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The StruggleThough once I said it was adversity
That birthed the most imaginative verse,
In darkness lies no creativity,
Despair itself destroys and gives no birth.
It murders, leaving no recourse for mercy,
Swallowing up the brightest minds, its maw
Insatiable except for vilest cursing
Of self-inflicted wounds all rubbed and raw.
But when the light inside me flickers fire
And cuts through darkness with its needle rays,
The smallest candlelight might then inspire
Poetic justice for defeated days.
In light alone do shadows find their shape,
The struggle from which poems find escape.
WoundsThe time when verses flow most freely from my mind
Is not when life has altogether been too kind:
The echoed strains of joy, what words could catch and capture
The speechlessness of laughter, hearts abrim with rapture?
It's hopelessness and sorrow baring wounds through words,
A crust of scabbed emotions daring to be heard;
It itches mightily, and though you want to rip
Apart the hurt and all reminders in one strip,
It stings to know there is no bottom but an ooze,
This awful spring of inspiration, pain-infused.
But give it time to heal, protect it from all harm,
And off it comes. The skin beneath is new and warm
And paler than before, but solid in its form.
Memory #4: The CostIn my sophomore year, we would have prayer meetings every Wednesday afternoon. I would say that weekly meetups and prayer meetings were the times I learned the most that year. On one level, I learned about prayer itself, and how many different ways you could pray. You could pray through the Word (praying through a psalm was a particular favorite of mine), you could pray in one voice with each other, you could simply praise and adore God, or thank him. Along with my meetups I learned more about confessing in prayer as well. On another level, I learned a lot about the many different things we could intercede for. We would pray for our campus, our ministry, our missionaries, and most importantly, our people and the various facets of their lives. It felt that every prayer meeting was learning a new thing about prayer.
But even more than these substantial lessons, I learned a lot from the older people who led the prayers. Seeing their example as prayerful men and women left a deep impressio
UnspokenUntil the day appointed when I stand
And tell you all the hope you fill in me,
I'll tell you naught of what I understand
Within my heart, unseized by urgency.
For in the promise now I see no need
To haste the swelling feeling deep inside
Nor give up hope: to pray and not to plead,
To slowly bridge this shortening divide.
But we are closer than I could have thought,
And in the light of such proximity
The sentiment our interactions wrought
Are all too easy for your eyes to see.
For now, let this reward you for your wait:
The tenderness my actions indicate.
LifthrasirWhose princely air proudly
Passed the sea in freefalls,
Who sought peace, sword flaming,
Striking words like forgefalls,
Pride of Berk, battleworn,
Breathing life where strife falls,
Prized by Líf in prayer:
Their pressed lips, blessed footfalls.
Away at HomeLord, be my home and all my stay
When even home feels far away:
Let my own kin say what they may,
Lord, be my home and all my stay.
For heaven holds me in its sway,
My single passion day to day.
Lord, be my home and all my stay
When even home feels far away.
Sandwich IslandPotato salad and a turkey bacon:
All it took to show me how the days
Have heaped on like a sandwich in the making.
Twenty years now stacked on bright red trays
With food and paper plates and Styrofoam,
Symbols of good taste and friendly ways.
I wonder what had roused her then to roam
And settle in this aging college town.
She heard me speak the language of her home
And something must have moved her heart deep down
To save my weekly order in her mind.
Some turn to comfort food upon a frown,
And yet more consolation there I find
A fullness of a heartfelt， hometown kind.
Memory #2: NinjaIn the final days of APUSH my junior year, our teacher had us write letters to ourselves five years from now. Last week it came into the mail, and understandably, I was curious to see what my 16 year old self wanted to tell my 21 year old self. As it turns out, he didn’t really have much to say (so my memory of not knowing what to write was confirmed), only to talk to a bunch of my friends and to refer to a game we used to play: Ninja.
I don’t remember who brought Ninja into West Ranch High School, but I remember that when it did hit it was the bomb. The basic premise of the game was that everyone would stand in a circle, and you would count to three. On three, everyone would strike a pose, and taking turns, you would try to hit other people’s hands to get them out. The goal was to be the last person standing.
I’ve played it a couple times in college, and hearing of other people’s different versions, I can safely conclude that we took Ninja way too serious
Memory #1: The Perfect BiteI don't remember what age I was exactly when I had In-N-Out for the first time. It was when I was five or six, around preschool or kindergarten. But I can vividly remember what it tasted like, where we were, and how I earned it.
At the time, I had two major haunts: the Duarte public library and the LA Zoo. Now in those days, the public libraries had a deal of some sort where if you read five books, you could get a certificate for a free hamburger. Being the kind of kid who would check out and read 20 or so books a week, I made short work of it. I remember my mom taking me and my little sister to the In-N-Out in Arcadia, the one that has no indoor seating, and I remember she took us to a park. It was quite a nice summer day, and we sat on a picnic bench in the shade. My mom let me carry the bag, and I remember that I was ravenous by the time we got there. It smelt so good, and when I bit into it, I don't think I have ever had a better bite of a burger than that first bite. Soft bun, sau
I died todayIn a hospital so white,
my eyes and ears open wide.
I take in the smells, people,
the thoughts that gladly ring.
Their cries of pure joy and victory,
leave me surprised and petrified.
I'm not in history..
I died today,
my lungs can breathe.
