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The Rent Is DueThe rent is due and I don't have the money.
I walk through the lobby, past the doorman who gives me a scowl, out the revolving door.
My father calls. He only ever talks about the bad things.
It's cloudy and gray outside. It's always like that this time of year.
My hands are shaking and I desperately need a smoke.
I see a man and ask if I can bum one off him. He tells me to get away from him.
He calls me a 'hobo'.
Am I? I'm going to be. Soon.
The rent is due and I don't have the money.
I have a mid term that I haven't even started yet.
I should go back inside, but why?
I lost my wallet last week. Someone maxed out all of my cards.
I have a headache.
Cars pass. People speak.
The rent is due and I don't have the money.
When I go home I'm sure someone will be there.
Someone will have called.
Someone will be there.
My furniture will be gone, and my things will be packed.
I have such a headache.
I smell awful.
I look awful.
I'm a 'hobo'.
I have a headache.
I smell bad.
I need a smoke.
Permission to ExistFor her to live without me?
It would take desperate measures. Measures that I don't think others would appreciate.
I, for one, act automatically. I do not think about my actions.
The world is made up of actions. Actions, and consequences.
I don't make choices. I don't change my path. And why?
Because the world is actions and consequences.
Intentions are lost.
Thought is lost.
Blame is lost.
Only consequences have staying power.
And the consequences of me, a vital part of her personality and mind and being, leaving her?
Well, they would be devastating.
And frankly, I don't want to leave.
As much as she'd like to think I can just pull away, pretend as though nothing has ever happened...
Life does not work that way.
Avoiding the problems you have will not make them go away.
And if you try, it will all turn out for the worse.
She thinks she can escape me, but she has never been able to in the past.
And well, to be frank, I don't want her running off.
I don't need permission t
Validating Your Tears (I'm Sorry) But what you don't know is that I'm frustrated that I can't write a poem about the thorns growing on my veins and icebergs rooting in my heart. I can't write about the void in me when he no longer plays me Beethoven's music or sings me out of tune songs. Because there's none. I don't feel anything when he leave.
Truth is, I want to feel crushed, and heart broken. Because at least sadness can prove that I loved him and that what he said about me never loving him is wrong. And I don't want to prove him right with being happy.
I want to write something beautiful about him. I want to write a poem because that's what I know, that's the only thing that had me getting my emotions back in boxes. I want to write a poem about us smiling with dandelions on the roadsides and crying without rain to validate our tears. I want to write so
Words on a ScreenLife has been a v i c i o u s cycle.
I’ve stuck in it for years, since senior year of high school. This was when friends turned away, turned into things I didn’t need. Depression destroyed a lot of what I held dear, leaving my life in shambles. Somehow I made it through to the end of the year. Somehow I managed to grab hold the edge of my cap, and managed to toss it up into the air, and join my Class of 2011 in celebrating the feat of graduating high school.
It wasn’t until I was out in the real world that I realized the saying, “You are only friends with people at school because you saw them five days a week.” Quickly I watched as everyone got married off, or had kids… within the simple span of months since we took pictures on the tarp covered graduation floor. The men wandered off to their missions, the women started families. Everyone I was around for the final year of high school quickly ran off to their fut
KaterleYou are what taught me how to love, your breathing my dictionary. I sleep best when you're snoring next to me, as you're doing it right now...
We met when I was about ten, and I wasn't doing well. You came with sky-blue eyes and the old lady you just wouldn't stand to be separated from. The beauty of winter, but your heart was a camp fire in the deep dark woods, a comfort to the lost wanderers like me. When my head ached from crying too much, I had a soft place to lay it down on you. Your fur dried all my tears. Your gentle purring drowned all thoughts of sad and grey.
That house was never my home; but they say home is where the heart is, and you were there, and I stayed with you.
Would I still be alive if I had run away back then?
Would it even be life without you?
And whenever my heart hurts, I have you. Your sweet, gloved paws to touch my face, your calm heartbeat to talk to me. The only thing it ever says is 'I love you.'
It's an echo of my own, it's the voice of all my thoughts. T
do it.Suffering isn't always pain.
Sometimes its having to itch your finger,
when you wanna strike a match,
and watch it all just fucking burn.
The World Is A Trigger: Social Works. It all began with a look outside the window. Perhaps they could have of told them that they had no daughter, or that she wasn't there... But where is there use in lying when all their names are in he system? Before there was a chance, they met her eyes. After adult-talk, the sheriff walked in. His words burned against the rim of her cranium, the way he directed her to clean her room... But truly, was that his worry? Or was it the way the black mold on the living room walls curled so delicately, as though purposefully designed. Perhaps he wanted her to start simple and keep her hidden in lies, despite the obvious truth that returned her glares. Then again, maybe it was due to the dog's papers, full of business, that the sheriff slipped on. Maybe, again, he wanted her to begin small. But what is so small when he questions her desire to live in this Hell? Had she known the world, had she known a true, "normal" household, perhaps the sense would have met her to beg them to sav
masochist.It's not the simple pain that I enjoy,
it's simply the pain of loving you,
which gives me my sick thrill.
lover I will never haveto the lover I will never have...
What was I in your eyes?
A one night stand?
A friend? An enemy? A lover?
Though, I thought it was strange... You always said you hated me.
Always pushed me away.. But I guess that's alright.
You called me cute though. That day, after school.
It left an imprint on me. And I wondered.
What do you really think of me?
Just what am I to you?
We never kissed. Never-- did, anything of that nature.
School's full of pretty boys.. And hot girls..
Why call me cute? Why not some chick you got pregnant?
There's videos of it, you know.. Online.. Tons..
We want to share our bodies with the world. We want them, to notice us.
To touch us. Show us how they make us feel..
I'm just a guy.. Nothing special about me.. Not at all..
Still, you called me cute. And I guess..-- I wondered what you meant by that.
Maybe it was nothing, so I'm overreacting. But maybe, maybe it was something.
I'll never know.
Though days will go by. Before long, you
fin.and before I knew it
I fell into a pit of utter darkness
falling and falling
as I kept crumbling apart
times like these
will not occur forever
and I can assure you
that is the truth
before you start to believe
it is indeed the end of the road
look above of you
shines down upon you
and you had never noticed it
and before you realize the truth
you already have found the end of
the tunnel filled with utter darkness
just to find yourself
in the broad daylight again
AwakeShe must be so peaceful when she sleeps.
The way she must look - so complacent and calm, no frown or grimace. Her eyes would be shut, her breathing so even and soft...not the harsh and ragged breath of anger that I am so used to hearing, even now. What a nice change it would be...curls fluttering down over her face, wavering back and forth in the wake of her breath...
Her chest would rise and fall, smoothly and sweetly, her clothes wrinkling a little with every inhalation. She would barely move, as well - a small twitch or shift here and there, maybe scratching her arm once or twice. It would be...almost cute, perhaps, to watch her. Perhaps her nose might wrinkle up upon the feelings of discomfort, as well...my favorite part would be to see the smile she holds in her sleep, to hear the things she mumbles softly.
But in this moment, she is awake. I see the beautiful brown eyes that sparkle with joy when I am not around. For, when I am, they glare at me. I dislike that. When she glares a
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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