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As yet untitledBroken glass
by the river side,
of cars and trucks
and other things.
and bits of window pane
mixed in with
and alcoholic shards.
StalkerI would that I could drink you;
The coolest, sweetest water,
so refreshing that it makes my
mouth seem only further
I wish that I could watch you;
Day and night, every breath
and step, every expression when
you think that no one is
I want to listen to you;
Every lie, every bland observation,
your questions, your speeches,
the private thoughts inside your
If only I could see you;
From head to toe, every eye-lash,
every gesture, each color in
your eyes, every scar, every blemish, every
I want that I should know you;
Every word, every whisper, every
sigh, each memory burried,
each thought repressed, each
and every regret that you have ever
I would that I could touch you;
Brush your heart with my lips,
your mind with my words;
That I could wipe away your tears
and open your eyes;
That I could share breath with you,
revive the life within you.
I wish that my tears would
bring you back to me, that
you would love me.
I wish that you could see
LaughLook for the woman who Laughs like a dolphin.
You may find me there;
wrapped in her arms and curled close.
Warm, and soft as she smiles at that long ago camera.
Look for me in Raw Potatoes.
I took a bite out of one once,
tasting the bland, and flavorless;
the bitterness so unexpected.
Look for the flowers of the Spider Plant,
And Huge White Chysanthemums,
White Tiger Lilies,
They're what I like best.
Look for Scar-Webbed hands that have seen better days,
With old gashes that turn purple in the cold.
Look for me in the Washing Machine,
Or the dryer,
'Cause That's what life was like:
Spun 'round and 'Round till your soaked,
then 'Round and 'Round till you're all wrung out,
Then 'round and 'round till you're dry.
That's what Life is Like.
Look for the Woman who laughs like a Dolphin.
You may find me there.
Waiting for something to break the stillness,
The silence of the photograph.
OzGirl with an emerald eye
Why, she asked
of the emerald seas.
By and by
Said the man said she.
Cry to God
in a church did she.
Sighed white mums,
gave him an emerald bee.
By and died
said only he,
All for the gift
of and emerald sea.
DeathShreds of paper,
And patches cut from your favorite skin,
Beads pushed into the carpet
where vacume cleaners can't reach them.
and brown spots.
broken in fire,
old chip bags,
and Spaghetti sauce stains.
and lines of sand.
A strange smell,
and basket weavers.
All is lost to the wind.
They jump from their perches,
Teathered as they are,
And their feet don't touch the ground.
Shrouded in white,
So close to God,
We dare not look upon their faces.
They leave behind reality,
Casting aside their bodies,
They leave us to Pray.
HerShort and thin, bony almost. She looks older than she is, with wrinkled hands and fine lines around her eyes; too little sleep.
The muscles in her neck are permanently strained, because she keeps her chin in the air at all hours of the day. She always manages to stare down her nose at you with hazel-green eyes. Her lips are stuck in a downturned possition, like she smells something sour, and are painted entirely too red. They match her carefully stenciled eyebrows.
Tight curls, dyed red perhaps, cling to he scalp as though afraid of being left behind. Her head has a habitual wobble to it; maybe indecisive, but I believe it was never screwed on quite right. She seems to want people to think she's a teddy-bear, always trying to give out hugs that no one wants, she's creepy enough without them.
She has four general expressions:
Concerned; she's not, really, it's her job. Stoic; which turns out looking more haughty than anything else. Pouting, or Puppydog Eyes; even though she tilts her he
Snow WhiteBeneath the glass she sleeps, frozen in silence for all of her eternity. No maggot has found the heart to eat away at her flesh, soft and pale in the moonlight, but beneath the lids of her eyes, the sockets are empty. Their jewels have been stolen away by some sprite.
As though cut into her face, her mouth is swolen and red. Upon these lips that never healed, there seems to be a word, perched precariously and never quite esscaping from the tongue. Just a whisper of an unsaid word, loud in its own silence.
Lush, dark strands of oily hair fall, mussed, accross her face and bare shoulders, black as ivory is white. She wears a peasant's dress, and the ring of royalty. Not time darse wilt her flower crown, or the roses clasped to her breast.
While locked in perpetual spring, around her casket the north wind blows. He carries drifts of whitest snow, fair as she who sleeps. But will not let them rest upon the glass, for the warmth of her heart still resides there, and will for all of her eter
a dangerous hallucinationThe light coming through the window was bright,
much too bright.
Even though my eyes were closed
I could see it-
The skin of my arms prickled,
sweat dripped from my brow.
It was two in the afternoon but…
the sun was setting
through the window facing east.
I should have seen the hutch,
shelves lined with bone china
decorated with delicate leaves and vines.
I was so thirsty
and reaching for cups that should have been there.
Instead I found a billboard of butterflies,
the colors raging
more than any rainbow
I'd ever seen.
Their wings fluttered and flashed
yet somehow they moved in slow motion.
I wanted to stand,
wanted to reach out and touch them but…
I couldn't move,
and yet I laughed
ignoring my dry mouth
and the tingling in my feet.
There was a tempest
on the rise
and in my blood.
A sugar rush disguised
as a riot of butterflies
and they were swarming me.
There was a small vial
of insulin in my pocket
that I nev
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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