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I Still RememberThose late nights
And wanting so badly
To just stop thinking
And stop hurting
And sitting on my bed
And picking up the tiny blade
And holding out my wrist
And running the blade across my skin, barely touching it
And doing it again, pushing harder this time
And doing it again and again
Until I saw a tiny bead of blood form
And feeling the sharp pain
And then feeling the rush of endorphins
And wiping away the blood
And feeling at peace
As I admired
What I had done
Ramblings 1 On Procrastination and the Future
Man, I sure am lucky I'm smart.
I don't care about school. I hardly try at all. I procrastinate. I don't study for tests. I don't do extra credit work. I do the bare minimum, and just that. My goal is only to pass- just get a D, so I can move on to the next grade, and the next, and the next, and so on until I graduate high school.
I don't want to go to college. God knows my parents would kill me if I don't. But I just don't see a reason to. I'm sure I can find some job, some career, some way to make money.
Maybe I won't even need a job to get money. Maybe I'll learn to count cards and win big at Blackjack. Maybe I'll become a master thief. Maybe I'll make a living doing odd jobs for my neighbors.
Maybe I won't even have neighbors- maybe I'll live on the streets and be a drifter, a vagabond. Never sure where my next meal is coming from, just being satisfied if it comes at all.
Maybe I'm being absurd. Maybe while I sit here thinking about what I
BlackMost people think black is scary
But they're wrong.
Black isn't scary;
It's the not knowing that's scary.
The not knowing what's out there
Of your nose.
But that doesn't bother me.
Because although I can't see what's hiding out there,
They can't see me
Fingertips and Working HardAn Essay on Fingertips and Working Hard
Sometimes when I'm feeling sad or worthless, I'll just feel the pads of the fingers of my left hand, tapping their hardened tips with my thumb one at a time, down the line. Index, middle, ring, pinky. Pinky, ring, middle, index. Often I think that they're the only proof that I've worked hard at anything in my life.
I mean, I have my multitude of perfect straight-A report cards, but I've never really tried hard in school. It just comes naturally. And even if I did work for my grades, it wouldn't be because I wanted to do well in school; it would be because I had to do well in school.
The same goes for almost everything else in my life. If I like something, then I'm automatically great at it. If I don't like something, I'm still great at doing it. My whole life, I've never had to work and practice and study to be able to do anything.
But I couldn't always play guitar. The first time I picked up my dad's 20-year-old Fannon, the
MusicIf you're out of the loop,
Music is magic.
But when you're in on the secret,
It's simply a science.
The River of WordsSometimes
When I write,
The words blend together
Into a river of sounds.
The river flows
Like a well worded poem.
The writing is perfection.
If I lose
My train of thought,
The river is reduced
To a trickle.
If I get writer's block,
More Than FriendsI'll hold you in my hands forever
Grasp you tight, make sure I never
Let you go again.
Let's be more than friends.
Beautiful MusicOne day, a man sat down on a bench in the city next to a young woman. The woman had a set of iPod earphones in. When the man sat down, the woman turned and smiled at him kindly.
The man, being a man who enjoys music, spoke to the woman. "I hope you don't mind me asking," he said, "But what is it that you're listening to?"
"Oh, I'm listening to beautiful music," the woman replied.
The man wasn't satisfied by this answer. "Well, generally that's what people like to listen to. I meant more specifically. Is it by an artist I'm likely to know?"
"You may know the artist, but I doubt you've listened to this music. People rarely do," she answered.
Once again, the man wasn't entirely satisfied with her vague reply. "If you don't mind, may I listen to this song? I love to find out about new artists and music, especially if it's someone that isn't popular."
"Of course you can listen to it," the woman said happily.
"Well then, may I have one of your ear buds so I may hear this beautiful music?" Th
When you lose a best friendWhen we said friends forever and
crossed pinkies like grade-schoolers,
I could only believe those words
lodged in your heart
like they did mine
because every time I think back
I can't help but remember the
under star lit constellations,
and study sessions where we
learned more about each other
than we did Biology
but now it's clear
that each beat of your heart
has made those words fade,
and you could care less
about crossed pinkies
but I'll still see you,
and hear your voice
and I'll still wish
the meaning hadn't changed-
Forgiveness takes twoThe words are struggling
to tumble off my tongue,
and despite having
a fleshy cushion
to rest on,
they stain my teeth
and sting like acid
"I'm sorry," I stutter,
but the bitter taste
doesn't leave my tongue-
not because the words weren't true,
but because I know
I won't hear,
She's an artistShe's an artist.
