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That Old Paved Road
I fear I am bound to the road paved with good intentions. That infamous empire awaits me, built upon the foundation of forbidden fruits and deceit. Each movement of one foot or the other raises the question as to why i do these things, to sell one's soul for a temporary world.
Enriched are the lies I tell myself through various voices in my head, so few of them being holy. Guilt keeps me from sprinting and humility keeps the pleasure of this mindset in fragile balance and the hairs of my flesh are raised to attention in the presence of watchful eyes.
I have danced with illusions and made love to deception all while the sickness in my stomach grows and suffocates any innocence that remains. I cruelly suffer this pointless endeavor for sake of avoiding that hideous strength the world holds over me, in the name of my fear.
What point is there in my continuation? I have already labelled myself the laughing stock of a crumbling mind in where my faith lacks, not in Him but myself. I dread th
A Rocking Chair in the Corner
Where sleep best finds me, is where the reclusive outcasts already reside. The terror in the rising sun comes with silent fires and carcinogenic rays that force the science into my fictitious nightmare. Introverted like the portrait of a good man painted inside out by the brush stroke of self pity and the colors of a self-proclaimed failure.
This is all make believe, the concoction of paranoia by the hands of demonic anomaly only explained by unwritten theory in the art of psychology. There are a trillion bread crumbs scattered over a surplus of roads that lead to dead ends in the middle of nowhere. Denial and caution are friends that are dying in the back of my mind.
The spider sits beneath the only flickering light, until I see that the bulb only flickers because of the crazed bird trapped inside. Myself has become separate from my mind, and no longer are we one in the same as a sentient being, but partners in reluctant and unintentional crime. This is the blackest comedy, where the
When the Mind Plays Tricks
The wind was music enough while stars that would someday die, stood still in dark skies as an audience sitting in the black and blue. A few lights stood out...a kitchen light left on with the blinds open, a doorbell, the car alarm lights that flickered red just under the windshields, and the automatic street lamps that would open and close their eyes as if they had always been awake and were at last drifting off like recovering insomniacs.
A man sat upon an uncomfortable porch during a gusty summers night, just after the birth of morning by nearly two hours. The trees would sing their parts in unison with the lazy gusts from south to north and north to south. Another light was near to him, just inside of his hands, while he typed. A phone, with a warped screen...its face beheld a bubble that was to it like a transparent blemish.
Off in the distance drummed the rubber of spinning tires over late night roads beneath more yellow street lights. Whether they were drunks, cheaters, teens avo
Actors in the Flesh
I'm rather good at playing the role of a man in pain. God gave me some noticeable baggage beneath my eyes, and bleak look that would have had victims of some great disaster asking me of the burdens on my shoulders. Funny thing was, that I had always been a little angry about that...never really got me anywhere but in a world of unwanted pity.
"Time was a mean old bastard to this face," I thought, "or was it choice?"
It didn't matter so much half the time. A walking, talking corpse seems like a good line up for a good punchline to some twisted joke. And that's the thing, is it not? No one likes a frown in that world of pity, they just want smiles, even if only for themselves. If they're just shy of the right size or temperature of heart, they take a swing at that joke, just for kicks...even if those kicks were really sucker punches below the belt. Took me years to realize that it couldn't be helped, but when it came to me, it came. I don't really remember when or where, and I don't thin
Things to Take on an Acid Trip
Several matches for each plot of land in a phase of suicidal tendency, and perhaps gasoline for the sake of a better show.Glasses can be for the brightest lights on the older towers before implode and fade into dust, leaving themselves in clocks to in & around time, disintegrate. A topless thinking cap, for the open mind required by a chore of listening to raving schizophrenics that may have a point or two, depending on the voice whose behalf they speak on.
A vacation round the world in matters of time and variety, in store for our future, so I encourage all to pack accordingly. It is only a vacation in that you will deviant from what you think you know.
An old paper fan for the heated debates of distractions and attractions. Different eyes for every sight to behold so as to spice the convolution. Grenades to open letters from loved ones and old friends. Magnets to toss deep into clouds for purposes of entertainment. Gargoyles for the nightmares outside every wall you've built up. Sand
Please Wake Up
Trapped in a fantasy whom harbors the
echoes of the voices that love, the false smiles
spread wide to blockade the hell forming within heart.
Yours are the eyes that will see what the senses
adapted will force them to see.
The rain buries every drop of liquid salt
from the swollen wells of brunette,
who blink bloodshot from the nightmares still
continued beyond the place of bliss, that woefully
small world of ignorance that only sorrow can create.
Small quakes come and go from the outer reaches
where mountains dwell, and they creep over your
shoulders as you run across reality,
trying your damnest to maintain that smile.
