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A Study in ViolinWillingly, Sherlock Holmes has started 3 relationships in his life: The one he used to have with drugs -violently called off as soon as he wasn't too high to realize he was no longer the owner of his most precious organ, his brain- the one he has with his Violin -he was close to turn into a concert master, but the life of the musician lacked the excitement his job had- and the one with the army doctor whom he shares flat with: John Watson.
He could also state his job was a fourth willing ship he commanded, but his job wasn't just a relationship, his job was his life. His job had brought him everything he has now, so if he should label his job, he wouldn't label it as a mere relationship. It was more, much more.
But then, so were his so called "relationships". When he abused cocaine, he was young, bored, and didn't want anything from this stupid world, filled with ordinary people, stuffed -like Christmas's turkeys- with poison to throw at him. Freak. That wouldn't believe him.
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
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.
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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