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CrushI am only the sum of parts:
these stumbling lips,
these wandering eyes,
this heart that skips too many beats.
I am not quite bold:
not content to watch,
not daring to speak,
making acquaintance with my feet.
I am scared:
awkward in silence,
clumsy in speech,
always just short of discreet.
white feathersthe words are bitter to taste & sharp to swallow,
but the lies are becoming transparent & hollow.
a worn voice offers them reluctant passage,
allows truth to stumble out bearing its message.
worn away by years chained in the shadow,
they peek out hesitantly, tremulous & slow.
bite marks raised like welts on their tender skin,
a neglected, abused, mistreated admission.
syllable one is the dreaded contraction,
I, the subject, & am, the action.
the second syllable is dragged along,
an adjective: gay, synonyms: wrong.
they hang their heads & drag their feet, looking small,
as if waiting to be pulled back by a call.
alas, never, for the bridge is a one way street,
the words a white flag screaming defeat.
you shut your eyes tight as if they're not there,
my deepest secret laid out naked and bare.
my lips are shredded from their sharp-edged shame,
those two orphans with knives of despair & blame.
paranoiaDo you creep from room to room every night,
Peering around corners and turning on lights?
If you do, you know what it is I mean,
When I say the worst monsters cannot be seen.
They're in the shadows and behind closed doors,
Up in the attic and under the floor.
You hear them after dark and home alone,
Under your bed, in the margins of your poem.
You're like a rope stretched far too tight,
Always ready to scream and put up a fight.
There are corpses buried under your house,
And you slink over them, quiet as a mouse.
But if you're like me, then you have the same fear,
That the worst monster is all too near.
You worry that what they say is true,
And it is your own mind that threatens you.
anti-simileHere is the unspoken, widely-known truth:
Love is not like a rose, and has never been.
A rose is a flower, never more than one thing,
While love is always many, some never seen.
A rose is famed for its sweet, beautiful scent;
Love, though, can be a twisted, stinking thing.
Love leaves the kinds of scars that may never fade,
But the prick of a thorn is merely a sting.
For all its different colours, petals, and thorns,
A rose is the soul of simplicity.
Love you can hold without ever knowing,
Subtle and sly, the heart of duplicity.
Love need not wait for its season to bloom,
And requires no sunlight or water to thrive.
When plucked from the ground, a rose has days to live,
Though even without roots, love can survive.
They share delicate and fragile beauty,
But of two different and contrasting kinds.
One you can see, immortalize in a frame,
While the other exists only in your mind.
The Last Hurrahwhat passes for spontaneity in your world is this:
a rain-drenched walk,
down familiar roads,
with the well-known spark of fury
under your soaking wet jacket.
you are not random. you are not special.
you need routine the way other people need adventure.
a warm house.
a good friend.
the same argument in the same language,
the same tears pouring down your face,
self-righteousness on your tongue.
one day you’ll travel. one day you’ll climb a mountain,
fall in love, write that novel, take a dance class,
get your heart broken and move to new york city to starve.
you’re already giving up on that charmed life,
the dream that’s supposed to last into your forties,
get you through the nine to five jobs,
the children and disappointments and boredom.
you are disillusioned and painfully naïve.
you scoff at the ‘artists’ but envy them,
even as you work out a sensible budget
for a sensible degree that will earn you
a practical career with
reward: a lifetime of dedicationsThere's a place inside me where I'm missing something key;
The problem is I'm not quite sure what it might be.
I must have a heart because blood pumps through my veins,
And my pillowcase has seen far too many tearstains.
I breathe: too fast and shallow, it's true, but still I inhale,
And so my lungs must be there, hearty and hale.
Perhaps it's my stomach that's gone and run far away,
And my food drops down into my feet every day.
More likely, I'm missing just a little bit of hope,
Or maybe I've lost my ability to cope.
Whatever it is, I ask that you hear my plea:
If you happen across it, return it to me.
A PSA About PDAIt's a grand romantic gesture, like something from TV,
An expression of your deep love for everyone to see.
Your passion is unrestrained as you pull him to you,
And everyone seems to vanish except for you two.
Little cartoon hearts dance above you, heralding your love,
But everyone else just wants to give you a good shove.