And the plants, how they wither and die as hope
becomes a fleeting miracle, and the flowers
discolor and become ash as faith becomes
tested day by day by year.
The world is collapsing, and I pray that you
just take my hand to bring up the words
we should say in heart and aloud so that this
dying world lives as some reality within reality.
For the love of our own love a
The hands press, filthy and shaking as the knees
have lately greeted the cold earth for a beggars perspective.
Silence has become the loudest reply from the
Heavens and the visions have left the ears ringing for the call to arms.
A war is traveling to a place in the times to come,
where man will hold the greatest sum of casualties and
beyond physical endings. Subliminal messages within
visions see to it to remind those see of prophecies foretold.
Seven serpents of false colors move with scales
made of all seeing eyes, weighed unevenly in ever
corrupt judgement, keeping warm beneath tarnished flags
dropped over the corpses of the contemporary river Styx.
How the river is grown from its many clots in
its veins spread out from the depths of Hell,
where the devil blushes in admiration of his work in progress.
Here there are no numbers flr the sins committed and to be committed.
I cannot run, even if my desire were in the places of cowardice.
I beseech the Host to tear down the gates of Hel
Setting Fire to The Sword.
A mystery for dinner, to be spoon fed and ensure a scalded mouth to curl up the tongue. That scent that comes forth to greet the black sunset in the middle of a predicted eclipse.
Death to come and to leave, leaving behind the bread crumbs towards a better day, like a Message from God in the times when Gabriel was given other tasks for that process of fate.
A blade left in a stone beneath the open hole of the ashen skies through which a little light remains piercing through and throughout space and time shining bright off the metal.
God help them, they only see a sword and its perfect edge. They know not how to wield this glorious tool to even the odds and clear the air, as never was it intended for bloodshed.
I have seen the fields beyond that stone that burn and build the smoke of those skies. I hear the call to put them out for all of time to come and go, just as you intend for this war of ages.
Would not it a tale to tell to eager ears? The flaming blade that consumed those fires,
Signs of the End
Smoke on the rise, where the moth flies low,
Collecting ash where should be dust.
An old structure fades with growing flames,
Until the moth is choked from its bowels.
A tree melts into the wax earth,
Sinking into the heart cracked open ajar
In many an area, round the broken tendons.
Those tendons were of the lush grass of green that somber,
never did get to see the real sun.
Let flow from the basis unto though purging flames,
that smoke on the rise, as the crazed moth
counts the specs of ash and dust amidst its collection.
Its fixed eyes would have not seen the spreading fires,
nor would they ever until the eleventh minute of
so short a life span for the creature that
could have easily been mistaken for the creature
that brings life to flowers...
the room of the model and artificial kingdom go
ablaze from a moment out of nowhere, as the brewing
flames became more from their source and blackened
the model and room and home to just some charred carcass,
as was that first old structure t
breathe that soul straight down my throatyou are my full-lipped muse
and half-lidded siren
humming a broken chorus
breathing to a metronome
sighing in crescendo
an evangelizer of acoustics
the ministry of instrumentals
I've been baptized
in your anarchist hymns
you've made me a believer
of vinyl and a religion without god
Dream a Reachunsilence the words
that your tongue
can't find or form
sing something new
sing an angel's wing
from tongue to sky
shake the undone and fly
like a dead jesus
i speak in tongues
less true than infinite
we dream unguided
the eras and acts
that we hold up
as our crowning
(before we can fly)
i burn another pocket
into the side of the fire
inhabitable, but captive
i put my hand in
my life in
and faith, i pound you
into every hole
and cosmic pore
between atoms and reactions
(so i can fly)
a broken sky
has dropped its fire
over eternity's shipwreck
and i sweat
alien notes, tempos
i wish and whisper
into the only air pocket
left on earth
(so it can fly)
and i'm back
within the deep again
of this heavy unbreathing
mask sewn shut
i still, and forever,
dream a reach, flight
into a safe sky
a sunrise, sunset,
(that i can remember)
INFINITELY LILITHI am not dead for I cannot die,
once Man thought I could be easily misused,
exiling me to an epilogue no longer remembered
as he blotted out my blush from staining
the Earth's chrysalis rind, if only he knew
that beneath my touch knowledge took root
and pumpkins were hollowed out into shapes
-seedless and skinless-as infinite as the mind.
I am not dead, I cannot die
for I am the memory of primevel bliss,
though blackened my skeleton still exists,
licking the Silence clean so my name can
bite more soundly, a thousand serpents hiss
from my nebula center, welcoming to me
my children who bring the blood that feeds
my dessicated garden, ravenously growing,
I cannot regret for I live too purely to repent
the pushing and prodding of my blossoms to be
known by the timeless exuberance of eons past,
in the Moonlight I move and speak of dark things
not really dead and the light not really blessed
without me being known first, infinitely I say
I am not dead for I cannot die.
