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you're more than methere is a whole universe laying in the empty space between your rib bones. and whole, ever-expanding, glittering universe.
in the quiet hours of the early morning, your arm resting beside mine, you told me about the sky. with words like the sun and the moon and the whole fucking phenomena of life itself, cigarette between your lips, you spoke as if you were talking to an empty room, syllables falling from the back of your throat into existence and then fading as fast as they were created. it was dark, but your eyes were open and i know it. you weren't looking at anything though, just the emptiness and the blue wash of my bedroom ceiling that in the deepest part of your existence, wasn't really a ceiling at all. it was the corners of our galaxy, and you were there, peeking out into the unknown. through the darkness, you found something there and you held onto it.
and god, i think you even smiled into that darkness. i wrapped myself around you, and wished on every star you could see i
xylicyou used to tell me we're too young to be in love.
we're too young to lay so close that the bridges of our noses press together, so that our eyes blur into a smudge of iris and lashes and our senses are consumed with just each other. we're too young to understand what that means - to be consumed by one another. we're too young to breathe into each other's necks and feel as though that warmth is all there is left in the universe. to feel the fall away, to feel for a fleeting moment, without limit.
i think what you meant is we're too young to have that taken away.
we're too young to sleep alone, to know what it feels like when it hurts to smile. we're too young, too weak and too fragile to have our hearts broken. to have our entire worlds crumble at our feet and have to search through the rubble to find what's worth keeping, worth rebuilding.
but you know, i've fallen into my own grave too many times to care.
so when you tell me next, i will explain to you that if i was to die tomorrow,
an ode to platoshe was stepping slowly and deliberately from the curb to the road, the first time i turned to see her, as if she enjoyed the fleeting moment where it felt like she was falling. her lips were parted, eyes squinting into the sun down the road; flecks of the grey, clouded sky of the inner suburbs reflected in their delicate irses. everything had always looked more beautiful in her eyes.
for that moment, and every moment she held my gaze afterwards, she made me feel alive.
sometimes i felt as though she carried a small part of a quiet world with her where ever she went. watching the world pass her by, she crawled into the peaceful silence of her mind and there, she was content.
she sat at the back of the courtyard at the cafe i worked at once, wearing an orange dress with her legs crossed, and i swear to god - if plato had anything right, it was that there is objective beauty in this universe.
i slided her soy latte to the middle of her table gently and wordlessly - she struck me as the t
don't be sorrysometimes i think i fell in love with you in a dream.
and when i opened my eyes, i felt as though i was still asleep.
and even though these words mean less to me than they will to you,
i write because it makes me feel like i can go back to that.
sometimes it feels as though i could write myself an entire world
and slip away, into the way everything should be -
fall into the world where everything worked out the way it should have
and i'm sorry that they don't
but this life is not a fucking dream anymore
and the touch of your skin feels real,
it feels harsh and uncomfortable
because i know that the more i love you
the more i'm going to hurt you
fuck i just wish i could love you
the way i used to
alivei want to be buried in
a grave made of water
because i write poetry
but don't understand it
because i know how to feel
but not how to cope
or how to tell you what
it feels like to die
my mother will cry and
her garden will still grow
but she will not take down
photos on the windowsill
she will age dutifully and
retire, travel the world and
i will only regret not being
able to see her finally happy
my brother grow up without
knowing how much i cared
but he will still think
of me on his wedding day
his eyes will be a window
not to his soul, but a world
of pain and loss and he will
wish that i could say sorry
and the boy who knows that
he was the only one i loved;
he will lose himself in the
thought that he had the chance
to save a life, but didn't;
he will read my poetry and
not understand why but know
that i loved him more than life
i will fade to dirt, and from
me will grow a peach tree, with
the type of leaves that children
will make boats out of, sail
across their puddle oceans
closurebukowski once said that the best often die by their own hand -
but you, i think you died at the hand of this world,
in all of its cruelty and darkness
i can't help but wonder if you were scared,
if your hands shook when you fell from this world into the next
i'd like to think though, that you were calm in your dark, concrete haven
that you closed your eyes unafraid
i'd like to think that there is a god -
a gentle hand that wrapped itself around your tired body
and that you were truly happy, where ever it is he took you
but for some reason, i think you're a bird
you'd make a beautiful bird.
