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About Literature / Hobbyist Member cristinewakesuphappyFemale/Unknown Recent Activity
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"The old dreams were good dreams; they didn't work out but I'm glad I had them."

- Robert James Waller, The Bridges of Madison County :house:


thanks for the inspiration! i couldn't get enough of all your talents. wish i were half as good. i am new here, am still finding my way around, am in the process of figuring out what to do... but let me start by admiring your pieces of art!

here's to waking up happy,

Journal History


someone kind and generous asked me for my wishlist. and after careful selection, i came up with this beautiful piece from Rinian because i love the happy-feel. thank you for the offer. i am beginning to experience the merry meaning of christmas. new year, new cheers!





happy 2014!
:bulletblue:  here is a journal page for pieces of art that might inspire you the way they inspire me. 
 thank you for taking the time to bask in their beauty.
handpicked updated version by cristinewakesuphappy



CharlieI had a stalker.
I didn't know his name but I'm sure he knew mine.
I called him Charlie.
He always had a camera hanging from his twig thick neck and he cradled it in his hands; a wispy finger stroking the shutter release. His dark brown hair was a curly mess and his shirts wrinkly and thin. He had the most perfect eyebrows, sweeping and gentle. He must have the most captivating eyes, I thought every time he'd glance my way. We'd never made eye contact. Charlie preferred it that way.
He came into the bookstore once a week, not to watch me leaf through the used books or reach high to shelve the approved ones, but to actually browse them. He read the unknowns; the virgins with their unbroken spines. I imagine he liked the smell of them – aromas preserved for him alone. Charlie appreciated the books wearing dusty coats and factory perfume a decade old.
The rest of the time he spent on the outside looking in. My co-workers were tickled pink. "What a geek." "Poor guy doesn't realize you
here's to losing youhey, wow,
you look...
great! you do!
I'm well,
and you?
good, good.
are you happy?
am I? 
no, but here, have my
nervous laughter, 
see me turn myself
upside down when we run
into each other.
while you are shaking hands
and kissing babies
still smiling for smiling's sake,
I've seen the real you
crying into wine. I've felt you
stain my shirt black-streaked
with hidden away things
creased things, folded 
upturned-lip things
and in the process, you
soaked my soul in 
everything you.
spooning your vulnerability
was better than 
exchanging virginities
in one blind night,
better than the electric jolts
you sent burning up my arms
when you grabbed my hand
one day, out of the clear blue,
better than that first kiss 
when both our tensions 
dissolved into each other
like butter in a hot pan.
nothing has quite matched the night
when I saw you naked, saw you
emotionally undress for the first time:
I'm fine,
Don't's meant to be listened to:
I remember in Psych 101,
when the professor proposed a game
called Don’t Think.
He said, “For the next minute,
don’t think about 
red elephants.”
So the trick was to 
think about anything else
but the red elephant.
was the longest minute 
of my life.
I thought surely I will die
under the weight of this--
No don’t think about it!
The sweat dripped down my temples
and my lips got dry
and I couldn’t stop
blinking or thinking
about purple giraffes
and orange hippos and polka dot
ostriches and red
but then the minute was up and I let out a sigh
and I could feel my arteries dilate
and I could feel my cells breathing again and
I could see the red elephant
and he could see me.
That elephant in my mind’s room
was easy to accommodate after all the
other animals had left
when it was just 
me and him.
I forgot wha
appreciating artstepping into a pub
clicked black stiletto girl
coat ruffled up to her ears
said she came in on a reindeer
he wants to take her to the theatre.
he wants to rub her skyscraper legs with 
his poshpocket cane in the noise of a standing ovation--
sir, you are the star; 
she loves you. 
she really loves you.
she wants to decay in the bottom of his glass.
she wants to shut the curtains behind her as he grins.
she wants to lick his yellow teeth till they are marble white.
she wants to be ruins for tourists--
ruins for tourists? 
ruins for remembrance, 
art for the knowing eye
mona lisa, they love you; 
they really love you.

