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Another For My Dreams
Another for my dreams, I suppose.
The films that haunt my closed down eyes,
like forlorn theaters for the unfit for society.
Five stars to those that
forever plague my memory.
For time and time again shall I return to
those revelations from the depths of my darker mind,
there in the Clockwork Orange where
shall I be force fed
the curses of my toils.
Another for my dreams, I suppose.
I write as no critic but as the lonely viewer,
left only to further rot at the closing of
my eyes to this reality that as of my past,
I have thus suffered
and pleasured myself to fate.
The parallel worlds to my own are too often darker
than this of my current residence.
A vicious reminder of my blessings as it were to seem?
Or not more than the ramblings of my
flourishing insanity, dwelling within.
Another for my dreams, I suppose.
The bane of my insomnia,
the lack of needed rest and atonement
for my wasted efforts to make
better the surrounding lives,
for here does all I know die or kill.
Nightmares are th
The Body Count of Denial
I would rather desire to attempt something new.
Spontaneous to my soul or soon to be lack there of.
My free will, the miracle is
tainted by my self inflicted curses.
Though you only see the monster through
your morally constructed eyes,
I see myself and others in a cracked mirror,
alone in my own dark little world.
A part of me, in the void of sanity perhaps,
or to the side shackled to some fiend of
the Torturous Realm, a part of me in
powerful fragments lives in this desire of mine.
Only thus far in my most welcome dreams, to others nightmares,
have the fairytales for which I smile come
to a fictional life in the mind,
lost and replaced at so young an age.
I am but a son, a daughter, a brother, a sister,
a father, a mother. An individual of no demons
in the light of open eyes,
but demon of my own flesh whilst so alive.
Of Hell am I born, within the world of man,
unknowing until crosses the first thought
in mind to inspire the act in question,
well and fully aware with the catalyst vic
Yet lo come the false teachers,
Wielding not but forked tongues and lying words.
Their attempts are at fame and to take glory from our God,
yet so easy are they to see.
Even the meek and gullible know of your filthy existence.
A benign tumor, it is obvious where you dwell.
The only purpose you serve is as an entertaining
reminder of the Great War in which we are all caught.
Deception and confusion are but tools of the trade,
driven by arrogance on your path to Hell!
Both believers and non, shall mock you...calling you out
as the pathetic beast behind rugged wool.
You are but a weak parasite; doomed to fail as
your host repeatedly flicks you away.
You are but a fly, buzzing around the eyes of sheep and shepherds,
swatted away by basic reason.
You are but a petulant child, like that of Lucifer himself, the enemy!
And your demise will be your only true accomplishment.
The only martyrdom you serve shall be one throughout the bowels of Hell,
as demons cheer your worthless name in recognitio
Written, Directed, Produced, Starring.
Consequence flows through textbook history,
Written in the finger prints of the king of the hill.
A lengthy red ledger yet finished,
printed on currency and flag alike.
You dance there in Hell along side excuses
waving with sulfuric pride in the winds
where the warnings burn in the breath of
fire constantly exhaled over lying tongues.
I quote Patton in regards to God's mercy,
as you are aligned only with the source of
sulfur and flame, here in a world where even
my senses question the fulfillment of cravings.
Demise by fire upon the dancing mocking birds
lacking feathers and sporting deformity past
the conformity that does blend them so weakly
to mass that turns to bite itself in every mirror.
Blame the Devil as you will, freedom was your
Little Horn, poisonous to the very world on which
we live and die in the mist and haze of confusion and deception.
You are the editor holding the pen.
No better are they to the enemy on the shoulder
screaming silently in the ear as the addicts quiver,
Back Into Wonderland
of what I was once fond
I wish now to forget.
As unforgiving were the events
transpired amid regression.
Up build my walls once again,
for my invited guest,
is now an intruder
amongst my bleeding heart.
Back to into the rabbit hole.
Descending I go into the demented realm...
spiraling back downward into my Hell
where my home burns.
Fight or Flight In the Presence of Logic.
Find your common ground of shedding blood
In the far lands of Else Where,
For here is not the place where bodies should
Fall just short of their own sweat and tears.
It is fear that is the beast you so portray,
And an agenda so immorally laced with false teachings.
Here lies the home, once ancient and grown,
Now rubble in the growing pile
Of humanities excrement.
Its epitaph shall read nothing,
For no words can be written
by the lack of knowledge per this land....
Look your land in its dying eyes,
Listen to its final breaths...
The billowing sands that blow
Erosion into its elderly face.
make your way to the place in which you slumber,
And allow your mind to bestow upon you
Nightmares that bring you to regret your chosen ways of sin,
and method of self-destruction.
Taken by so full of self,
The rotten husk now lies
Half buried in a partially cremated state...
Still a home for its dying cells
The soon to be carcass,
Awaiting the bills of hovering vultures
Sprinting Towards Demise
By burning waters, and smoldering bridges,
I await the genesis of our animosity.
Make the move that gives me permission to strike,
make the move that will bring about your end.
Near draws the line that which I advise you to never cross.
Though to my eyes comes the image of your sprinting legs.
It would seem, that through your veins flows pure pestilence,
and that you wish to bring upon me, nuisances by any cost.
Good God, such a fool bound for my throat,
knowing not the patient blade that waits.
Honor averts it's eyes, as your charge draws to an end.
It wishes this good and done, just as I.
A swift jerk of my arm to your direction,
and make you, a last descent to the ground below.
Then burden leaves my shoulders,
as life outward, pours from your filthy heart.
It's all in your Head
Perplexity has befallen a catharsis longed for,
Trapped in a quick sand that ascends what I know as time,
as that sand descends into a slowing heart.
I walk atop a prayer, where a chosen lantern
is the only thing keeping away my familiar beasts of brimstone.
Onward goes the journey like the pulse that
only with a limit beyond my comprehension,
allows that sand to be as quick as its own will allows,
what with the mind of its own, like some sentient
being of my imagination, planted like a seed by an old devil on a shoulder.
I recall that voice, the sound of my own,
crying out to me from a dark corner in the back of my psyche,
hunched over and wretched in the lacking of light,
seeing only the walls of its cave by Plato,
and the vapor of its troubled breath scoffing at the shadow of hope.
The lantern does well by all means,
yet my heart has become slow and hesitant by the wounds
of its labor, just as these feet, though young have
seen so much and are numb to adventure. I tread now,
A Game of Madlibs
A part of me wonders, wandering in circles,
Screaming silently at the back of the locked room.
This fragment questions, off the tongue of curiosity,
so grand a spectrum. This part of me grows by
passing ticks of a talking clock that can
never desist from its natural noise.
Going mad as the timeline grows, the circles
became a spiral without my noticing, so novice
this child of God like every other. Though true
wisdom is beheld in knowing I know nothing,
yearn I still for a word bank for the riddles
of endless blanks on a script in the making.
Potential gives every answer the chance
to be truth, lie or dare. An effect for every cause,
spoken and untold like infinite stories written
yet never printed with stable ink while the earth
shakes in a madness of its own. Yet here I tread,
creating spirals in square one.
Poem: The World Looks Better With My Eyes ClosedThe World Looks Better With My Eyes Closed
I know the dark underbelly of this place
I know the black underneath the sun
I've lived the horror of the nights
I know how this world works
And I know that it looks better
With my eyes closed
Starving children and homeless families
Are living among us and around us
The tragedies of this place will never go away
The hurricanes and tornadoes never cease
The crying eyes and broken hearts
Will never leave
I could think back
And remember all the lights
But I still know
The world looks better with my eyes closed
Ignorance is bliss, it's sad but true
To see the earth through a child's eyes
Would be quite a wonder
Everything so pure and innocent
It seems though,
The older we get
The better we used to be
All we do is deny it all
Continuing to let all of
The potheads and whores
Walk around, self-absorbed
I see the horror of the younger generation
It's unfolding right in front of us all
Yet there's nothing we can do to stop it
Try and try, we'll
Playing GodPlaying God
Hate isn't healing
Too often it's killing
And feelings aren't spared in the process of stealing a life
Stealing a father, a mother, a sister, a brother, a daughter, a son, a husband, or wife
Or maybe just stealing a friend
In the end what you take is a person connected
By strands of affection protected by nothing
But pure unconditional love
And when hearts are infected
And words are inflected
With currents of loathing
The booming voice of some being above
It's these people you hurt
Not just the ones in the dirt
Who feel the effect
Of your hate indirectly
Connecting when push comes to shove
You call me a monster
A monster that loves?
Seems kind of silly to me
Practice your preaching
Or risk only reaching
An audience too blind to see
Tolerance doesn't imply your support
It only requires you do not cavort
As the only opinion worth holding
And when your values conflict
With more sensible edict
Forego the sociopolitical molding
You see people are people
Opiates And NicotineLet the journey begin
To a place where time has no meaning
Sound is feeling
And darkness is morphed into light
To our friend euphoria
Let his presence take you away
Invite him in
and never see that side of life again
Everything becomes so simple
But brings the joy of a thousand days
Spent in bliss
Every hour filled
With an ever pleasant apathy
For anything but the new understanding
Of this life
Your aches will fade
And lungs shall fill
Fire it up
And don't let it burn out
This is the way life is suppose be
But isn't without him
This rush may be dangerous
But peace of mind
Is always worth the risk.
PictureThey say a picture speaks a thousand words,
where a word just speaks but one,
so let me paint a picture for you,
before the day is done,
Over the horizon you see,
the trees are going down,
the river seems ablaze,
with fire and ashes all around,
My screams are in the distance,
begging for some help,
my screaming makes no difference,
you smile to watch me melt,
The colors of my painting,
start spilling on the floor,
the heat the flames are creating,
makes the color run some more,
The canvas begins to char,
as my face blackens with suit,
you can here the trees crash to the ground,
if you listen hard,
You close your eyes to breath,
from the painting that you see,
but when you open your eyes again,
the paintings a reality,
Your chest is heavy with smoke,
and I just stand and watch you choke,
I promise this is no joke,
about the painting I'm talking about,
You decide to lay down,
to stop from falling to the ground,
I lay beside you sound,
as the flames lick my night gown,
You scream out in p
Wake up loveHush now,
I'm sorry the dream must end.
It's time to wake up
and face the world.
Reality is harsh,
the people are cold,
that's how it is
and you must wake up.
For you have been asleep long enough.
Time to wake love,
and be with your people
they wait for you
and have never given up.
You can't let them down.
The alarm's going off,
and reality is waiting.
You are only human
and cannot do much
but everyone is important
and life is waiting just for you.
Can you hear their cries?
And the bellows of pain?
You can stop them
but only if you wake up.
It's time to wake up love,
and face the world.
They cry for your return
and you can't let them down.
I'm a PoetI'm a poet.
And because I'm a poet,
I have the pride of a poet,
and the background of an artist.
Yes as a poet.
I am overlooked in the group
for the work that is drawn,
and the art that is colored by the painters
I am a writer
and though my words hold power
they are seen as nothing more than words
and never get brought to their original intent
I am a writer
whose every move is watched
whose art is critiqued harsher than others
who's still unknown as an artist
I am an author,
who wears my heart on my sleeve
who leaves everything bare to judgment
who never asks for more than is due
I am an artist,
but I don't always get treated as such
Lovely AnneI once met a girl named Anne
and what a lovely girl was she.
She sat in corners and talked
and talked when no one listened.
While lovely Anne was so lovely
no one went near lovely Anne
and her never-ending talking.
