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Thinking of YouIt’s kind of hard to be me and walk around like I didn't do anything, like I’m not guilty. Walk around like I didn't work with him, like I didn't make all the wrong choices and like I didn't turn down the chance, like I didn't do anything wrong like I’m not guilty, its so hard. It’s hard not to walk around and just get lost, swept up into a fog of what we were and what we could have been, engulfed by a silver mist telling the stories I long to be my reality again and taunting me with the things that could have been mine. Taunting me with sidelong glances and fleeting but meaningful looks, of walks in the moonlight and chaste kisses that held so much feelings, your hands through my hair and the feelings of safety I found in your arms, the dramatic change from you being in control to a helpless child when we were alone. Taunting me with the feelings we had for each other and the lingering touches and sloppy kiss up and down my neck in the middle of the night.
To depression, for creating days without endWake up to the realization that you've been awake
for seconds, minutes, hours.
You've been awake in this warm, dark room
and you don't know how long it's been
but now you're conscious
and it starts again--
the pain, strong and steady, in your chest.
You gain consciousness in this too warm morning
and your thoughts whir in endless loops
because it's either that or face the weight in your chest.
Light breaks though the window, soft and unwelcome
but you take it as a reluctant gift--
a new distraction from the feelings awake in your chest.
Awake, but not conscious.
So you think yourself in circles a little while longer
waiting for those quiet pains
(the constant reminder)
to gain consciousness.
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