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About Deviant Artist ReganFemale/United States Recent Activity
Deviant for 10 Years
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You drove on. I know that, but
You drove on. I know that, but I don’t know you. You don’t know me. But I think about you a lot. I wonder if you have a family, or if you’re a woman. Or if you’re a man. I wonder if you’re young, or if you’re old. I wonder if you have people in your life who love you. I wonder if you know what it’s like to have your heart stop in pure terror. I wonder if you know what you’ve done to me.
Where were you going? What was so important that you couldn’t stop to help them? They were coming home from a long day at the hospital, taking care of my grandmother. It was 7:10 on a Monday night. Rainy, dark. The Pennsylvania turnpike was no place to be driving that night. But my parents were there. And so were you. But you drove on.
You hit the drivers’ side of their car, sending them into a spin. They spun off the road, into the guardrail, which they rolled over. Their 2003 SUV continued rolling, down a hill, over a 12-foot retaining wall.
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Baby Mine
I gaze into your eyes,
Blue with flecks of gold,
So wise, but so innocent.
There's no hurt in them yet,
Not like grown-up eyes,
Who have seen betrayal and pain,
And watched loved ones waste away.
Your eyes haven't witnessed
Anything of the sort.
Your eyes scan the room,
Taking in everything
Like it's something new,
Something unique for observation.
Flashes of movement,
Bits of color,
You discover the world
Moment by moment.
These eyes are new eyes,
Sparkling and smiling
I look down at you,
And you're the most beautiful
Thing I've ever seen.
Your perfect skin,
Soft and tender.
Your silky hand,
Five teensy fingers wrapped
Around my one big one.
In that moment,
Though I know it's only a reflex,
I think you realize.
You know me,
Your perfect eyes
Lock onto mine,
As if they know
That it's my eyes from which
They derive their midnight blue
And golden flecks.
Because I'm your mother,
And my own eyes,
Welling up with tears of pride
At the life I've created.
You're mine,
My darling baby,
And I
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This I Believe
When I got my learners permit, my father, a man who is about as serious and threatening as a ladybug, looked me dead in the eye as he handed me the keys and said "Handing you these keys is the equivalent to handing you a loaded gun. You. Can. Kill. Someone."
As morbid as that sounds, he was exactly right. The responsibility you take on when you put the keys in the ignition is not to be taken lightly. When you add several-ton machine to the equation, you raise the stakes. A single moment of distraction could ruin lives.
One Sunday last July I was driving home from church to have lunch with my parents. They wanted to see me before I left on a weeklong trip to a once in a lifetime experience called "Nazarene Youth Conference." I was driving down Oak Road, about 5 miles from home, when my world suddenly changed. A man driving a Firebird ran the stop sign coming out of a neighborhood on my right. By the time I saw him, his car was in the engine of my 1990 Chevy Silverado.
Luckily, the only
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I felt like I had moved on.
But now, you're back,
And I'm realizing that
Long distance forgiveness
Is far easier.
When you're here,
The pain is almost tangible.
It swells up inside me,
A not-so-gentle reminder
Of the loneliness and abandonment.
It pushes on my lungs,
Each breath,
More shallow than the last.
The pressure's too much,
It fills me with anger
That I thought long forgotten.
But now that you're here,
It hurts.
Responsibility, dumped
On a girl too young
To fully understand
What was being asked of her.
But beyond the hurt,
The anger,
The confusion and pain.
There's an ache.
A hole in my life
Where you fit.
So I'll plaster on a smile,
Pretend that the burn in my chest
Is normal for these sorts of things.
And I'll laugh at the jokes that I've missed all this time,
Gloss over the subjects that bring back the pain.
I'll be okay, for you.
Because I've missed you.
Because I need you.
Because I once counted you
Among my most precious influences.
And because that love for you
Is deeper
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My wife
My wife was inherently created to be a caregiver. Every day I watch her, stand beside her, as she takes on the problems of our children, friends, family, even strangers. She listens gently to their problems, steers them to the knowledge that they already knew. She doesn't judge or really even give them advice, she just listens as they talk in circles and eventually end up the place they knew they needed to be all along. I watch as my wife takes blow after blow, with a strength and dignity for which I hold unlimited respect and only a shred of comprehension. Her back stays straight, her head never bows except in prayer to the God from whom she claims her strength. Day after day, week after week, her love for others grows and expands. She brings soup to the sick, prays with the hurting, helps the lost find their way, leads the children, and supports everyone in her life. And when the day is finally over, she kneels beside the bed and gives all the stress and hurting in her own life to he
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I hate this tightness in my chest.
