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More than...Many poets once compared.
Someone close to something nice.
Shakespeare once compared a woman to a summer's day.
But I have a girl you is much too perfect,
to be compared to just a summers day.
She is sweeter than the rarest of treats.
Her skin softer than the softest of silk.
Her eyes glimmer more than the most expensive diamonds.
Her touch warms more than the warmest of days.
Her kiss is more powerful than a million black holes.
Her movement more elegant than the swans of Swan Lake.
Her voice more stunning than that or the mermaid's in legends.
She is perfect and to me she will forever be,
more than any summer's day.
I will always...She believes that she is less than she is.
She wants to be more, more like what I see.
She is afraid I will stop seeing her beauty.
She fears the future, she fears the end.
But for her, I have news.
You must believe for you are more than what I see.
Your more than just what I see. You're so much more.
Do not fear, for shall never loose sight of your looks.
I shall never let myself straw from your beauty, inside or out.
Fear not the future, I will be your shield.
Fear not the end, for I shall never let it come.
Days go by, and times moves slowly.
I wish it would stop when I'm with you.
So you would not need to leave me.
When your gone I wish time to make haste.
So I may feel your lips once more.
Each moment we are apart, I wonder.
I wonder when will I hold you again?
When will I speak with you again?
When will I see that body of an angel again?
I know when I have you.
I will always feel the same.
I will always miss you.
I will always love you.
And I will never look at you, and not see,
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.
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
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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