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That One LetterDear lover...,
This is the one letter I couldn't send
It means too much for to hand it over
There isn't much for me to write because I am no writer
No fancy words, just the straight out truth
You still surprise me, even if I don't show it
I know we just can't be over
I can see it in your eyes, you haven't lost hope
As long I can still feel you are still holding on, I will keep trying
I know I am not perfect but I keep trying
That's what I said I will do from the start
One chance I have to make it right
If I miss it, it will be too late
Remember who you are and forget what people said about you
You are beautiful; don't let others say you are not
I won't let you fall, even when I am wrong
I always remember that you like hand-written letters
A letter had more emotion than a text or email because you can see the mistakes, the eraser marks
The emotion is true in each word I write
I don't want you to fade away like everyone else has, I don't want to wake up one morning and realize that you a
You'll never read this.I've made up my mind
I wanted to be
in the ash
that was scattered
across your cemetary
when the devil came
and smoked a cigarette
over your tomb
and I watched
it was like silk
in the moonlight
because I chose the perfect time
and I knew
that you were
lying through your teeth
every day that you
pretended as if you knew
what your purpose was
so here I stand
and I left
watching as the cigarette ashes
were sucked up by a
that thought it was funny
it wasn't funny
it wasn't a joke
like you thought it was
and I'll keep this scene playing in my head
while you'll keep laughing with
and not noticing
Something's MissingI will not miss you like a child misses a blanket
or a year misses a season which has just passed
or as childhood is remembered from furrowed brows;
the parched lips that had once drunk from
the fountain of youth.
nor will I miss you like a widowed lark
that stays up all night believing in
melodic necromancy -
- I do not believe in such things,
as I do not believe in a god I forsook,
when I realized I did not miss him
as I missed the comfort of ignorance,
Nay, I cannot miss you like a poem misses its muse
which miss her till eternity dies
or a juvenile favour that leaves one
benevolent and misses benevolence for all of its days.
Instead I must miss you like an accepted part of every day -
- the ticking of clocks, the buzzing of gadflies,
the first few moments after awakening that misses a dream
or the Korean vase upon the chiffonier
which misses last week's dahlias
or the street dog misses its late keeper-of-crumbs
or an ink quill misses the words it bore
or a poet m
Bottle of SadnessYour little red mouth
is a bottle of sadness
and you think you keep
it stoppered up,
but the cork is cracked
and the seal is loose
and you drip
little splashes of sorrow
every time you speak.
In the morning,
I wake next to your wet sheets,
your pillow soaked through with it.
It smudges on the rims
of glasses you drink from,
it tastes of salt and dusk and blue
on your lips
and even when you laugh,
it boils away and steams
in the air --
the room fills with fog,
you stop laughing again.
I used to think
you had only liters in you,
but some days I think
you have the whole deep sea.
IowaIf you visit Iowa,
you'll call her fields empty,
but she wasn't born that way.
A part of her was carved out
when she was ripped between Virginia
and the purple mountains of New Mexico.
Her gold hair, she tore it out when she realized
it didn't make her a princess.
She laid her locks strung along every road
leading somewhere else.
White hairs on her cheeks
are scars from winter.
Her hair darkens with the dampness
of summer rains.
The storms are never silent,
but neither is life when there's a tear
in your childhood where
a parent ought to be.
I've been flooded by Iowa's sorrow.
The only way I can distract her from her own voided landscape
is if I hate myself harder than she cries.
She just wants to fly
and I want to bus or train,
not because I fear death, but because
I want to take living slow.
It's the only way I ever feel.
From the air it's hard to watch Earth's hips move.
But Earth can't compare to the country.
That's my girl.
Full grown even when harvesting season's j
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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