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you, a garden.your flesh like smooth-lilies,
eyes like cosmic-daffodils.
there is the garden of your soul,
which i have often wandered-
plucking at petals and
blissfully unaware that beauty lives
only when observed through gentle eyes,
and withers at the slightest touch of
this is not fucking.with her-
i am confused,
my soul full of light-black contrasts
forms with no line
heavy value with no colour
deep strokes in graphite, charcoal
the blackest-whites and whitest-blacks
a thousand grays
warm through cool, but never
crossing the spectrum into reality
subconscious murmurs, whispers
thick moans dripping with lust
this is my body and my mind
rough outlines of thoughts
and your hands so soft
against the mountains of my spine
i feel your warmth,
your lasting heat
your fingernails so gentle against my shoulder-blades
making 3d planes on my framework
i move with you in my soul
“and the holy dove was moving too”
this is not fucking
this is making love in the spiritual sense
i am wrapping my arms around your eyelids
clutching at your desires
breathing out your next breath
inhaling your carbon dioxide,
this is nirvana
we are together now
not fucking, no
this is not just the union of two bodies
this is the ov
i am conflicted.and i am lost in a reality of
“maybe” spoken by head, and
“yes” spoken by heart.
i am but orchids pushing through the sidewalk cracks-
or the cause of an untimely change in direction.
i am the gasping of lovers ripe with lust,
and smoke ring o’s of those stuck in til’ death do they part.
i am ill,
ripped in opposite directions;
i am a living paradox.
how is it that friendship turned into false love?
“no” unhesitatingly spoken and
so quickly withdrawn, agony in each “i’m sorry.”
in my desire for the anecdote to my loneliness,
i paved a road of inevitable collapse.
what is it that i thought could come of this,
what did i so foolishly submit myself to?
why do i always follow my head instead of my heart?
i am done fitting myself into this sharp-edged box of my own creation,
done with my self-inflicted unhappiness,
done with overthinking the simplest things.
i am following my half-soul,
my bruised insides s
the city song.it burns it’s harsh breath through my lungs. bitter grinds of tobacco and old coffee sting my throat- their taste spreading to my fingertips and tingling violently; i have seen wolves and dark shadows in the corners of my eyes but screams are now tormenting my subconscious. when i listen to the music of the winds in cities black with pollution i can hear women pleading for mercy and cruel laughs of evil men. they deliver images of rape and abuse through my dreams.
when will the world show the angry creatures lurking under porches and young children’s beds? they hide but move swiftly and their reign is becoming apparent.
i can see people walking with their clothing strewn low and their hats turned backwards; their breath is of highs and lows and all that creeps in between the lines. self-discovery is self-mutilation and it difficult for most to come to terms with their true vile nature.
a gunshot rings in the night- it is not just a sound but an implication of death and fear
The Lost PrinceThis is about Louis-Charles,
hear his story through
it took up his entire life,
but is only a minute to you.
He was young and he was kind,
his nature innocent.
He took not one person's life,
but now he lies discontent.
He was taken from his mother
when red, white and blue;
had taken people's minds and burned through.
He and his parents were secluded,
in a room built for two.
He screamed for his governess,
and she could only save little Lou.
His mother's hair is spread
over the base of a guillotine,
his father soon will follow
with fear barely seen.
Little Louis is all alone now,
taken away from his governess-
and all she can do is sadly vow
to never let them surround him in darkness.
She quickly bounds up the roof,
her feet wrapped in gauze.
The guards have not yet found any proof
for the firework's cause.
