all behind, I'm falling down
I can't stand. Don't breathe this toxicity. The water is stoned
Don't ever try to lie to me again. I won't even be there to hear you
Live to RiseAt long last the time has come. Tree are falling, skies are cracking.
Who has time for love or lust? Who has strength that we can trust?
No one. That's who. Not you or I. Not anyone. Not that man or she. That's right no one.
But if it be so and the world has end, then why is it wrong that we choose to be friends?
Can't I be glad that it's over and done? Can't I sing loud and shout to the skies, that my life is not over, we live to rise.
Now that we know that we are alive lets burn down the walls and tell everyone, the world is not over for we are alive. The world is not over, the world never dies.
Monument to a Ruined ManI see you now.
The magnificent velvet and silk flags of your name
Now fester and rot in tatters.
The ornate gold and jewels, now dull and blackened with age,
Hang limply from the brittle, yellowing scaffolds
Of your admiring subjects, their mouths gaping open in one last,
All loyalty long since disappeared.
And here you stand
Alone in the silence of your own undoing-
No longer a ruler, or even a man, but a shell-
The hands whose wizened palms I once worshipped
Have crumbled slowly into nothing.
Those lips, whose stately curve I once adored,
Now worn and cracked from centuries of smiling.
But your smiles were never intended for me.
How I longed for something more than
The cold, conceited gaze with which I was rewarded.
But time passed, your influence waned, and now you stare emptily
Searching in vain for your salvation.
And here, as your empire dies,
You fall to the ash and dust
And are swallowed by darkness
And whispers echo through the void:
This is your legacy.
Writing FairytalesI told him, "I think I'll write a book."
He said, "Do it right, November. Write a best-seller and send me a copy with your autograph on the inside cover."
"I can do better than that," I promised, our fingers intertwined for the last time, "I'll write the best damn book you've ever read. It'll tell the story of lost love and lost innocence, of found friends and staying out too late on a cold night, and the story of endings without closure. It'll be about boys and girls and break-ups and hook-ups and how everything happens in the backseat of cars."
"They'll interview you on television because everyone wants to know who inspired the story," he continued, "And you'll smirk like you always do because you know the answer but no one else has a clue."
I laughed, "Everyone will cry when they read my book, because it's the saddest story that's ever been told. Everyone will cry but you and I won't."
"We can't cry. It's your book, and I can't cry for you. You can't cry for yourself either, it's ba
Periwinkles and Black HolesPeriwinkles and black holes
Resting underneath suns as dark as coals
An arm signed by a razor
Caused by a heart covered in craters
A field of violet abyss
Swallowed by black amiss
Restless Nights in the Subconscious Wonderland
I prefer the shorter days
Caught in a daze, or lost in some dream.
In the sleepless world of slumber,
Where my subconscious plays roulette with ideas,
Shooting them point blank
into my suspended psyche...
Over the edge and into the deep end,
To find the abnormal of my being
from where my beliefs
sprout their way from spirits.
And through this too,
do I enjoy or suffer...
As never have I found rest within my dreams.
of meaningless cause is the disdain of discord.
As my dreams and nightmares are forever slaves to chance,
and the cracking whip engages them as I close my eyes.
I am forever reminded of the War between angels and demons
For they are resembled by the pleasant and horrid.
I never know the plots...
The endings are hardly ever seen,
and my memory is left in shambles.
Opened, my eyes return my to reality,
and bid thee farewell for now,
I do to my world of restless slumber.
All of them aimed directly at me.
I roam the corridors all alone,
Dragging my head towards the tiled floor,
Not daring to lift my head up,
In fear that I may be mocked once again.
Why am I doing this to myself?
I look in mirror with disgust,
Wondering why I was created this way,
I can't keep lying to myself,
Can't keep saying I love my life when I don't.
The climbHe tied his boat among the rocks, and soon began to climb. Slowly, every so slowly, he went foot by foot, climbing away from shore and onto what should be called land, but really was nothing more than rocks.
When he tried to look above there was no grass of green. More and more rocks awaited our man, and still he climbed. The sun beat down, and clouds covered the top so our poor man could not see his destination, but still he climbed.
'It appears as though God has taken a day off today,' he thought to himself. And still he climbed up and up, even though the rocks were always coming.
When the stones cut into his palms, and the toes of his shoes wore down till his toes peeked out, and when the sun burned what skin it could, and when the wind cut through his clothes and chilled his bones, he still kept moving forwards. He couldn't see the sea below him, and there was nothing in front of him but clouds.
And still our poor man climbed, and climbed, and climbed.
To reach the top and say that
MistakesIf every mistake I ever made
was a scar on my body
there would be no pure skin.
Every inch would host a jagged line
where my so called 'selfish pride'
managed to get the better of me.
Idiot mistakes of my youth,
and moronic declarations
of what I thought was insignificant.
Mistakes, errors of judgment,
a complete lapse in sense,
that litter my skin with memories of pain.
For a moment
I thought I was important
not someone to be overlooked.
My selfish pride betwixt me
for everything was little
compared to the pride I raised.
A fall to Earth
waking on concrete
no one besides me.
My mistakes are scars
littering my skin
tainting once pure flesh.
Blunders of thoughts,
guilt as endless as the sky,
never ending weight of it.
are meant to be just that
Though they haunt my thoughts everyday
I can't help but hope that one day
they will be scars instead of thoughts
so everyone else will know
they thoughts that haunt me everyday.
Children of AnguishOh, my little, stupid, ragtag people! Least and last. My frightened mob, defending little kingdoms, little dreams, whilst all around the universe is ticking, ticking. Bereft of horizon, bereft of God, building fragile walls between your heart and reality and propping them up with small hopes.
Tomorrow will be better, there will be sunlight and happiness and cake on the table again and no more crying salt water tears.
You who do not trust and are not trusted, you who turn from light to walk in the shadowed hinterlands- I love you! And yet you look at me with fear beneath the contempt, and turn me away with raised fists and shrieked curses.
Little people, small people, look to the skies. There is more, oh, there is more. But you keep your eyes on the dust, while I stand and gesticulate, crying for you to look up. You want to stay plodding, you want to not be brave, to stance like the dull stones in the desert, weeping sand.
You hide in the rubbish, in the dirt, afraid of being he
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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