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christiane Aug 1
I found him in the dim-lighting of a meadow.
His skin, his breath, his kisses
were dreams and berries to me.
Poisonous and plucked from nature's own *****,
I crushed him between my teeth,
felt his sugary rush in my mouth,
and spat him out for fear that his essence was dangerous.
Oh, poisonous berries, strip me of life,
place me in the deepest slumber,
so that I may continue to dream of this infidelity forever.
christiane Jun 2019
I guess you're right,
what should I expect from you?
The world is cold,
nothing but a pending tomb.

I guess I just
thought after all we'd dreamed,
watching me grow
might have been a priority.

I guess I expected
fatherhood would have come
before humanity,
but I guess I'm wrong.

I guess I'm flawed
for thinking you owe me anything.
I assumed that after four tries,
you might hold some accountability.
just something to get my thoughts in order
christiane Oct 2018
and you claim
to reflect hate
in the name
of someone's
who is
your beliefs are not the same as the one you claim to believe
christiane Oct 2018
I have this theory,
of spirituality,
that it is what we decide
it is.

I decide to
accept what I believe
and what I love,
what I've seen.
And then,
I begin to base my
previous understanding to my
current experience.
I have discovered that
God and hate
never collide;
they are
And, I have learned to be,
and understand,
that my God
wants nothing but
the best
for me.
current thoughts in a semi-poetic way
christiane Oct 2018
Dear God,
Please come back.
I know,
you're still there,
and I ran away,
but please,
come back.
Come find me.
My heart aches,
I want to come home.
I want you to carry me,
to hold me,
and let me cry,
cry on your shoulder,
asking you to never leave.
Don't let me leave again.
Your son.
the son who ran away
christiane Oct 2018
I wish I could break out of this
This thing that keeps me from
I want to feel that thing again.
That thing that reminds you you're
That you are a
just to put something out there
christiane Oct 2018
I had so thoroughly studied one rose,
had not noticed there were others.
All the same but all different.

The petals of my own, even,
looked different from other angles,
yet it is the same rose.

I had not picked it yet,
realized I didn't need to,
for I was in a garden.

I noticed the image was not my only desire,
but the smell also,
so I decided to bottle it up.

Carrying with me,
lingering with me on my clothes,
not needing to never leave My Rose.
a spiritual poem, actually
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