I died today,
my heart only sings.
My skin is still warm,
eyes still blue and white.
My mouth moves,
smoothing stiff grooves.
My arms raise,
My legs do as I say.
Nothing is injured, bent
and even broken..
Yet I died today..
And I am still alive.
Tender TortureWhy do you torment me, fairest one?
Are you doing it just for fun?
Why must you taunt me with your presence
Being near me and acting in ignorance?
So thin I suffer from translucence
Made see-through with insignificance
As you pass me by my eyes happen to chance
On yours, as if at a dance
Were you looking at me with your lingering gaze?
Making me think of imaginary days
And wishing for hypothetical years
Holding you close as old age nears
How do other men feel when met by your eyes?
Do their hearts begin to tell lies?
How much hurt do I need to feel
To know your affections aren't real?
I know it's futile, you told me so
With a tender voice a while ago
Now wordlessly you torture my soul
Which wants to think you're my whole
Leave your whole life
Your soul has been called
Break the chains
Holding you back
But you can’t tell
What tears you apart.
No one has to know
By this time
We will hide
From the world.
Screams your name
Don’t let them down
Show your face.
Louder and louder
You are deaf.
But it’s time
To prove yourself
They want blood.
He is coming
Let the rage grow
Inside your veins
And you will be
What they want.
How Did We Get Here?I feel my breathe as it leaves my lungs,
I feel the blood pound through my veins,
I feel the words roll off my tongue,
I feel the thoughts freeze in my brain.
I feel the floor beneath my feet,
I feel the tightness of my fist,
I feel the warm and sticky heat,
Of blood that’s flowing down my wrist.
Why did it have to come to this?
What was it that led us here,
I didn’t choose this road.
Was it anger, hatred, fear;
Do you even care to know?
Why do we have to disagree,
Why do we have to fight,
What is it between you and me,
That makes us not see eye to eye?
Why does one of us have to die?
Patience.First, it starts with a millisecond.
Then a second,
and after that a minute.
Fifty-nine minutes later, and it is an hour.
Twenty-three hours later it is a day,
and after a couple of weeks, it is a month.
Eleven months later it is a year,
and after a year, it is a century,
and after a century,
there is nothing.
So have patience.
"Trees that are slow to grow bear the best fruit." ~Moliere
The Labyrinth of Me (Complete)Restless in the stormy night.
Like candle flame unwaning light.
Bound to wander 'tween the worlds.
Waking dreams my mind unfurled.
Void of colour just shades of grey.
No-one here to guide my way.
Echoes of a man lost in a dream.
Porcelain statues unable to scream.
The labyrinth of me lies ahead.
Each step, each breath fills me with dread.
On every wall my portraits hang.
Each one painted with an honest hand.
The jesters and whores in the labyrinth taunt.
Defiling my hopes and reaping reward.
Those I left widowed fill me with scorn.
Can they not see that i am reborn?
My darkest deeds a book on a shelf.
Chapters of envy and ill gotten wealth.
Judges grinning while banging their gavels.
The pages before me the black book unravels.
Some pages are empty and others unclean.
Allowing you only to see the obscene.
Myself I am judge no lies to deceive.
Like a mirror reflecting my every misdeed.
The revelation of faces grinning before me.
They are all me both judge and jury.
A guilty verdict the
Of Empty Seas and Fated SkiesI.
She gave our golden days of summer
to Dionysian dreams,
chasing phantom shards of sunlight
as she fled the hand of Fate.
The sun was out and we were in
the Labyrinth in the kitchen,
searching small, dark cupboards
for the treasure she had hidden.
Swallowed up in all her sorrows,
swamped by soughing Acheron,
she drank the Lethean waters,
and forgot that we were there.
Bottled ichor, precious poison,
creeping shadow, black like ink;
in the Daedalean night,
we tipped it down the sink.
A wand’ring, cruel Odysseus,
he sailed in winter’s gales,
crashing like the heaving seas
and pounding us like waves.
And Now I've Lost the StarsOh God, how did the sun turn into blood?
How did the lunar surface start to crack?
When all I did was lay my head to rest
As nightfall, soft, cascading in a flood
Bespoke my eyelids, conquered, muscles slack
Embraced in heavy slumber on its breast.
The night breeze took my breathings one by one
And carried them to frozen lands afar,
And crumbled all my dreamings into dust.
Oh God, I cannot move without the sun,
And now I've lost the stars.
An Era to Forgive
Out of the dark ages I come,
leaving the past behind.
Away from the pain, scars,
and my own demise.
Behind what I have put to rest,
a fire sparked from the ashes.
Hot and burning,
it claims what used to be mine....
I'm at peace with myself,
I've tasted my medicine.
Every day I live,
I learn to forget and forgive.
A Man and His GuitarHe sings of things that were and are,
Sitting in his office chair,
A man and his guitar.
And though his mind meanders far,
The chords contain his every care,
He sings of things that were and are.
Those calluses, like hard-earned scars,
Speak temperance and not despair,
A man and his guitar.
Now syncopate, now by the bar,
Now dissonant, now fair and fair,
He sings of things that were and are.
I caught his music in a jar,
A leaky one. I stop and stare:
A man and his guitar.
A glow too cool to even char,
A brief but distant signal flare,
He sings of things that were and are,
A man and his guitar.
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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