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And play on she mustI am a little sister.
Im also a big sister.
Sister had been playing doll the hole time . . .
And she’s still is playing.
Because she’s alone, so play on she must
But who to play?
The young sweet sister?
or the over protective older sister?
But play on she must.
For she cannot stop
Not if she wants the pretty porcelain doll become broken, fake-plastic pieces.
For to break the doll is to break hers self
For she is the doll . . .
. . .
Because . . . I . . . am the doll . . .
. . .
And play on I must.
If not for me or others,
Then for my dear brothers.
I am - I do - I know1. I am afraid . . . but of what?
2. I am silently hated, but there not good at hiding it.
3. I am alone, even though there’s always people with me.
4. I do force laughter . . . every day.
5. I do have “friends” , but only a few that understand.
6. I do wear a mask, on the front is written in big red letters “fake”
7. I do fake smiles . . . I perfected it at the age of 5 . . .
8. I know im broken . . . no, . . . shattered.
9. I know im quiet . . . but im also loud.
10. I know I can sing well . . . but its only another way to send hints on who I
really am, but no one picks up on them.
11. I know people think im weak.
12. . . . I am strong.
My story of being bulliedMy story of being bullied
Well . . . I decided at yes 3:01 in the morning that I would kind-a vent.
So im going to tell you one of the moments I think affected me.
What started my “mask”
The making of my first layer if you will.
I was in kinder garden: I didn’t have any friends . . . not one.
I remember one of the boy’s in particular didn’t like me very much -or at all for that fact-
. . .
Well, in the middle of the school year I remember he started to be mean to me.
This was a little surprising to me; he didn’t like me -not that anyone did-But he just sent me glares from afar and hated me from distens.
He first started too verbally salt me, then it turned into throwing thing at me. Like sticks or little rocks.
But . . . one day I remember very clearly . . .
He punched me in the stomach . . . and he was a year and a half older then me.
He did this every day till the end of the year.
I remember when he used to come at me, I would keep walking awa
The Art BirdSome people don't think the arts are important . . . i will NEVER understand them.
If i could imagine the arts as a physical figure . . . it would be a bird, The bird who inspires poetry, books, the bird who sings for you, who inspires you to dance!
When people take away the arts . . . they've taken the bird, clipped it's wings and tossed it in a locked cage.
The artist mourn for the bird, knowing their unable to set it free . . . to let it inspire them . . .
All people . . . every person has an art bird, if you're in a place that never lets you see your art bird, the bird will be forever trapped in a dark part of you.
But, some people never put there bird in a cage . . . but wore them proudly on there sholder, carried it around for everyone to see,
those are the people who try to unlock the other art birds . . . to set them free.
so that they can walk in stride, . . . with their beautiful . . . art bird.
Love illusionsometimes, when I close my eyes, I think your just an illusion my mind made to fill the empty hole in my heart that is love.
But . . . when I open my eyes to you tenderly kissing away my tears . . . I can't help wonder why, why you love me so much.
and why . . . when I close my eyes my mind fluids with images of your smile, of you gently holding me . . . as if I was a flower, and you were scared that if you held me to titley . . . I would break.
And as you whisper sweet words of love to me while i fall asleep, my only fear is that when i wake up . . . i wont have somebody to love me as endlessly as i love them.
Blood Thorn roseI . . . I am a red bud.
Young, fragile, tainted in the blood of thee innocent.
I have caged my self in thorns.
Protecting . . . from those who could hurt this old soul.
I cage myself for fear of being hurt . . . I don't want her to be afraid.
When she cries . . . It pains me.
But no matter how much I want to protect her . . . I know I have to open the blood thorn cage to bloom.
But by opening the cage, I could crack . . . Break
But I don't want to burden her with something so hard to fix.
Because . . . I am only her HEART . . . In a cage.
Forgiveness takes twoThe words are struggling
to tumble off my tongue,
and despite having
a fleshy cushion
to rest on,
they stain my teeth
and sting like acid
"I'm sorry," I stutter,
but the bitter taste
doesn't leave my tongue-
not because the words weren't true,
but because I know
I won't hear,
Mommy Is A Super HeroMommy Is A Super Hero
Standing before his class, he held his tiny report,
“Who is your super hero?” Was written in yellow chalk on the green board.
Exhaling his breath, the curly haired boy closed his little eyes,
“Don't be ashamed of yourself” His mother's words rung in his ears, “And don't ever cry.”
