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AngelsI am no one's angel.
Was I once one? You may ask
Though that was a long time ago;
A very long time ago.
I will not pretend to be your angel.
Never, will I be,
If you need an angel,
Then don't I need one too?
Hear them fly away.
Fly away so free...
I Dream...Weird things have been happening to me. I don't know why. I don't even know how....Or what. It seems I don't know anything anymore. But I dream...I dream of many things. Sometimes I dream of the same thing....over and over and over. And I wake up. And I can't remember. No matter how I try....I cannot...grasp....whatever I need to grasp...
Weird things have been happening to me. Help. Help me. Help me remember...I need to remember. Please...help me. Help. Me. Remember.
Nothing. There is nothing. Not that nothing of silence, not the nothing I'm used to...Just simply....nothing. The nothing of....absence. Then there is that light. A light. I could not tell you the source...it was source less. A white blinding light. No heat is coming from it...no warmth at all. It is simply...there. It burns though, it burns so bad. It blinds me...a white blinding light....I feel so dirty...
I am dressed. I could not tell you what I was dressed in...but I was dresse
Abstract -- A PoemDreams carved out of marble
Diamonds in the sand
Tears we think are angels
Into them our symbols brand
Nails we think grow deeper
With every passing sun
Tell your deadly secrets
Tell of the deeds undone
Somebody stop the "liberty"
Before this world unravels
Somebody clear the fog
Before we end up in the gravel
Where can you go
To clear your head?
'Cause you better go there now
You can't see that far up ahead
Even though you swear you do
Promise me you won't talk to strangers
Tell me that's not the girl you screwed
Tell me everything will be alright
Tell me the unknown
Isn't a fright
Black is the new white
Darkness is the new light
What happened to 'once upon'?
Somebody tell me what's going on.
The more horrifying this world becomes
The more I see
Somebody help me.
Somebody let them free.
The Author and the PoemYou are a poem with God as the author. God never stops writing. He intends to make you the stunning masterpiece He created you to become.
At some point in the writing process, you, as the poem, will decide you don't want to become what the Author intended you to be. You will try to write yourself without your Author. And you find that you can't. No one can. You may despise God and blame Him for all the scribble you've become. And even then, when you've gone and messed yourself up, He doesn't throw you away. He doesn't rip you to shreds and move on to the next poem to be written. He doesn't abandon His work ever. He doesn't hate you, and He doesn't give ever up. No, He waits patiently by your side, there when you've realized you can't write yourself. And when you're ready to give yourself over to Him, so that He may write His beautiful masterpiece, He's there too. And He'll take back the pen from you and begin to write again, fixing this and that, adding this, erasing that. It may take
Spill your secret to the clouds
Come out here, listen to this:
An age of
Anguished pasts, of
Breathe in, breathe out...
Essence of this
Fame that it's given, it's due
Sneak a peak at this beauty sky
Nothing could ever be lik-
E when the butterflies
Smile softl -
Y and the faeries
Begin to dance
Angels are never
Normal, not still, nor
Poets, you are, they are...
Tear drops fall
Art is created s-
Trewn across, this secret is
Buried perhaps where great treasure is
Will you have the courage to look for it?
This hidden message in the clouds....
The TrundlerThe waste land behind the fire station is always silent. No birds sing there, and even the wild rabbits and feral cats avoid it. Weedy wildflowers nod their seasonal heads in the breeze. Lying fallow in the midst of housing developments, shopping malls, the new movie theater — the vacant lot stands out like a knife wound on a woman’s placid face, shocking, brazen, ugly.
It is always empty. Except for one thing: a ragged heap of old trash, all nasty black tar paper and vicious snarls of rusted wire, car parts and broken glass and other junkyard jetsam. The embodiment of injury waiting to happen, an invitation to a tetanus shot... the city never hauled it away. No one ever wants anywhere near it; it radiates an eerie sense of calculating watchfulness.
And at night, it wanders.
When darkness falls, and the last cars heading into the hives of tract housing stop illuminating the asphalt with moving-picture shadows, it… unfolds. Bitter, broken tangles, grotesquely mov
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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