Too often we see couples eating each other's faces,
Anywhere and everywhere, except for private places.
To us, it's just saliva and hands where they shouldn't be,
And when it's in front of your locker, you can't even flee.
We have no particular desire to see tongues roaming wild;
It makes us feel desperately ill, to be quite mild.
So on behalf of all of us, I enter a plea:
Please stop expressing love that the rest of us can't unsee.
Restrain your raging hormones until the end of the day,
Or take the time to find solitude somewhere tucked away;
Pause a moment, stop making out, and go get a room,
Before you put some poor little old lady in her tomb.
School DayThis is a school day.
It starts with a bell, loud and shrill, shocking students out of complacency. Conversations drag to reluctant ends, as friends take shuffling steps towards learning. You can pick the morning people out by their strides, quick and purposeful, cutting through the sluggish crowd with practiced ease. Binders are clutched to chests, bags slung carelessly over shoulders, and the hallways slowly empty as the school vanishes behind doors. There are two types of stragglers: the panicked and the slacker. One will dash through the door moments after the bell, breathing hard and cowering beneath the teacher's cold gaze. The other may meander in at their leisure, or not at all.
Classes are defined by the man or woman at the front of the room, and the students seated at the desks. The material is of little importance. Some are orderly, time divided into neat sections, precisely enough time for each task if you work at an average rate. Others are run with never-ending enthusiasm
LolMy space bar is malfunctioning so if there arespaces missing I apologize.
So my dad sent my phone off to have the power button fixed yesterday as an Xmas present, which is AWESOME! I'm getting it back later today. I was also babysitting all day today. So he gets home today enragedand goes, "And WHY exactly aren't you answering your phone?". I thought he was kidding, so I kind of looked athim and whenhe just gave me the "Well?" look Iwas like... "er... I don't have it?" and he looked abashed and it was funny.
DisillusionPerished yet cherished:
her green eyes of envy
smoulder under his spell.
Attempting to see
whether he feels the same -
they just cannot tell.
Blurred and blinded:
punished for prying
into his concealed mind.
An unpleasant disillusion
and a hopeless heap
of memories left behind.
Love AgainSome would tell me I love her too much:
I need to feel special,
Wanted and desired.
As if I were your sun,
Because I'm your only one.
I spent a year giving my all,
In love with you I continued to fall!
Falling, not knowing I was actually crashing.
I survived; This time at least,
But my heart suffers for it.
It is fragile and petrified,
All night I had cried.
There is no he in lesbian,
So stick to me if you can.
But babes not only that,
"If you can," will not be good enough!
*Leave "he" far behind!!!*
Because to be with me it is a must,
Otherwise where's the trust?
No trust means no respect or true love,
Dash me to the rocks: be done.
If you cannot resist,
If temptation is stronger than love?
Don't make me suffer like you hate me,
Instead, let me go like you love me...
-Untitled Poem-Passionate fire
Within your heart
In the dark
Are hidden away
Like a plague
Lock it away
Keep it inside
No one will know
What you hide
Keep it secret
Keep it safe
It's not welcome
In this place
Don't let it speak
Don't let it move
Keep it chained
Keep it held down
It has to be
There's no other way
Put it out!
Stomp it down!
Don't let it show
You'll get burnt
You'll be scorched
If it continues
Burning so bright
Drown it in tears
Smother it. Dead.
Hide it away
Destroy it, now!
It's too powerful
It can't stay
It can't live
It's too pure
It's too lovely
No one wants it
To be seen
It disgusts them
Makes them hate
Your very being
It can't win
It must die
Lest you fall
Without a cry
Growing brighter still
In your soul
It glows, warm
Lights the dark
Shines in every
Gives you power
To hold on
Embrace its light
Let it burn
Damned Suicidal Gay KidsI read a poem about gay kids and cry,
Thinking of all the times I tried to die.
No, it's not fair, but that is life,
Which is why so many want to end their strife.
Then one day, when I felt hopelessly shut out,
Another girl came along with a kiss and a pout.
We made a double promise that neither could die,
And I told her how badly I wished I could lie.
So happy she made me, I chose to come out,
But all my father did for hours was shout.
It was three months before he said another word,
But when he did, the whole world could have heard.