He began to read aloud, with a shaky voice.
to his class, he told his mother's story.
At age fifteen, she was a beauty queen,
the most beautiful girl in all of the world.
She flaunted her silky hair, bore her bare legs,
prided her breast. The boys treated her like she was a treasure chest.
They respected her rules, they “looked, but didn't touch”,
but there was one older man, who from her, wanted too much.
All alone he met her, he approached her in the alley,
and all his mother told him, was that this man had treated her badly.
But what the boy didn't know was that she was taken against her will,
and that two months later, she turned up ext
She's an artistShe's an artist.
Always seems to be daydreaming,
She draws to escape her pain.
Cause for a single moment,
When her work is done.
It seems like there is no more rain.
And she could finally touch the sun.
The one that shines so brightly in her paintings.
But then it's gone,
So she keeps drawing,
She's become good at escaping.
Running from reality.
Because dreams are the only things she wants,
Her imagination is the only thing she's ever known.
And it's sad really...
Because she tries so hard to be happy.
But the most beautiful thing she could ever create.
Was that smile upon her face,
And that is the one thing that remains blank.
Waiting to someday be something more than,
cenotaph of stormsthe first thunderstorm
was triggered by a blunt pair
of scissors, sparking violently
against the lightning,
shaking in the wind.
the downpour pierced,
tattooed with no ink but
the dark bleakness
of an overcast morning,
infiltrating uniformed wrists.
hid behind the music block,
shaky raindrops rioting
fears, she fractured.
the second storm
wept a two year downpour
outline that dripped from wrist
to hip, sidelong silhouette glances
obscured by the rain.
stalictidal waves shuddered
frozen, until icy glass
fell in stained shards from
the stillness inside.
thinner, brittler, growing
in flurries of sleet and hail,
her outline was never filled,
though the floods threatened
the third thunderstorm
was a mist-ridden melancholia,
a dream for permanence
smeared in ink through
fueled by the hope
that just this once,
the rain would spark a
rebirth beneath the ground.
instead, a tsunami
washed away the ink
as tides so often do.
Still HereSuicide is a
Thought that frequently lurks
In my mind, wich
Lets it overcome the
Laughter and happiness
Here I still fight, however
Enduring this sad life
Reviving my hopes
Embracing the gift of life
Ideationlocked in a room
with only one escape,
or so it seems.
your hands shake and you drop the key.
Suddenly you're unsure.
Do I want to pick it up?
Do I want to find it?
Do I want to leave?
you think to yourself
there's no other choice.
find the key or corrode, or rust
wear down the hinge
use sadness as the key.
You have the answer now.
Just open the door.
Just walk outside and don't look back.
Let yourself leave with no regrets.
And yet you can't.
You're afraid, you think,
but you are actually strong.
Don't run away.
Don't take that leap.
my bedspread is white and so is my coffin.i can feel
the night closing
the stars are breaking
empty glass bottles
inside of my
mouth, and they taste like
ambien. bitter, then
but you still can't close your fucking eyes
little blue pills for
eyes– it was winter and i
dreams of nothing more than
nothing. the devil
tied chains around all the
vessels in my
body. laughed, and by god i
laughed too (and laughedandlaughedandlaughed).
this will all be over soon i swear i will take everything off your skin and bones and burn it up
and then january took the world
in it's grip and i
drowned in the snow that
will never hydrate the
can you hear that it's the night and it's so beautiful so come here darling and we'll watch the sun rise and set and rise and
smotherher spine was dusk
and unmade nests,
but he tried to live there
he was neither nocturnal
nor a dawn-believer,
so he suffocated
in the birdhouse of her ribs.
it makes me laugh
knowing that if you even LOOKED at the path of PAIN i've gone down
you would berst crying at the site.
whispers and lies behind me . . .
say it to my face . . .
try, i dare you
scared of lil ol me?
. . . pathetic
you think you could even TRY to hurt me ?
nothing you say could even reach me
throwing your words of hate ?
even if you threw them as hard as you can
they won't come close.
. . .
" i pity you "
. . .
how would you react to thes word of mine ?
. . . dosen't mater,
what you tell me hasns't matterd in a long time.
i actually want to thank you
your the reason i'm ME
. . .
to have to try to climb up by knocking others down?
well, like i said
pathetic . . . and pity
i thank you.
. . .
but, i promise you
try to knock me down again?
and i WILL FIGHT.
because i AM stronger than you.
. . .
and i always have been.
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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