streamI believe it is best heard:
let me be honest with you
I am small enough to fit into pockets and be forgotten
tangled up in the loose ends of jeans 
quieter than the twinkle of coins against keys
is how small I am
to every hand I've been in
and there are not many I let hold me
in this form because honestly
I said I would be honest
I am so much larger than pocket change
or I try to be
far away and expansive
somewhere where you 
top shelf
one cereal box over
not hiding from your grasping grasp
I want you to
take me away and
spend me to fill you
but looking closely into my
naked eye--
window to my naked soul
is not a glance I offer
to many
(I think the ground is the only one to stare so deeply)
you see?
is my honesty laid out like
bread crumbs to the universe,
me, brimming with its nature
a nature in you too
but even with this, vastnes
we watch too much internet pornblank, online eyes
staring through each others
that mean everything
and say everything
at near imperceptible
he's a claustrophobic,
chainsmoking cityboy 
who whispers with rustled
restless dysphonia,
hushing her 
to restful bradycardia
on secret wishes like
all i want
is for the land
to stretch like the
sands of time
under my feet
but most days 
she is too busy listening
for the train rattling the tracks
where his mind races
child-like along
the only train she's heard
was faint steel static
on a youtube video)
and her eyes are looking for 
his eyes full of all kinds
of natural, youthful stars 
she ain't seen before
(with strong, bright names like Orion-- 
not paparazzi-burned Angelina)
but it's all in their head
the walls they need to climb
to live and love and be
and learn
that power outages
are not quite the end 
of the world
~days eat days
like I eat potato chips
on a couch whose
springs have thrown out
their backs no longer able
to hold even the remote up.
it sinks between the seats like
I do every lonely saturday night
or every evening I can’t quite
make it to bed, cupped with
similar back problems,
a similar sag.
I’ve begun to
take after my furniture.
"the only unattractive curve,"
a girl once said to me with a few
desirable curves herself,
"is the one a person develops
in their back.”
we dated for a month and
she called me her
hunchback of notre dome
(it’s dame, babe.)
and I called her beautiful.
just beautiful. 
and nothing else.
but somehow her leaving did nothing
to straighten my bent back but
only managed to deepen
my parenthetical stance on
those who love me
(they don’t exist). 
a letterdear you,
when you feel small
know that there has to be
someone in your world
or only outside it wishing
you would notice them.
that's just
how life works,
whether you like it or not.
while you are looking far off,
skimming the ocean in your head
to the horizon holding secret wants
you believe you'll never touch 
burned and buried
in that sunken, dying star--
someone out there has fallen
deeply, unwaveringly
in love with you.
for instance, it could be me.
I could be--
in love with you.
hypothetically speaking
of course.
will you--
I mean,
would you take a ride with me
if you knew? would you walk away
from futile watching atop your 
rocky sea precipice 
to eat greasy fries at a cheap diner, 
laugh into milkshakes
with me, hypothetically.
can I--
would you, 
let me write you a poem
on a used napkin branded with your lip gloss
stains about lovers that aren't us?
I swear. 
could you not
talk about that one guy you like
a lot
("he has his issues but he

:bulletblue: previous feature:
(19) handpicked: non-fiction

:bulletblue: for your most :+fav: pieces of art, write me a note or link me to your own creations.
i might have been missing out on them and i would appreciate that you share them with me.



Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
i do allow myself the luxury of dreaming

one day, life will be more than just getting by;
my art could take me somewhere nice;
i'll tend my own garden or farm
and live in my own house baking and decorating and enjoying the quiet.
and i will wake up happy (with you).

DD Stamp by tRiBaLmArKiNgS

:bulletblue: 8/29/13: a little poem of mine, gyrate for them, greta received a daily deviation. it's my first (and only) in the two years that i have been submitting to deviantart. there is hope for my writing.

:bulletblue: 11/17/13: another little poem of mine got lucky and this time, canapés was featured on daily lit deviation. it's my first (and only) in the two years that i have been submitting to deviantart. (link)

:bulletblue: 02/10/14: dld is lovelier the second time around on a poem dearest to my heart. i'm so pleased. i missed the train. was featured on daily lit deviation. the year is starting to be inspiring. (link)


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Add a Comment:
LadyLincoln 1 day ago  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for collecting, darling. :heart:
reechy 1 day ago  Student Writer
Thank you for the favourites :heart:
Thanks so much for dropping by and reading. :heart: It means a lot.
I haven't seen you around in a while. :O I hope you're alright. :heart:

Just because. ♥
Add a Comment: