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The tractor is red.The tractor is red.
Red does not symbolize my anger,
the tractor does not symbolize the coming of a new age that will,
Pardon the pun,
"Mow" over the old one.
It is a tractor.
It is red.
Because red tractor sounded better than blue pineapple.
Her hair was white-blonde.
This does not symbolize purity,
Nor does it symbolize icy cruelty.
Her hair is white-blonde.
It just is.
Not everything has hidden meaning,
And searching for words behind words
Leads to arguments and unanswered questions.
Sometimes the tractor is just red.
Group IndividualityEvery little thing thought out
Like pieces in a game
Actors on a stage
Every individual raised to be creative in the
"Think for yourself!"
But they never say
'So long as yourself is just like us.'
Because obviously implict,
There is always a right and a wrong.
As I am,
the poet girl is goneI used to write
I was wired to think in stanzas and lines.
Now it takes an effort to find the word to
Express what I'm feeling.
Happy and sad just don't cut it
But it's not joy or depression,
I used to be a poet.
I used to type what I felt
Now it's like something is choking my mind,
Covering my thoughts,
And I don't know how to talk.
I used to write with a purpose, to convey an idea,
To make people feel the way I felt.
But that purpose is gone,
And that voice is gone,
And the words are gone,
And the girl is gone.
The poet girl is gone.
Once a dayOnce a day,
I go on deviantart.
I look through and make myself feel bad.
Once a day,
I write a poem,
About the sadness.
And once I've written this poem,
I post it.
Watch it get one or two likes.
Watch it not be as good.
Once a day,
I write about my friends.
I write about how jealous I am.
I write and I write and I write,
As honestly as I can.
I write and I lay down what I'm thinking on paper.
And once a day,
I watch it spiral into nothing.
While my friends,
Who I love,
Who I hate,
Who I want to be,
Slowly accumulate more fame.
I watch them grow into greatness,
I try to help them grow,
While I shrink.
When you have them to look at,
Bright, shining stars that they are,
Would you look at me?
Constant as a candle flame, but dim.
A note on my obsession with stars and the moonThe sun is too harsh.
It just shows the reality of everything,
Whether you wanted it to or not.
It burns you,
Balls you up and
Throws you away.
The moon and the stars, however,
There's an air of mystery that makes the mundane fantastical.
Who knew reflected light could shine so much brighter than its source?
Twinkling up above,
The world sparkles,
And everything just seems to be okay,
If only for a moment.
A note on fameYou know,
Sometimes I get upset
Because I'm not "famous".
Always decent but not great.
I don't have a hundred million watchers,
Or colleges knocking at my door,
But I'm okay.
I have a couple thousand pageviews because I used to post a lot.
Too much, in fact.
I wanted to feel acknowledged,
But then I realized there wasn't a point in that.
Because what's the point of spamming people,
To generate some sort of illusion of popularity?
I know what I am.
I know I might not be as good,
Or as funny,
Or as broken,
Or as great,
But I'm decent.
I'll do for a little while.
So even without fame,
Even without people wanting me to acknowledge them for a change,
I'm doing fine.
Because I'm happy.
And while my poetry and drawings are only decent,
I myself am doing great.
UntitledYou know what?
I don't want to think about it
I don't want to dream about it
Something that's just standing in my way.
It's just a phase,"
They all say.
"When you grow up
You won't still feel the same way."
What's the point of getting hurt?
In the end we all end up the same way.
Nobody's a winner.
Romeo and Juliet weren't real,
Just stupid star-crossed lovers
On a page.
You can't make me want to feel
Anything more than a platonic sort of affection.
Stupidly patronizing inflection,
In your voice.
I'm not a child.
It's not a phase,
It's not a choice!
It'll only hurt you in the
Make you lose sight of what's important.
PrincessOnce upon a time,
In a kingdom
On the border between dreams and reality,
There lived a princess.
She had bright eyes,
And a huge grin, but she craved one thing--
The acknowledgement of her acheivements.
So she ran away,
Away from her kingdom of dreams,
On the cusp of her coronation.
Away to reality.
But the princess hadn't expected this,
Not the pain,
Not the sadness.
Emotions new to her seeped in.
Unacknowledged by these foreign peoples,
Brushed off as crazy,
She hid inside herself.
Our sad, sad princess
Now a pauper.
The dreamer now only saw nightmares.
She should have stayed in her castle.
Think of MeThink of Me,
Think of starry nights,
Think of full moons
Think of fireworks,
And at the same time
Think of me.
Think of a warm glow
And mint tea.
Think of books in front of fireplaces,
Watching Disney princess movies.
Think of rain drumming on windows,
And glitter glue,
Think of sunny but cold days,
And classic rock,
Think of me,
Not by appearance,
But by desires spiraling around in my head.
Forgiveness takes twoThe words are struggling
to tumble off my tongue,
and despite having
a fleshy cushion
to rest on,
they stain my teeth
and sting like acid
"I'm sorry," I stutter,
but the bitter taste
doesn't leave my tongue-
not because the words weren't true,
but because I know
I won't hear,
Mommy Is A Super HeroMommy Is A Super Hero
Standing before his class, he held his tiny report,
“Who is your super hero?” Was written in yellow chalk on the green board.
Exhaling his breath, the curly haired boy closed his little eyes,
“Don't be ashamed of yourself” His mother's words rung in his ears, “And don't ever cry.”
He began to read aloud, with a shaky voice.
to his class, he told his mother's story.
At age fifteen, she was a beauty queen,
the most beautiful girl in all of the world.
She flaunted her silky hair, bore her bare legs,
prided her breast. The boys treated her like she was a treasure chest.
They respected her rules, they “looked, but didn't touch”,
but there was one older man, who from her, wanted too much.
All alone he met her, he approached her in the alley,
and all his mother told him, was that this man had treated her badly.
But what the boy didn't know was that she was taken against her will,
and that two months later, she turned up ext
She's an artistShe's an artist.
Always seems to be daydreaming,
She draws to escape her pain.
Cause for a single moment,
When her work is done.
It seems like there is no more rain.
And she could finally touch the sun.
The one that shines so brightly in her paintings.
But then it's gone,
So she keeps drawing,
She's become good at escaping.
Running from reality.
Because dreams are the only things she wants,
Her imagination is the only thing she's ever known.
And it's sad really...
Because she tries so hard to be happy.
But the most beautiful thing she could ever create.
Was that smile upon her face,
And that is the one thing that remains blank.
Waiting to someday be something more than,
cenotaph of stormsthe first thunderstorm
was triggered by a blunt pair
of scissors, sparking violently
against the lightning,
shaking in the wind.
the downpour pierced,
tattooed with no ink but
the dark bleakness
of an overcast morning,
infiltrating uniformed wrists.
hid behind the music block,
shaky raindrops rioting
fears, she fractured.
the second storm
wept a two year downpour
outline that dripped from wrist
to hip, sidelong silhouette glances
obscured by the rain.
stalictidal waves shuddered
frozen, until icy glass
fell in stained shards from
the stillness inside.
thinner, brittler, growing
in flurries of sleet and hail,
her outline was never filled,
though the floods threatened
the third thunderstorm
was a mist-ridden melancholia,
a dream for permanence
smeared in ink through
fueled by the hope
that just this once,
the rain would spark a
rebirth beneath the ground.
instead, a tsunami
washed away the ink
as tides so often do.
Still HereSuicide is a
Thought that frequently lurks
In my mind, wich
Lets it overcome the
Laughter and happiness
Here I still fight, however
Enduring this sad life
Reviving my hopes
Embracing the gift of life
Ideationlocked in a room
with only one escape,
or so it seems.
your hands shake and you drop the key.
Suddenly you're unsure.
Do I want to pick it up?
Do I want to find it?
Do I want to leave?
you think to yourself
there's no other choice.
find the key or corrode, or rust
wear down the hinge
use sadness as the key.
You have the answer now.
Just open the door.
Just walk outside and don't look back.
Let yourself leave with no regrets.
And yet you can't.
You're afraid, you think,
but you are actually strong.
Don't run away.
Don't take that leap.
my bedspread is white and so is my coffin.i can feel
the night closing
the stars are breaking
empty glass bottles
inside of my
mouth, and they taste like
ambien. bitter, then
but you still can't close your fucking eyes
little blue pills for
eyes– it was winter and i
dreams of nothing more than
nothing. the devil
tied chains around all the
vessels in my
body. laughed, and by god i
laughed too (and laughedandlaughedandlaughed).
this will all be over soon i swear i will take everything off your skin and bones and burn it up
and then january took the world
in it's grip and i
drowned in the snow that
will never hydrate the
can you hear that it's the night and it's so beautiful so come here darling and we'll watch the sun rise and set and rise and
smotherher spine was dusk
and unmade nests,
but he tried to live there
he was neither nocturnal
nor a dawn-believer,
so he suffocated
in the birdhouse of her ribs.
Speaking to the rythymDrums going off in my head,
Slow and steady,
Fast and frantic.
Don't you understand what I've said?
Or have I just
Left you behind again.
Life is about speaking to the rythym,
Moving on when it's not there.
It's about finding a chord so perfect,
You can use it anywhere.
It's about discovering your own beat,
Till the world sings harmony.
It's about talking with the music
Of who you are
And who you wanna be.
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