i hope that my words, when you scribbled them down
in fury, in desperation, in a numb void
gave you at least a bit of comfort -
made you feel, even for a split second,
i will remember you by the mornings we spent together in the sun,
outside the grey lockers, legs outstretched and warm
and the smile you used to give the world when things were,
recusant lovethe price we pay to devote ourselves to someone,
is sometimes more than the melancholy, nostalgic pain
when their eyes dart past yours with rapacious speed
more than our appetites and our sleep;
you forfeit their side of the bed, your midnight cigarettes,
your favourite jeans and a way of making coffee.
you surrender the music they liked, the books they lent you
that one spot on the bus and your inside jokes.
you give up the beauty that they lent everything
you take their photo out of your wallet,
give back their jumpers and socks
change your phone background
and your ringtone
because all of it will always belong to the people
that you no longer are
but most of all, you give up a shared understanding
of a small universe that you created together,
in which you existed, but no one else did
into which no other being will ever fit so perfectly,
and you resign yourself to an acephalous life,
holding onto your bedsheets instead of their hands
in the hope that maybe you
to go withoutsometimes i wonder what it would be like to live without thinking about if the homeless man i see on my way to school has children. he has the sort of eyes that glow with a thousand stories, the kind my parents friends used to tell me when i was little, about how cruel the world can be. i would sit around a fire watching them sip their beer or whiskey or wine, and they'd just stare at the ground with glassy faces as if reciting the lines to a play they knew too well.
the man stares as i walk past, every day without fail. sometimes i wonder if he remembers me or not, or if he just likes to study people the way i do. he's spent so long just watching, waiting as the growing world evolves around him, left behind like the boy in primary school who could never run as fast as the rest of us.
often, i lay in bed and imagine him against his weathered brick wall in the dark and hope that he is okay. one day i'd like to talk with him, about his life and his childhood and how he ended up against t
on leaving it behindi still
this might appall you
or agonize you but i do.
i remember still evenings
with little to exchange besides
heartbeats and breathing patterns.
i remember soft afternoons
with my back raking against the carpet
leaving sporadic scars and stitches of memory.
i remember dark roads, and darker rains.
i remember a longer faith and a shorter pain.
the wounds are not as fresh, they do not sting,
but they ache and the few times i hear your voice
wedges your fingers in my brain and i can feel the cake
of neglected cum stains and i can hear the desperation in
the small whimper of my name and the way it was hard for your
breath to escape and my mind is running on thin rails, paper train,
and all i ever wanted from you was a home, not a place.
you would finger fuck me in the movie theater
and i would squirm and you would laugh because
i am not so good at keeping quiet. and all it would take
was a look from me or my hand up your knee or my lip under my
teeth and your eyes would
The Little Thief Gives UpThe Little Thief realises things are changing after a conversation with an acquaintance, during which he'd been about to hold forth on a subject, and was interrupted.
Thief: If I'm honest
Someone: Which you're not.
He had laughed it off, and in truth, no-one except him remembers this exchange, this brief disruption of his composure which leaves him annoyed, quietly, when he thinks about it later.
And that was the start of his downfall.
