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I Miss YouIt's times like this
That make me realize what I miss the most.
I miss my island home,
even the traffic every year.
I miss running across the street into the ocean.
I miss talking to you every day.
I miss my old home,
Even though it's
Filled with horrible memories.
I miss the hope you brought to me.
I miss the simplicity of bullies.
Even how I used to cry openly,
Instead of getting angry.
I miss pouring myself out to you.
I miss the days spent without a worry
Spent on the ocean,
or alone reading.
I miss being in your company instead of being alone.
I miss not having walls
that were so hard to break down.
When I still had a hope.
I miss you breaking down those walls.
I miss not having fake friends,
not having backstabbers,
or liars, or cheats.
I miss thinking it was impossible for you to be.
I miss not being bricked up
to the people outside,
to hide myself away,
so they won't see when I cry.
I miss not having this pit in my stomach,
Where I await someone to be,
Someone who will stay.
BackwoundFrom the continuous stabbing,
I can't take it anymore
The wounds are still there
From attacks years before
She's rude and cruel,
but only behind the curtain
For when in the undeniable presence of God,
She seems to be uncertain
Who am I to her?
And now in her confusion
She remembers the sacrifices made
during her incredulous illusion
She sees me as a sister,
Not the pathetic girl from yesterday,
Not the desperate friend who wanted to help.
All she did was ignore
My attempts to climb out of the dark.
Yet outside the halls
Of the House of the Lord,
The curtain is down,
and the torture begins once more.
When I am alone,
I hear the calls of betrayal.
They knock in my ears,
Throwing me to the ground like hail.
She scourges me,
Driving me to tears,
Her voice is dreadful and demented,
But nobody hears.
I am pathetic,
I am not to be heard.
I am no one to anyone,
Except to the Lord.
In Him I am strong,
I am mighty and fast.
I am not her victim,
Not her first, nor her last.
In truth, she is backs
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