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Art.Your body is
Your soul is
So much depth
Your touch is
Your presence is
You are the most
work of art
that I have ever
Art Hurts.I fell in love
with a painter
who loved his art
more than anything
A painter fell in love
with a poet
but I focused on my art
more than anything
We never had time
to love each other
because canvas and parchment
lured us away.
We only met
when I would sit for a portrait,
or he would pose for a poem.
Love is such a pretty
but the pain,
of which we had an abundance,
forged art so profound
that it's a wonder
we're both still
can be the painter,
paint words on my lips.
will be the writer
and write kisses on your skin.
Fairy Tales Can Die.I heard your heart beat,
a lullaby that lured me to sleep.
I reached up and touched your copper hair
as it wrestled with the summer breeze,
the softness of a cloud.
I treasured each word
that fell from your rose petal lips,
glorious paintings that sat my soul
I was guided by the light in your eyes,
a silver glow that brought me home,
to this vacant wonderland
and crumbling castles
that you promised to rebuild.
We tried to slay the dragons,
but they slayed us instead.
Childhood Fears.Dear Mother,
I am scared
of the monster.
to close the closet
or shine a light
beneath my bed,
because this monster
lives inside my head.
New Beginnings.They always say
"one man's trash
is another man's treasure".
He neglected you,
broke and burned
and threw you
I stumbled one day,
across a beautiful
who lay in the
I picked you up
off the cold ground,
brushed off your shoulders,
stitched you together
and gave you a crown.
Autumn.Our love was autumn
But season's temperance
left it dying.
Our love was autumn,
I was a
and you the tree
I clung to.
Our love was autumn,
But his love was the
that tore us
Internal Bleeding."I love you."
left your lips
leaving the barrel
of a gun.
My very last
As each word
Hit their target,
sorryi am speechless
and i hate this part of me
because so many of you look for me
to make something pretty out of these sad words
but my hand writing is ugly
and I have nothing
to say but
Sticks and StonesSticks and stones
May break my bones
But words leave scars inside
My bones have healed
My pain’s concealed
But unseen scars will thrive
They dig down deep
They make me weep
But when I’m asked what hurts
There is no scratch
No mark or patch
That makes the scars revert.
The tongue’s a sword
That strikes a cord
And tears the strings apart
But there’s no words
Nor healing herbs
That soothe a broken heart.
And every how
And why and when you speak
Be kind to all
Make none feel small
Or call someone a freak.
WHEN I WAS YOUNGWHEN I WAS YOUNG
Once upon a time,
When I was young,
I believed our world is nice.
When I was young...
I thought I was the faulty one,
A parasite, a virus,
so sick and so hideous
I was asking so much,
always more than my lunch
"All these goodies, not enough?
What is more you need to laugh?"
When I was young,
I believed our world is nice
I felt, I was the broken one...
So I was shy, very shy
When I should and when I shouldn't...
I was so silly, stupid!
I thought I'm asking so much!
More than I need for lunch!
And if it happened to need more,
I would never ask it for.
But now I've grown so much,
little shame for my lunch,
Some they say, no shame at all,
that I'm out of control.
But now I've grown so much...
I always ask it for!
There's no shame, No more!
Tears You shouldn’t cry for the dead; they’ll be sad in the next world if you do.
Wynn remembered hearing that phrase from her grandmother. It hadn’t come to mind for years, truthfully - not since she’d first heard it at her uncle’s funeral as a small child. Those words had been meant for her cousin, but the little girl hadn’t been able to help overhearing them as she sat in the church pews, too young to fully comprehend the situation. She’d forgotten about them for so long, but now they came back to her with the force of a train, reverberating in her head.
It probably had something to do with the tears that were rolling down her face.
Sucking in a shuddering breath, Wynn buried her face against the blanket that she still clutched in her arms. His scent still clung to it, calming her slightly as she curled around it like a lifeline - Rhys. It was the only thing that she had le
I Love Her.I hold her hand tightly
Taking care to make sure she is safe
Loved and valued, she is more a woman than I
She calls me her guardian angel.
I protect her from the cruel world
That destroyed me and my dreams.
Shielding her from all the pain around,
Letting her grow at her own pace until she is ready.
But soon I will have to step back,
Holding my breath hoping she won't be crushed
She sees the world in it's true light and soars
As I'm left on the ground, my wings far to broken to fly.
I love her,
So I let her go.
How to Annoy a WriterAsk them what they’re writing about.
Tell them that their characters need more physical descriptions because apparently you’re too lazy to use your imagination.
Say that their writing reminds you of Twilight.
Tell them that their typing is distracting you from your T.V. watching.
Now turn on the T.V. REALLY loudly.
Call them an awful person for killing off one of their characters.
Whine about how you didn’t like the ending because “OMG how could you???”
Get mad at them for writing instead of doing something productive.
Rant about how much you hate your English teacher for forcing you to read.
Always use improper grammar and never punctuate your sentences.
Never. Use. Paragraphs.
Ask them, “What’s so great about writing, anyway?”
Then ask them why they want “to be” a writer, like that’s actually something you can achieve.
Call all writers antisocial, depressed, weirdos. Because, of course, all of them
Something popples - it's the waters of many seas
of various "maybe", numerous as water drops
transitory as these little fellows,
when the historical Sun blisters,
durable as them,
when the historical star gets cold.
The paradox of "maybe"
can't progress further,
to the places unreached by the thread of popularity:
Mickiewicz, Mrożek -
they are - without any doubt - the sources
of parakubrickal shining;
even Rodziewiczówna with Orzeszkowa
are ruled by silver sparkles,
almost like at Literary Firmament King's place.
And maybe "maybe" is a feeble alibi?
In the end books weren't constituted to do something more.
The seal of the impermamence of carrying informations
and of the artism from yellowed years was affixed to them,
and now they stick between two desks,
„Maybe one day some eccentric will be looking for me…
or maybe some researcher of forgotten content will be doing so?
And maybe the small sad people, looking for the novel of their childhoo
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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