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Heart of the BrokenWhenever I fall asleep
I feel my blood just racing faster
Creeping up to find a lover
To devour in pain and laughter
It's a terrible love to be
A painful love to see
But surely it's not
It's a hobby to be
It's a habit of greed
Maybe it's not his fault
He loves him softly just to find a lie
But he stabs his eyes
To stop himself to cry
To wreak a soggy majesty
Upon a murderer in the sympathy
It's an experiment
A love is just a testing
But do you think upon
His past before you flee?
It's a serving winch
But it's a saw to be in half of thee
To die and flatter the stench
GoneSometimes when I'm alone
I can feel you touching my hand
I can feel you grasp my arms and rub the wounds
Whenever I've hurt myself
I can feel you rubbing my side whenever I cut
You whisper in my ear and tell me
"it will all be okay, I promise."
I can feel you holding me
Rocking me back and forth in your arms
Just continuously rocking
I can doze off and dream you're holding me
But I wake up to find just a picture
Even now, I can accept that you're gone
It gets harder every day living without you
I feel like I see you sometimes
Only when I close my eyes, though
I see you there and I want to come and hug you
But every step I take, you get farther away
You drift off, or disappear into the wind
And I cry for you
I scream and shout until my lungs are sore
Because I want you home
I want you to hold me
I want you to be my daddy for once
But I know if I reached out
I'd just fall through.
A congregation convenes to
confront a cold corpse's casket.
Bringing before it tears, emotions,
memories, and trembling limbs.
Not a single word is mustered,
yet a realm of regret clouds the scene.
Tears graze the soil that will become
an eternal resting place six feet under.
Naïve mortals mourn the hollow flesh,
ignoring the omnipresence of the dead.
An icy breeze turns vertebrae into glaciers,
chilling any soul whose eyes encounter the casket.
Words would only interrupt the ceremony.
Tears only salt the earth, which awaits flesh.
We must cherish the memories nearest our hearts,
lest the casket, the corpse, and all else be forgotten.
The TrundlerThe waste land behind the fire station is always silent. No birds sing there, and even the wild rabbits and feral cats avoid it. Weedy wildflowers nod their seasonal heads in the breeze. Lying fallow in the midst of housing developments, shopping malls, the new movie theater — the vacant lot stands out like a knife wound on a woman’s placid face, shocking, brazen, ugly.
It is always empty. Except for one thing: a ragged heap of old trash, all nasty black tar paper and vicious snarls of rusted wire, car parts and broken glass and other junkyard jetsam. The embodiment of injury waiting to happen, an invitation to a tetanus shot... the city never hauled it away. No one ever wants anywhere near it; it radiates an eerie sense of calculating watchfulness.
And at night, it wanders.
When darkness falls, and the last cars heading into the hives of tract housing stop illuminating the asphalt with moving-picture shadows, it… unfolds. Bitter, broken tangles, grotesquely mov
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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