I am Lilith.
In the WoodsIn the woods my spirit wanders
it goes where now my feet shall follow
the trees, they speak with silent tongues
where wind will pass through every branch
my eyes alight with newfound life
I know this is my lasting home
the ground beneath receives me warmly
soft-spun soil has kissed my feet
the air around has touched me deeply
soaking in my every pore
the birds are singing in the trees
with peeping frogs drawn up and down
the waters of the streams are murm’ring
the distance now is not so far
and what is near is father still
the world it breathes in through the roots
where my soul is rising to
digging deep in untold heights
my spirit wanders with the breeze
here is where my people lived
where they fought and drank and built and died
the forest is our endless home
whence our finest tribes did hail
fare we well to come back home now
to bring soft flesh to bare
bear it out along the way
softest skin on rough hewn bark
the palm may breathe in with the wood
and out the lungs give a cath
The Lost Who WanderI find myself
at the feet of a god,
not with expectation,
praying falsely for
of divine intervention,
but out of sheer desperation,
like those who murmur
prayers to St. Jude,
within the darkness
where there is none
over the rocks
with the blind,
not counting how many
along the way,
all to hear enigmatic
from the parched
of a mad woman
with hallucinatory visions
living in a cave
which sweeps over me
in waves of nausea.
I martyr myself
for your pain,
and grieve unaccountably
for your loss,
it seers through me,
like St. Sebastian
I find myself penetrated
full of holes, bearing the marks
of a guilt which should
never have been my own.
But that dose not entirely
absolve me, there is
no escape from my own
all I can do is watch you
and wait for dead prayers
to be answered
by the indifferent
sages who devour
our fates making
bets as they attempt
at the endisthmus tossed over the edge
wipes the bull's back
in the odourless sun
the tiger could rest
could perhaps be crossed
the temple is marble,
white and final
the boy stands up
Now, BecauseNow is the time to be tough.
Even though you don't want to be,
even though you'd rather just weep.
Now is the time to be strong.
Even though everything in you cries,
screams against it.
Now is the time to be happy.
Even though all you care about is fading,
falling rapidly into the background.
Because weeping does nobody good.
Not even you.
Because faltering only hurts you.
Not even screams help.
Because happiness is the glue
that is holding you
that is keeping you
from bursting apart at the seams.
Because even though everything, everything
Is falling away and is meaningless,
("Meaningless! Meaningless!" cries the Teacher)
You still need to ignore your grief
Keep moving and
It'll be fine.
Now is the time to be tough.
Even though it's so hard,
the hardest thing you've ever done.
Now is the time to be strong.
Even though yo
UntitledToday, Father, we need Your aid
For in the in the present, battles rage
With Your guidance, victory will be made
And Your praise will be sung from age to age
Memories of Days of Peace to ComeMemories of Days of Peace to Come
Midnight, silence echoes through the void;
A sight once seen, the earth ever recalls.
In wordless wait, time comes to an end;
A tale of anguish, by curse and decay,
To be cleansed by the coming of a King.
Heat goes away as all things perish;
Universe being poured out unto death,
Longing for the hour of redemption,
Whence the high price of man's sin is paid,
Foretold since the old days of the fall.
Mountains weep with great tears from the heights;
Magma blood erupts through earthbound pores;
Pressure tightens the core in the deep.
Humble, the moon comforts grounded cries;
Thrice the quakes submit to divine will.
All of nature stands tortured and shamed
By the bloody hands of foul mankind;
Murderous, desecrating the holy.
The deep growl of God's wrath reverberates
Like judgement on atoning innocence.
Starlight pierces the black of the night;
Words of white tell their ancient witness.
The firmament bleeds its precious glow;
Holy brilliance she
A Walk With the Poet- Canto 2- The Ink of Exile
From behind me came voice and word...
Both new, and friendly to my ears.
In a sense did I now feel safe presence.
"A descendant of Cerberus was he...
So vile are those beasts.
Though shall you fear not, as you are protected."
I turned to find, through a doorway
bursting through with light in abundance...
The poet of Florence, in form of spirit.
Dressed the white and red of his portraits.
With upon his head, a crown of leaves,
Whose veins were black with ink.
"Poet before me, I beseech from thee, answers,
For once I had many, and now I have none!
Assist me, as I lost more than ever."
My head hung in shame,
like some criminal on the gallows...
I knew not the true reasons for my shame.
"I have many times prayed,
and my faith have I kept!
But once more, I am adrift...
Like a ship is my being, lost at sea...
My body, the temple...crumbling with erosions.
My soul fears the twists and turns of time."
"Hold thy tongue," he commanded, "And worry not!
Sent to you is the guide before thee,
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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