|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
LiesThat smooth movement of your tongue,
That seems so pleasently formed,
To mention of my bountiful beauty,
Like it was some solemn duty
Of yours to remind me,
To blind me,
With a spell of sweet sounding words,
This girl does not often hear
But yours are hollow and meant to bind,
So your empty truth I could not find,
How many others heard those words before me?
And took them in like I did?
How many others fell victim to false charm,
That caused my heart such harm?
Those tears that fell from your face,
You are a demented disgrace,
To tell sweet lies to innocent girls,
And pray they never discover
Your real cause of such obsessive love,
That would strike a pin into the heart of a dove,
That sensitive facade you bore at first,
Oh where did it disappear too
Once your patience had worn so thin,
Out came the secret that what you longed for was sin,
My naivity was your prey,
My innocence you began to seek, to slay,
The gentleman subsided,
The sweetheart I knew vanished,
Hollow words breaking aga
In pieces on my knees
With the denial of my needs
My voice lost!
My voice drowned!
My voice tossed away,
There is no sound!
From a fire deep within
Hotter, and hotter,
I have burned for all my sins
My voice ignored!
And with my voice I'm bored!
I don't want to speak anymore!
I forget what I was speaking for...
Into my soul I fall
I close, behind me,
The doors to my hallowed hall
My voice is silent!
My voice is in chains!
All my thoughts arrested,
Only a hint of memory remains!
Writing in InkI always hated writing in pencil,
and I dont know why.
Maybe its because pencils can be erased,
written over again on the same paper,
But little marks always remain,
Ugly reminders of the mistakes of the past.
Id rather pen my story in ink,
make every word permanent,
let every flaw stare me in the face
Because I dont want to see perfection,
Dont want to waste time rubbing away my regret.
Even if it means Ill go through hell
I just want to see life for everything it is.
Writing.Writing is not art's plainer sister.
I think that maybe
writing and art are just
twins, like you and me.
They're identical but art is much more showy.
Art likes to speak in appearance, beauty, and lust
whilst writing likes to speak in whispers, dreams, and silent words.
You drew in oil paint
because you knew it was
washable and could fade away.
I wrote in sharpies
because it made my writing thin, like
fine glass and delicate details and it made
permanent, because who I am is permanent.
I won't change because someone wants me to.
Writing is like the soft thumping of a heart
or a star during daylight hours; We're aware
that it is there, but we choose not to hear
or see it.
(But then, maybe art and writing
are one person,
and maybe they have multiple personalities.
They've just never met each other.)
Commission: Two friends, One love.We're both friends
In that we agree
We care about each other
It's simple, you see
We laugh and we joke
We smile and we cry
We talk all the time
And take ages to say "Bye"
But there's one thing about us
And it's hard for me to say
We are really great friends
But I also see you another way
My feelings for you
Are different from before
I think I'm falling for you
You're someone I can't ignore
We're only friends
But that's not the same for me
Could we be more than friends?
Or am I just being dreamy?
But I know the day will come
When I know what to do
But until that day comes
I'll stay friends with you
Writing....Writing (Or Why I Don't Dumb Down My Work So You Can Read It)
I hate it when people ask
how I write.
I love telling them,
the thrill of trying to convey my thoughts to those unknowing
is what I do,
but all of my explanations
crescendo into a confused smile,
and an abrupt change in topic.
Can no one understand
what it's like to chase thoughts in one's mind,
to combine words with a crafter's hand,
leaving you with the most beautifully ironic line,
the most cynically moving idea
that will sway masses of non-believers
into a common frame of mind
within the confines of one poem?
I sometimes feel like the superheroes in movies,
but there's no mentor for me,
no guiding hand
that teaches me to control my powers, per say,
so I often believe I'm an alien,
intruding on others' thoughts
when I'm really just changing the lenses
of my overall perception of the world.
I usually feel unsafe in my own body,
for surely no teenaged girl
in a modern era of pure entertainment
I AmI am, broken,
On the inside where you can't see
With every day, that I live,
I exist so painfully
I am, bitter,
At what this world has done to me
Sometimes I wonder, why it's so hard,
For me to just live happily
I am, frustrated,
At all the things I see
I don't understand, why people don't change,
Why people just don't believe
I am, angry,
At myself for the things I've done
And I know that I'll spend, the rest of my life
Trying to pay back everyone
I am, afraid,
There is so much I don't understand
No matter how hard, that I look,
Sometimes I fail to see the plan
I am, pain,
In mind, body, and soul
That pain has defined, who I am,
And I refuse to let it go
I am, confused,
It's hard to know what to choose
But I know I have to make a choice,
Because there is too much I stand to lose
I am, not the answers,
That inside I know you seek
And though I'm not the answer, at least I know,
That I'm not part of the disease
I am, compassion,
I really know just how you feel
I know that the, monsters i
Keep in Touch!
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