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Reckoning TreeFor years, an ancient oak tree stood in front of Tribekean’s household, hiding an already clandestine family. Not until a sunshine December 1989 day did the tree snap to reveal a darkness never seen before by mankind. No records detailing the day remain. Historian hands lock up attempting to scribble it down.
Don't Stop TalkingDon’t stop talking.
Let me hear the echo of your voice
Resonating against the chambers of my head.
Don’t stop talking.
Maybe I’ll still hear you when I’m
Don’t stop talking,
But don’t you touch me.
Don’t you grab my shoulders.
Let me hear you
Before I crack against the mountain side.
So don’t stop talking.
Where I StandI am not a vagrant of society,
Rather a mobile observer of my surroundings.
I write, I listen
I learn, I write
What crosses my heart is the written word.
How else am I to be
For I am a learner, an art admirer
An appreciator of even the dark
That knows everything
Has words wired to its heart.
I hate that some slam their eyelids
And sew them close
To all the mystery of the world.
Our differences are at best to be appreciated
And at least to be tolerated.
I despise the feeling I get from social interaction
A sense of constant judgment,
I have social anxiety,
But despite myself,
I still try
Which causes strain
Which in turn causes stress
Which inevitably causes a breakdown every month or so . . .
There are worst things.
Like intolerance and senselessness.
Like lack of empathy for the other side.
Like too much apathy for even your side.
Those are the worst things.
What I adore is the love of someone
Who I admire
Or who I love back.
I adore the look on som
LayeredFrequently, I found her name waiting—
Waiting for me to call it out
To be a part of my active conscious
And also, quite selfishly, my subdued subconscious.
Her name has a backbone.
It can stand alone
From who she really is.
If her name slips out the mouth
Like the smoke of mint Hookah
Whilst rolling off the cushion of a soft pair of lips,
It cracks like a whip in air.
The name does not match the face.
Not woman, but
The name is harsh,
Just another lie
To cover her trembling truth.
She’s simply an adult
Still playing dressup in a grownup’s clothes.
As evident for weeks and months,
She’s as lost as she says she is.
Fucked as she says.
That ping-pong love.
I call her name,
I yearn for her face,
I fiend for that love
Until whipmarks and hypocrisy stripe my body
With the sweetest of blood.
Two shots of blackened caffeine
To harden my veins 'til I have no choice
But to stand upright with stand-still eyelids.
The one stop shop to no stop;
The Jazz Age in a Styrofoam cup;
Fitzgerald's active displeasure
Sprinkled as a galaxy swirl
On top of a white cloud,
Flavorful enough to inspire.
I awoke somewhat alive,
But now I'm lively dead.
Refill me again and again
Until I tremble and shake so much
I see beyond my imagined infinity.
Keeping DiggingWe work on dim comforting nights,
Kissing the cufflinks of the radiant moon
Until it throws us a moonbeam as a striking
Our mouths secrete acidic saliva
After years of our tongues massaging
The slick back of chewing tobacco.
Dirt particles crowd into our noses,
Seducing our sinuses
To create a family reunion for them.
They wanna stick like glue to one another.
Be like we-always-get-along brothers.
These brothers got some sharp skin lovers
And when they make love,
They tear the bed to bloodied shreds
And we feel the red stream into our mouths.
The moon snorts at us—
An obvious attempt to arise envy—
And it works.
We drop our tools
And we show our technique:
Seal the mouth,
Force the air,
Blow the sockets out.
We’re too blue collar to snort,
And just poor enough to fume,
So the brother’s reunion orgy
Ended with a splat in the moon’s living-room.
Until the shifting of our shovels
Start to dig into our dreams
When Stars CollapseThis is how you bespeckled my bones
with bewilderment: you kissed hushed heart
whispers and slumbering secrets
into my fingertips. You infused awe
into my joints, causing me
to ask how snowflakes got their
shape and how long would it take
to get from the Sun to Capella.
You taught me that energy is neither
created or destroyed; stars do not die.
Eyes washed with emerald sorrows you
told me that they evolve, they change
into something entirely different,
or not so different.
I now know we are made of the same
particles as someone or something else.
We began someplace together.
We're made of so much more than "star-stuff",
we are made of each other.
The Breaths Between Usi'm minutes away
from the collision site
the breaths between us
and the lost time
clock guts, sprung
our hallway uncoils
his walnut lean
i'm seconds away
from the before
of our near-miss
the beads of air
and the imperfections of
in a rumored heart
a stuttering mass
this broken belled
has lost hold
of the lives we live
its skullsong rings
the same vibration
I am me. Who are you?I am fragments
of every person
I've met; every
memory made; every
bond formed and tie broken.
I am an orchestra
of people's opinions;
each snide comment
each casual remark
each passing compliment
I am a library
of forgotten lies
and fake smiles
and empty promises.
I am a sky of hope;
filled with stars
which carry the wishes
of the people I have encountered
I am never alone
for their influence will forever
taint my soul and
remind me of their hopes,
dreams and pain.
This is who I am.
Who are you?
In a world with no mercy
Day after day
Until the end
The day I die
And then maybe
I'll find some peace
Love comes in so many forms,
growing and changing swiftly with the ages.
A mama recording her sons first walk to her husband over seas with a shaky camera.
"It's only a storm," the big brother says to his sister whiles he takes out the instant hot chocolate.
A teenager opening her slammed door, ready to admit to her parents she doesn't hate them.
On a worn blanket, a college kid handing his boyfriend a rose, hoping it will be enough.
Girls squealing as they throw their diplomas up into air and go out into the real world together.
A father proudly patting his wife's baby bump, a first miracle.
A women kissing her father goodbye as she turns off the machine that keeps him alive.
A middle aged chemistry teacher handing back a failing student a A+ paper.
An older couple holding hands, content with the knowledge of the mountains they've overcome together.
Love extends past the page, from my hand into others souls.
on remembering to breathe:i.
you can't hold it in for forever.
your lungs weren't
made to bear the weight
of this world, they weren't made
to left unexpanded
and unexplained -
it is not phenomenon that wakes you
when paralysis hits in the
night, it is physiology telling you that
not everything happens on automatic, okay?
(at least not for always)
you're born like a time bomb, with
only so many beats of
your heart in place to tick away day by day -
your words, they're the same.
there's a time limit
on your tongue, so say something that
means something - use words
that dig in and rip out hearts, use words that
curl around your fingers and worm their
way into your soul.
use words to make something
beautiful. something remembered.
never leave three things
left unsaid because they can be three
words that mean everything -
i'm not telling you to save your breath.
i'm begging you not to waste it.
sing. sing enough to take your breath
away because even though
it leaves you gasping, it fills up that
That rebuilding trust is difficult
Would be an understatement of the highest order.
It's a lot like relearning how to walk.
With each small step,
I keep thinking I'll fall--
And I may--
But I haven't yet.
My heart and left leg
Throb in protest,
But there's a certain joy in progress
That keeps me moving forward.
All of the One LightIt's all for the love
(Which is all for the show).
The quiet thrill of the hunt for thought
Bites off my tangled tongue.
All fluttering eyes to the front
As my body trimmers from behind their vision.
Who's handling the supervision of
Whatever and whomever to call my mind?
The lips of my young mouth
Already engraved with the deep scratches of time.
Words drift the cracks
Only to be damned before they soar into light.
My weakness is no source of pondering pride.
I would hang my head
But the ice of the theater bulb
Stiffens my brittle bones
Strictly to face my judgment-day north.
"Go forth with the onward march!"
They shriek and they prod.
I hear the echoing slam of the tick of the tock.
I stand right there and shatter on the spot.
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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