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How to Let Go"How deep is a lake
If it goes on forever?"
You ask me as
We tire swing over
Our feet painting the waters
A crisscross of ripples,
Too afraid to let go,
Release our hold and dive
For fear of never resurfacing.
I do not know
And I wish to never
The answer to such questions,
So I keep quiet
And speculate as
You loosen your grip
And fall back,
Letting the depthless
Catch your fall
To find out for
SlippingWhat happens if I go mad?
I do ordinary things. I type essays on steadily crowding Word documents. I visit friends' houses, wait until they leave the room, and then down a glass of vodka--pour myself another glass while they're away. I pet my cat. I watch TV and surf Wikipedia. I say hello to people on the street and thank clerks when they give me my bags and blush when I visit the gynecologist and apologize when I bump into people.
But at the same time, I don't know if I'm sane. Am I the appropriate person to gauge my sanity? Perhaps there has to be a second party, a person to examine me and bop me on the nose and tell me it's all right, there's nothing wrong. There's nothing wrong with me.
Or someone who smiles and then frowns and drifts into uncertainty, tilting their head and furrowing their brow and saying, "Perhaps you should visit me again tomorrow...."
I don't want there to be a second party.
If I lose my mind, will they let me still do my ordinary things? My pleasant things. M
TrainThe walls have faces.
They are blank faces; they are muddled and aged, wholly expressionless. They reflect their emptiness back into our eyes, scarring us.
They are alarmingly clear. It is alarmingly bright in here.
The light shudders out in dots and dashes from the windows, the windows that reveal nothing. The light scatters and bounces off the walls. Here, then there.
And now it is dark. The shadows claw their way up the faces in the walls, revealing a twisted countenance, a new vacancy.
The lights are shining once again.
They are spotlights, glaring down from above and behind and everywhere. It hurts. I can hardly see the walls in their astonishing sheen. I can hardly see the ghastly contortions amassing on my fellow passengers' faces.
The dark smothers us, mercilessly.
I shut my eyes. I can feel the wheels reverberating beneath us. It is undeniably a phantom sensation. We are still.
An abrupt and miniscule sound comes to my attention, and I open my eyes. A silhouetted man stands be
MothI'm caught up in the funny
accent, and the rugged
A smile wide and
White, straight teeth,
Illuminated dully in the
School is dull.
And yet, again, I find myself
Frowning, in something like
embarrassment at the
glare of your green eyes
on me, your face
too close for comfort,
There is something like
In your eyes, taunting
subtly, as you laugh
Such charm is
Enough to draw the
Am I a moth?
I hope not.
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
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.
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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