She's bringing you light little Louis,
she'll never abandon her post
because you asked for beauty,
and you're the one for which she cares the most.
a pathetic poem for you.
your hair is black as night
and though you have no wings,
you always seem to take flight.
your pores are dripping with light,
i soak in all of these things
(i scream in delight).
and unlike you she was dark,
her passion low- she brings
memories of pain and of leaving marks.
she was like a shark,
you like spring
you brought me out of those cries and barks.
you taught me how to sing.
it feels like strings are cutting off my circulation- jerky movements that don't cease (i'm side to side up to down thrown towards the sky).
i'm a puppet to my addictions.
your raw-edge-hands are tracing the outline of my frock dress. old-skin rough-callouses unwanted hands. i remember them and i think of glass and ash. your hair was red and so was your bed, that i knew so very well. i remember your contrast-form on the sheets. you were dreaming but you were dead- drunk and passed out. i wept. my age was young, at only one when you gave me love for grown-ups and prom and under the starlight with candles.
i guess i'll stop trying to make it sound beautiful. there is nothing to bring light to. this darkness brought no light.
sometimes my words aren't pretty- sometimes they aren't sweet. (right now they're filled with pain and loss and defeat.)
i see you sometimes in the shadows and under the moon. the wind is running its hands through your hair. you look tired. (go to sleep daddy, please go to sleep now.)
it's hard to remember when all you want to do is forget. (when your dreams are filled with only love and regret.)
stop it daddy, it hurts.
Descriptive PortraitureYour eagerness to begin our first day together, in person, was as bright and warm as the golden California sunshine that crept playfully into your window. You waited to wake me only for as long as you could stand to, then tousled my hair and spoke to my jetlag-stricken self in singsong until I stirred.
Your own dark brown tresses, unbrushed, fell flawlessly around your face and onto your pajamas-clad shoulders as you responded to a few e-mails on your laptop. The contrast between your skin and hair in the light of dawn was absolutely striking. In mid-dress, I whipped out my camera and sneaked a picture. You mock-fumed when you heard the shutter click.
"Don't worry," I reassured you. "I won't post it anywhere."
But I did, and thank goodness you were forgiving. It was too perfect not to share. Even my smarting eyes could tell that your face had expressed the utmost sense of joy and serenity.
* * *
That blue-and-white-striped Hollister shirt had been a staple in your wardrobe for ne
Adventures of a CarAs I surveyed my car while my father in-law's phone rang, I considered the events which had led to this. Remarkably, I wasn't angry or upset. In spite of losing my car, I wasn't panicking. Rather, I was quite level-headed, and would soon share a laugh.
Purchasing the car had been a necessity. Just after replacing the radiator in my 1993 Buick LeSabre, I bumped into a Jeep Grand Cherokee which was traveling at about 35 miles per hour. The slight bump unhitched and bent the hood, knocked out a headlight, tore off the grille, and, to add insult to injury, bent the brand new radiator backward over the engine.
The replacement was a 2000 Ford Focus wagon. The dealer had obtained it at auction with only 58,000 miles. It was previously a corporate car. I had high expectations on that basis; since it was previously owned by a corporation, I was of the impression that the car would have been in good shape. After all, a company would care for its assets.
I had not expected what would follo
Basculin (has 2 forms)
[Mega Charizard X]
[Mega Charizard Y]
S.M.I.L.E. - His CurlsThe first thing I ever noticed about him were those dark curls of his. They were so wild and thick, making the giant defensive tackler seem like a small child. It was my first time seeing someone with real, natural curls. A part of me wanted to stand on the tips of my toes and reach my fingers up into that untamed mess, but I held back. After all, I didn't even know his name.
We only shared science and study hall together, sadly. Our lunch periods were the same as well, but he always sat far away, surrounded by his friends. Whenever I was able to, I would sneak a glance over at him before quickly looking away whenever one of them were to notice me staring. I could never seem to bring myself to talk to him, but for some reason he always seemed to notice me anyways. He would redirect me when I got lost in the hallways, made an effort to bring me into the conversation, even convinced me to participate in the dreaded School Spirit week.
