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The Black WidowShe smiles,
A slight curve of her cruel lips,
As she walks away,
Leaving another husk of a man in her wake.
Leaving him with only thoughts and memories as useless as her goodbye kiss,
As useless as the "I'm sorry" she whispered sweetly in his ear
Before she sweetly walked out of his life.
Victim number one?
Or does it really matter?
She is a seducer.
She is a seductress.
She is a succubus.
She is a black widow,
Weaving a web of lust,
And of love.
I pity him, her next man,
Her next victim,
Her next prey,
Her next "love."
The next husk of a man that will be left in the wake of her cruel, curving lips.
Seventeen Ain't So SweetHold that drink sweetheart.
Talk to the boy with no name,
The boy with the pretty face,
The trusting face.
Hold his smooth, lotion slathered hand,
Kiss his soft, chapstick lips,
Smile into those bright eyes.
Walk through the door you don't even see,
Hand in hand with the man you don't even know.
Feel the cool breeze pressing against your skin,
Playing with mascara eyelashes,
Flirting with teased hair and bejeweled ears.
"Hold my hand, my love."
"Let us walk for a while.
Let us get away from here.
Let us enter a world that is all our own."
"Let's get out of here.
Out of the noise and the crowd.
Out to a place for just the two of us."
Walk down the street you don't recognize,
Hand in hand with the man you think you know.
Feel the pavemen
Give UpThere are days I do not want to get up,
Days I cannot face what was once tomorrow,
What will soon be yesterday.
Days I cannot face the smile of a friend,
The laughter of a child,
Or the touch of those I love.
The words "Give up"
Careen through my confused mind
Like a cannon shot in a closed room.
Careening leads to questions,
Why? Why am I here?
Who am I? What am I?
What am I supposed to do? Where am I supposed to go?
Is there a purpose? Do I have a purpose?
Is this life worth living?
But questions do not lead to answers.
There are no answers,
But what happens when hope and faith are gone?
What happens when hope and faith are missing in action
During the war that is adolescence?
There goes hope
There goes faith
There is nothing left.
And let my mind
And let my life
Window PainThere is a yellow house on a hill,
A yellow house I drive by every day.
I never stop in the drive way any longer,
Only look longingly over my shoulder as the trees hide it from sight.
Today, I look through the bay windows in the front of the house,
Just a quick glance,
A glance to satisfy a sadistic curiosity.
Ah, there she is,
Still just as beautiful as I remember.
Hair like spun gold,
Like the "amber waves of grain" we sing so longingly about,
Glinting in the equally golden light streaming through the window.
Golden light turns brilliant blue as it reflects off of her eyes.
Eyes such a clear cerulean,
It puts the sky reflected in an untarnished puddle to shame.
And her smile,
Oh, her smile,
So wild and carefree,
Throwing joyous daggers into my already crumbling heart.
And, despite myself, I smile.
A sad, sardonic smile,
But a smile all the same.
And as quickly as the smile flickered onto my face,
It slides off,
Like water from an oil painting in the park on Sunday's.
Smiling for CynicsYou smile,
You look at me,
At my eyes,
Deep down into them.
Past the green surface,
Through the pupilic abyss into what normally remains hidden.
You see me.
You see the little boy within,
The boy in the corner,
Waiting to be noticed,
You see the unshed tears,
Held back by emerald green gates.
You see the hurt,
And the pain,
And the need to go unnoticed.
You see all of that,
Yet you still smile.
Your teeth still gleam,
Your eyes still shine,
And you still look deeply into my pained eyes.
So I smile back,
And you look away.
Then you walk away,
While staring at your back,
I think to myself:
Good thing I'm the kind of man who sees lies behind the truth of every smile.
On the Shores of InvernessOver rocky craigs and wind-swept highlands,
soaring over hidden lochs and glassy surfaced streams.
Still further north,
where old man winter refuses to bite his tongue;
to the desolate shores by Inverness.
These old, magic shores,
Where the voices of the past are still whispered on the wind.
The voices of Pict and Norse,
Macdonald and Mackintosh,
Munro and Fraser,
in perfect harmony
on the sighs of wind
mourning across the craigs.
These ancient enemies,
buried by soil,
are released on the wind
to once again inhabit their ancestral home.
For a moment,
they are all there once again,
standing tall and proud.
Long hair blowing,
Painted faces knowing,
Fierce eyes glowing,
As they gaze upon the land they once called home.
I can almost hear the horns sound
and the feet march.
Hear the cries to the heavens
as men march to breathe their last.
March with a smile on their face,
fervor in their eyes,
and love in their hearts.
Love for a land that no one ca
The Bog Girl Observes the PoetOff of Seamus Heaney's Punishment
I can feel the snug fit
of his hat on the crown
of his head, the wind
on his bare ears.
It blows his nose
to cherry sniffles,
it tousles the graying locks
of his hair.
I can see his steel eyes
against the sky,
the weighing guilt,
the artful wrinkle and tear.
before you saw me
you were sunny-eyed,
faithful, and your
crows-feet smile was unforced.
My precious man,
I could have loved you,
but would have broken you, I know,
like I already have.
I am the Prima Donna
of your guilt exposed
and bloodied veins
pumping perpetual chauvinism,
and all your fallen faults:
I who lay silent
while your betraying brothers,
shrouded in regret,
hold their tongues,
Who would dream
in simple peace
yet comprehend this barbaric
and ageless, feudal war.