Lovely Anne with black hair
and dark skin. Never listened
to the voice of society.
Lovely Anne talked of a world
so unlike our own.
No one went near her,
but everyone listened
to the thoughts of a wonderful world.
Lovely Anne lived in a world
where the clocks struck thirteen
where everyone loved
where everyone smiled
and tears were never shed.
The walls and floors
objects and papers
that she talked to day and night
held to her words
and wished for her world.
Poor Lovely Anne had no friends.
But lived in a world that was entirely her own.
Lovely Anne who never left her world
and thought reality was imaginary.
I'm an Artist TooYou know, I’m an artist too,
And I think I’ve figured out
The difference between me and you,
You let your creativity sprout
With colors, lines, shadows, and light,
Things that appease the eye without a doubt,
Instantly gratified by the sight,
All your audience must do is take it in,
But it’s different for me, because I write,
The pictures I paint you must imagine,
Requiring a strong mind and imagination,
Since you’ll only be able to see them within,
This can prove to be a tricky form of creation,
For it requires work on the audience’s part,
And from this stems some of my frustration,
My audience must first choose to even start,
Because reading anything takes time,
Then they must understand the words I impart,
So I’ll try to convey my meaning through rhyme,
It does not always work all that well,
But people like it when words have a chime,
I paint pictures with the stories that I tell,
I paint them infinite ways inside of your head,
I paint each stroke
ProcrastinationDon't slip on slopes you spilled your hopes on
Don't poke holes while you float, now your boats gone
And you'll sink
And you'll slide
And I'll watch
While you die
Procrastination is the poison I endure
Compare work to masturbation, solidation's not the cure
I tried to find some friends who offered motivation pure
But they're just as trapped as I am, lazy and insecure
I speak to echos seeking exits out my mind
I can't escape the cycle, spinning wheels and wasting time
Reality is vexing, rationality declines
I suspect consensus keeps my consciousness confined, 'cause
Every time I think of busting out my scalp
I get a visit from mistrust and doubt...
They tell me not to go that route
Just tough it out and adjust my pout
And leave behind everything I can go without
So I dump my friends, wear the fakest of grins
My hollowed head spins around cake I wanna win
Put it on my plate, say my grace, let's dig in
Before realizing my mistake, I'm alone again
So without the drive, or work ethic to pre
Where lies our summers warmth
Too deep to make the cut...
Thus questions lacking answers even decent...
Unworthy to our ears...
The actions, and lack there of...
there they lie, for the record
Before us, the tombstone
Made up of page after page.
For the wish of personal gain
As from above, God weeps.
The grass was of greed...
The dirt of lead and uranium
The sky wept blood,
Washing clean the crusted oil
From the eroded stone.
"His weeping calls to us"
Said I, to the ignoring ears surrounding.
To busy were they lamenting
Over the grave now shifting
As poured down a hard wrath of Heaven.
Forgive me, this tangent,
As the summers warmth has gone from me...
Making me cold with a hatred so bitter.
Understand you, the will of your ways
Oh holders of power and ability?
It is of them which I speak,
It is of their impious folly
About which I rant on without rhyme.
Do your simple minds comprehend?
Or is the grass too high for my voice to reach?
Parenting for Sex AddictsThe half-day.
We are not those folks that need an occasion to try. And that’s what they call it, too. Trying. As if the very idea of it is taxing. It’s not taxing and we are not those people.
No. We do not go by some magical calendar. Schedules aren’t really our thing in general. That’d be too organized. Too stuffy. Too… I don’t know… too planned. And we’re not the type of people whom plan.
If we could—plan—our lives would be much different. I think. It’s hard to say because this is how we’ve always been.
Our very togetherness is a result of impulse. I’m almost certain that the amount of time it took us to decide to move in together was significantly shorter than the amount of time it took us to remember each other’s names. We might have had our first conversation moments after that first… what I mean to say is we didn’t plan. Because planning would have been much t
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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