The Little Thief wears black rags when stealing, and a red cloak with a hood to keep the rain off when selling. The Little Thief has brown eyes, and hasn't grown in a long while. It's easier to slink through small gaps when you're small. He talks like a little bird with
you're a series of unconnected thoughtssometimes i wonder
if it's really true--
if history really does just
and now we're stuck in its loop where
you're holding everything back
and i'm holding everything in.
and there's nothing to do,
but hope for the best
or at least something better.
but for now, i just wonder
if there's anyone else
who misses quite as much
as i do.
it's never enough to remember,
but it's always too much
catharsis IIhave you ever climbed a mountain? in the summer where the trees keep you a little cooler, but you're still sweating and you're out of shape and you stop at every bench for a cigarette break. you look so thin, he says. and your hair is so long. you think you're never going to find the top and you packed sandwiches for the two of you. honey and peanut butter on white bread with water and granola bars. then you turn the corner and there it is! you can see for so many miles and you're not really sure where the sky starts and the gentle green ocean stops. he turns on music and you close your eyes and he grabs your hand. that is all you need in the whole world, to be at the top of it holding another person's hand.
have you ever told a lie? dived into bed with a failure while making another one of your own. you hear your phone ringing, that familiar ringtone, all those nights with that song swirling around your head and infinite synapses stinging you into a contented sleep... but you ignore i
small musingpeople are always so
sad about caged birds
the fish in the bowl?
the nature of the soul?
the arrow and the bow?
the turtle, a slave to his shell
never running, always hiding-
walls, small devils and taut strings.
i am not so sad about the bird
in the cage.
what i am most sad about is
the look on my own face when i heard
you said you wanted me out
of your life for good.
i am a slave to old
grudges and i am
too proud to
things that hurtit was past midnight
and i was drunk again.
i told myself,
"tonight i will write."
so here i am, the morning after,
looking at pages and pages of
pouring myself another drink.
in the end
i'm still here,
i don't like looking back
and realizing that
i was just
another rebellious kid
under her pillow
realizing all too late that
you were beautiful,
and i gave you away
realizing that, deep down,
even the happiest people are a little sad
realizing that we're always
or too little of
here it is:
irony at its worst.
i feel dead,
but don't bury me yet
i still have things to do.
on skimming the surfacedear ex-lovers,
dear ex-friends, dear little brother,
i have taken all the posters down and my room is a skeleton.
i wonder why you are sad and i am not.
i have taken time and care to grow into these walls
to plant memories here, first fuck
first sleepless night, first question of suicide,
i have collected bones-
here see them in my closet-
i have broken them all.
love was not strong enough to keep me here,
and love is not strong enough, after
We Never Meetparallel lines never meet
and the lines that do
touch for the briefest of seconds before they move on.
nothing is permanent;
everything is in a constant state of flux.
life is funny in the sense that I miss you more
than I ever loved you
because what we could have been
was far more beautiful than what we were.
it isn't a matter of sink or swim
but how long you can hold your breath
when you're caught by the undertow---
and we will never meet.
these are the last things i'll say before i'm goneIf I had to give a name to what I'm feeling I would just call it disappearing. Because it's exactly like the way that you can know everything about someone one day and nothing the next. It's the quick death love has that leaves you wanting more or wanting it back in the best and worst of ways.
If I had to explain I would say this feeling is something like standing outside of your door at four in the morning, even though I know I shouldn't be here, wearing the same wrinkled clothes I had on the day before, wanting nothing more than to beg to come home, but knowing better, because following the motions isn't really the best follow through.
I won't admit how much I miss you I can't, but I can tell you this.
The thing about disappearing is that it doesn't stop me from wanting to be completely impossible to forget. And maybe that's a bit of an anomaly, but I've never made much sense to begin with anyway.
And sure, we're all different in the same ways, but I want to be differen
where did we goyour smile lingers like smoke; hovering gently in the corners of my eyes where everything gets a bit blurry
reminders of our love shared between small smiles and bitten lips and everything else wait for me in the night -
lay waiting between dirty sheets, plaited into the steam of my shower
and you look at me, now, with eyes that tell the sad story
of two broken people
just trying to fix themselves
and i realise that maybe
we are just passing hands, lingering for slightly too long
as the feeling of gentle fingertips caressing is absorbed -
the feeling of knowing that there is something out there
something worth our time
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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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