Fleeting MemoriesFingertips trail on the doorframe.
A breeze tiptoes through the door and catches her hair,
Blowing it, modelesque, about her face.
She shares one last smile,
A sad, serene smile,
And then walks out.
The smile playing across her lips still lingers,
Unwilling to fade in a room full of her memories.
The wind still blows her hair across her face.
It is almost as if she never left,
Never walked through the door
With fingertips trailing on the frame.
The room remembers the face,
So why is it,
That after all these years,
She is merely a faceless memory to me?
My Beautiful LieYou walk in the room looking so perfect
the most beautiful lie in my life
wheat gold hair curled around an angels face
porcelain skin glowing, pale and smooth
lip stick smile painted between two rouged cheeks
full red lips a marriage of seduction and innocence
every step you take is cloud supported, effortless, graceful
but the sad truth lies in your clear, cornflower blue eyes
An Unlikely MatchShe's got the world wrapped around her finger,
Silk wrapped around her skin,
Love wrapped around her heart,
And innocense reflecting off her single grin.
He's got a bad haircut,
A ripped-off tee,
A hoodie that says "ACDC",
But he's as sweet as can be.
At first glance, she never thought of falling for him.
He knew having an angel like her was one in a million.
But still, he tried to win her love.
She blushed around him often, like he was a creature from above.
One day, he asked her out on a date,
She willingly agreed.
That was the night she had her first kiss,
Her heartbeat did exceed.
They became so close,
Closer than can be.
Now she cries all night long,
For his face she'll never see.
On the side of the road, there stands a cross,
With flowers all around.
Every Sunday, she kneels to that cross,
Crying into the ground.
It's been one year since the car wreck
That had taken her love away.
And even though she's not in his arms,
Her love will never sway.
My life..Chaos and loneliness
My constant companions...
Sadness and anger
My only friends...
Despair and misery
Luck and fate
Shadow and hate
"Birth a curse,Death a gift"
Don't Get Lost In HeavenDon't get lost in heaven
Keep your mind on solid ground
Jesus comes by mail order
Fill the hat:
It never stops going 'round
The souls turn
To face the blazing
Of the burning grin
Gasoline-chug, white-heat truck
Smashes metal where
The pearly gates had been
Mailmen get lost
At rusty Eden gates
Sporting faded numbers
That the postcard
Argues is the right time
Over doom-stricken hills
Touching music drapes
Truthfully freedom bound
The ground explains
The many muddy footsteps
Of a merrily drunken crowd
of the soul.
It is an
to deny this
into the corners
of my mind
where the memory
of you died.
June 19th, 2010
For These Things I AmFor all the things I couldn't do,
For all my plans that fell through,
For the lies I told in lieu of truth,
I am sorrowful.
For all your tomorrows that wouldn't come,
For all my wrongs in their awful sum,
For the words I used that made you glum,
I am regretful.
For all the smiles you put on my face,
For all your beauty and all your grace,
For the warmth you gave in each embrace,
I am joyful.
FallaciousYou believe you
speak of truth
yet all I see
Your acid tongue
on my skin
for every single
word you've spoken.
You can only
so much of
your own reality
just to save face.
June 29th, 2010
ForeverAll the things you said to me
In the end weren't meant to be
All they say is to let you go
But my love won't let me. So...
I'll fight for us to be together
Cause I want to feel forever
What will it take to make you see
All the things you are to me
The tears I shed blur my sight
But I'll overcome it with my might
I'll make you see what fates done right
As you watch the stars shine tonight
So I'll fight for us to be together
Cause I want you forever
I'll do whatever it takes to make you see
All of the things you are to me
Final HourIn my final hour,
I shall cast all aside.
My heart harkens
not to the sound of love,
but to my own demise.
Mere existence has
claimed all I once knew
of the subtleties of joy.
July 15th, 2010
IowaIf you visit Iowa,
you'll call her fields empty,
but she wasn't born that way.
A part of her was carved out
when she was ripped between Virginia
and the purple mountains of New Mexico.
Her gold hair, she tore it out when she realized
it didn't make her a princess.
She laid her locks strung along every road
leading somewhere else.
White hairs on her cheeks
are scars from winter.
Her hair darkens with the dampness
of summer rains.
The storms are never silent,
but neither is life when there's a tear
in your childhood where
a parent ought to be.
I've been flooded by Iowa's sorrow.
The only way I can distract her from her own voided landscape
is if I hate myself harder than she cries.
She just wants to fly
and I want to bus or train,
not because I fear death, but because
I want to take living slow.
It's the only way I ever feel.
From the air it's hard to watch Earth's hips move.
But Earth can't compare to the country.
That's my girl.
Full grown even when harvesting season's j
To depression, for creating days without endWake up to the realization that you've been awake
for seconds, minutes, hours.
You've been awake in this warm, dark room
and you don't know how long it's been
but now you're conscious
and it starts again--
the pain, strong and steady, in your chest.
You gain consciousness in this too warm morning
and your thoughts whir in endless loops
because it's either that or face the weight in your chest.
Light breaks though the window, soft and unwelcome
but you take it as a reluctant gift--
a new distraction from the feelings awake in your chest.
Awake, but not conscious.
So you think yourself in circles a little while longer
waiting for those quiet pains
(the constant reminder)
to gain consciousness.
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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