It was such a strange concept to me. We had neve
Another worldShe rested her head on the plane window and let the electric guitars and screaming vocals flood her ears. The drums pounded away, and the dark, melodic vocals soothed her grieving soul. Her blue eyes surveyed the air around her; she longed to see someone. Even if it wasn't possible, she dreamed of seeing him. A crash of the symbols and a final riff collided in her eardrums, signaling a grand finale. As the vocalist screamed at the top of his lungs, she watched the world around her fall, as she slipped into another world.
She traveled to this dimension, eyelids heavy from her journey, and sleep embraced her peacefully.
But still he haunts her dreams.
Define Normal Mom, Lil One, and I sat in Russ’, our diner almost finished. Dad hadn’t been able to make it. Work held him too long. Mom sipped at the remains of her espresso. Lil One poked at her chicken, basically full. She offered me some of her milkshake. I already finished my tilapia and malt, so my stomach protested the idea of more food.
Trying to be helpful, Mom unwrapped another straw and stuck it in Lil One’s shake. What, did she want some? Two straws stood proud on opposite sides of the shake.
Mom smiled. “There you go.”
So, she didn’t want any. Then why put the straw in the shake? Didn’t she see me shake my head at Lil One’s offer?
Lil One locked eyes with Mom. Slowly, she leaned forward, keeping eye contact. Her lips reached for the straw Mom put in her shake; the farthest straw from her. She found it, sipped some shake, a
Fighting in ShenTeens in Omaha fight with guns. It was much different in Shenandoah, Iowa, in the late 1950s and early 1960s. I wasn't present when Doug Olsen fought Duane Andress one day while they were working in the nurseries, but I heard summaries and interpretations of the event for at least a week after it had transpired. Duane said Olsen had sucker punched him and that the attack was unprovoked.
I was present when Gene Frizzell broke Greg Buntz's nose in a fight out at the Old Highway one night. They'd agreed to meet and duke it out. I never knew exactly why—perhaps a taunt, a dare, a challenge. They circled one another, boxed, punched, bumped into parked cars, staggered, fell, and then wrestled around on the pavement for several minutes. There were eight or nine cars there, maybe a few more, a fairly large circle of curious spectators, most of them friends of one or the other of the two contestants. I was with Greg, Cox, Voitenko, Willy, and Powell.
Someone pointed at Frizzell and yelled
There is a tale of a tenth muse, born from the brain of Dios, or "Zeus". Dekino`os, the random ruler of invention of things inartistic. He it is that created steam in all its machines, the eternal combustion engine, computers in all their glory and destruction. And Spying.
Dekino`os is the secret ruler of the world, its creator and destroyer, its Fate.
Many are the stories of his deeds.
Lancelot Price 2014 September 18
A short summary of my life
The worst thing about everyone including your parents hating you for your beliefs is deep down it makes you feel like a bad person on the inside.
A short summary of my life, by Ihatebeingmale
It took me a while to actually start writing this story, partially because all the life changing moments that have occurred couldn't possibly all be summarised into one story because there's so many of them, but mostly because I dread to go back there. I hate a lot of things, in fact I'd go as far as to say I hate everything, but if there's one thing that truly stands out, it's my past. God knows I would do anything to get severe amnesia. No living thing should have to feel the pain I have felt in the past. Just knowing that these things have crossed my life is a torture more foul than any pain inducing contraption any human has ever come up with.
One thing I learned from my life is how utterly helplessly screwed the human race is as a society. Wanna be truly open minded? Give up, yo
an honest letter.
if i only had one minute left to live i would cry because you weren't here with me.
although, maybe i would just remember you and hope you had the best life possible. you deserve it, you know. you always try to boost my self-esteem, but you don't love yourself nearly as much as i think you should. i don't know, i just think you deserve to be happy- so fucking happy that it isn't even funny. what can i do that will make you content? even the most random thing, i'll do it.
you help me much more than you could imagine. even though i smoke and burn and cut and cry i always get through it, but if i didn't have you i might not be so lucky.
so, i guess what i'm trying to say is thank you for making my life worth living.
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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