They said that they raised me better than this,
But what's better than love, deeper than a kiss?
I'd tried to date boys, and I'd tried to drop hints,
But they'd laugh at his attempted kiss and my wince.
Five times I have tried so weakly to die,
But not since the promise, for I don't lie.
The last time, I was arrested, for I had come close,
But they put me under observance and doubled my dose.
So I sit reading poems and try not to cry,
As I think of my gir
Erase this pain
Erase his face
Erase this love my heart intakes.
Please I scream I can't let go.
His face after 2 years is all I know.
I want to let go yet my heart yearns.
A certain song can make me cry,
A time on the clock can make me cry.
These little things remind me of you,
And what we often used to do.
I know you'll never care,
but without you its not fair.
I love you and care about you everyday.
But still there's not point of loveing you anyway.
I'm telling you this and I'm telling you now,
I'm trying not to love you but I don't know how.
So many tears that i have cried
-- they got me nowhere fast
so many cuts upon my wrist
-- you didn't get a scratch
these self-inflicted horrors
they make what once had been a dream
into a nightmare starring me
you'll never care i hurt myself
(i can't redeal the cards i'm dealt)
and as i'm trying to move on
this pain makes me fall farther down
this razor does not help a bit
My Cup and SpoonMy bed must be split in half. I roll out
either side - I must decide who I am each day.
We sat together in the kitchen. You were pretty, I thought. But they say that everyone is beautiful to me.
I stirred with my spoon and you drank from my cup.
I placed them in the sink and began to wash up.
Clean as they seemed, you stared.
Scrub harder, you said, as hard as you dare.
My silver spoon shone bright like the star you are: my cup needed drying. The china cautiously cracked.
So you took me to bed and said, stare into my eyes. You traced my map with your finger.
My spoon reflected your breasts and my cup was full.
I laid in the middle of the bed - waiting to be in thrall.
And then he came and joined us. Together we found France and Lesbos.
Too Gay follow-upAfter all the responses I got on my first piece, I feel like I need to clarify why complaining about people being "too gay" is harmful and the (often unrealized) implications of those words. I present the most common argument I heard.
"I have no problem with gays. I have gay friends, but they don't act flaming/butch but rather like normal people. Why can't you just be gay and not have to act like it or let everybody know?"
Implication: "I have no problem with gays so long as they act like me. I am uncomfortable with people who act in a stereotypically gay fashion because it is not "normal". I see gender non-conformity or homosexuality as inherently wrong or inferior and therefore as something to be suppressed or embarrassed of. If you are gay, that's fine, so long as I don't have to be confronted with something that I disagree with."
Why this is harmful: Telling someone to suppress a part of their personality is offensive in gene
C-can I show you something?
She asked so tentatively; her words grasping my heart with sheer anticipation.
My answer was uncertain. Confusion struck my mind when she conjured a knife from no where.
It's a Scottish knife. My uncle gave it to me.
The swirls on the handle coincided with my stomach's churns.
we were both so young
when we first met;
I adored you - but didn't know this yet.
who knew that I'd commit such a sin...
...or that really you wanted to wear my skin?
Hey, can we meet up soon?
I loved her. Seeing her brightened my life... like the metallic blade of her knife.
Sure. How about Saturday, in the park, in a place where no one will see?
we were both still young
when we met at the park;
by the time you arrived, it was ever-so dark.
We were down by the lake; no one could see,
yet I noticed you staring intensely at me...
Are you a lesbian?!
School was hell. Amelia and I
What Is Love? A little over six months ago, a boy who was interested in me at the time asked me what I thought love was. "What do you think love means? What does being in love mean to you?" he asked. Of course, the first thing that came to my mind was a face. Not his face. Someone else's face. Someone I'd been trying to convince myself I hadn't been in love with for the past six months.
I didn't tell him what immediately popped into my head, although I did answer him. And I answered him honestly. "Love is wanting to be with someone all the time," I replied. "Love is the pain you feel when that person is gone for even five minutes." I rattled off a dozen or so more things that constituted love as love in my eyes.
"Love is when you care about someone else's happiness more than your own."
"Love is when you want the best for someone."
"Love is when nothing else matters to you more than being there for that other person."
"Love means never leaving, even when things get really hard."
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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