Always seems to be daydreaming,
She draws to escape her pain.
Cause for a single moment,
When her work is done.
It seems like there is no more rain.
And she could finally touch the sun.
The one that shines so brightly in her paintings.
But then it's gone,
So she keeps drawing,
She's become good at escaping.
Running from reality.
Because dreams are the only things she wants,
Her imagination is the only thing she's ever known.
And it's sad really...
Because she tries so hard to be happy.
But the most beautiful thing she could ever create.
Was that smile upon her face,
And that is the one thing that remains blank.
Waiting to someday be something more than,
At peace within this tranquil garden,
I picture the moments where I've made you smile.
Those times are endlessly precious to me,
I think they're worth the while.
They're worth the time I've spent with you,
Even if it wasn't long.
I only wish I'd spent a little more,
Before our love was gone.
Mommy Is A Super HeroMommy Is A Super Hero
Standing before his class, he held his tiny report,
“Who is your super hero?” Was written in yellow chalk on the green board.
Exhaling his breath, the curly haired boy closed his little eyes,
“Don't be ashamed of yourself” His mother's words rung in his ears, “And don't ever cry.”
He began to read aloud, with a shaky voice.
to his class, he told his mother's story.
At age fifteen, she was a beauty queen,
the most beautiful girl in all of the world.
She flaunted her silky hair, bore her bare legs,
prided her breast. The boys treated her like she was a treasure chest.
They respected her rules, they “looked, but didn't touch”,
but there was one older man, who from her, wanted too much.
All alone he met her, he approached her in the alley,
and all his mother told him, was that this man had treated her badly.
But what the boy didn't know was that she was taken against her will,
and that two months later, she turned up ext
Still HereSuicide is a
Thought that frequently lurks
In my mind, wich
Lets it overcome the
Laughter and happiness
Here I still fight, however
Enduring this sad life
Reviving my hopes
Embracing the gift of life
cenotaph of stormsthe first thunderstorm
was triggered by a blunt pair
of scissors, sparking violently
against the lightning,
shaking in the wind.
the downpour pierced,
tattooed with no ink but
the dark bleakness
of an overcast morning,
infiltrating uniformed wrists.
hid behind the music block,
shaky raindrops rioting
fears, she fractured.
the second storm
wept a two year downpour
outline that dripped from wrist
to hip, sidelong silhouette glances
obscured by the rain.
stalictidal waves shuddered
frozen, until icy glass
fell in stained shards from
the stillness inside.
thinner, brittler, growing
in flurries of sleet and hail,
her outline was never filled,
though the floods threatened
the third thunderstorm
was a mist-ridden melancholia,
a dream for permanence
smeared in ink through
fueled by the hope
that just this once,
the rain would spark a
rebirth beneath the ground.
instead, a tsunami
washed away the ink
as tides so often do.
smotherher spine was dusk
and unmade nests,
but he tried to live there
he was neither nocturnal
nor a dawn-believer,
so he suffocated
in the birdhouse of her ribs.
between my vertebrae, you are (cemeterial)oh, these writers never speak; they
claw words out of bird carcasses,
poets pecking viscera like necropolitans.
they count their ribs to remind you
of a corpse or of a matchstick. dry bones
between fissured wrists & funeral pyres,
these have been dying days &
they're all mortuaries.
five hour energyi suppose
last week was only an aftershock
of the earthquake you were before.
this place used to vibrate
with metal strings and melodic,
testimonies to life,
emitting coffee-scented moods
and the burn of it too.
i had memorized the
sounds of silence,
i couldn't help but relish it.
no longer had i known
the sounds of folk
and scent of mocha-
you became nothing more
than an echo of the laughter
i so desperately needed to hear again.
then the echoes got louder,
bouncing ferociously off the walls
to be made manifest
i walked into your room
expecting exactly what i found-
an unmade bed,
and an empty beer
(the one that you insisted you needed
just days ago).
i pressed my nose
into the pillow
for incense and cologne and starbucks
to penetrate my mind
and thinking fervently
i already know
what a clean sheet smells like."
how strong an aftershock can be,
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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