The lonely ache where my heart used to be.
Can I even feel anymore?
Or am I just pretending?
Depression sets in
and its like the lights in my life
suddenly go out
and all I see is darkness.
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The world tells them,
that they can't be beautiful,
unless they're thin, long legged,
and their hair flows in the breeze.
Reality is, ladies,
that on any given morning,
you will wake up just the same,
not a supermodel,
not having magically lost every
ounce of fat on your body,
and still with hair that
does exactly what it wants,
no matter how much you fight it.
But I say different.
Society tells you you're not beautiful,
but I tell you that
each and every one of you,
is a perfectly crafted creation.
You are beautiful in so many ways,
your attributes create a kaleidoscope effect,
each shining a different color,
refracting the light of the world,
making it even more beautiful,
simply by your presence.
Girls often feel that to be beautiful
requires inhuman physical perfection.
But beauty is so much deeper than that.
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Mist settles on the scene,
over the rising sun
and its perfect double.
It's quiet here,
but not one of those
oppressively quiet moments;
the ones that make you
hold your breath and wait for it to break.
This is a different kind of silence,
a peaceful sort of quiet,
settled comfortably  over the two of them.
The only sound is an occasional
whistling and then a plunk.
She looks at him,
she smiles and takes his hand.
He's caught for a moment-
in the moment -  
looking out over the view,
so still, so calm,
yet he knows underneath
it's teeming with life.
He breaks away from his thoughts,
he smiles and looks back at her.
The boards of the dock are cold,
but they don't mind,
because in this perfect moment,
nothing matters
but a father and his daughter,
fishing in the early morning dew.
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It's a little too cold
to roll down my windows,
but I do it anyway.
I watch as my hand
reaches for the dial,
and suddenly the music
floods my car,
and streams from the windows,
mingling with my fear, my anger, my
The bass booms out the rhythm
of my blood pounding in my ears.
Vibrating the seat,
while it drives the pain
into my being.
The drums hammer out
the loneliness that pumps
through my system.
Here, in my car,
there's no one to impress.
No reason to be anything I'm not.
I belt out lyrics I'm unsure of;
no shame.
Toss my hair into the wind
with the rest of my worries -
and in that singular moment,
for the 3 minutes,
27 seconds that the music lasts --
it's freedom.
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It's strange to think it gone now,
the love we once held dear,
moments linger in our minds,
but that's all that's left, I fear.
The remnants of a once-strong fire,
lay blackened in the dirt,
a simple, strange reminder
of the love before the hurt.
I lift the lid of that worn box,
and a smile plays on my lips,
at the faint scent of that boy's cologne,
that sent my stomach into flips.
And though the love has passed us by,
it's not something we'll forget,
long after we have parted ways,
the box remembers our duet.
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I'm From
I'm from flip flops,
cut-off Levi's,
lazy days on the front porch.
From talking and laughing,
from the rich smell of farmland.
Creek water and mud,
impossible stains.
I'm from crayons,
from markers and chalk.
Smudged little faces,
eagerly awaiting the
grandma-packed lunches.
I'm from the picnics,
sitting on the hillside.
I'm from chiggers and
embellished ivy forts.
I'm from the soft summer rain,
and from watermelon rinds.
I'm from Cookie and Bud,
I'm from Martha and Fred.
I'm from two huge families-
with even bigger appetites.
Whole tables just for desserts
from family reunions,
laughing and talking,
playing and eating,
swimming and sharing-
a kid's perfect dream.
I'm from long car trips,
I'm from the boxes-
the old photographs
of seemingly melancholy people-
black and white,
impossible in my too-young eyes
But they're who I came from.
I'm from red pole barns,
from guitars and lawn chairs.
I'm from craw-dads and minnows,
from lessons and lectures,
from camps and old friend
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Little Green Trike
Little green trike,
tucked away
back in the far reaches
of our garage.
Tucked away
with the rest of the memories,
of the little boy.
Once shiny and new,
now dusty and coated
with spider filled cobwebs,
sun-faded and time-worn,
the little green trike
tucked away,
a reminder of what
was supposed to be.
It's missing its rider,
sunshine fun is no more,
no giggles in store.
The little green trike,
big plastic wheels
long since stationary,
missing the boy
who once turned them,
smiling and laughing,
looking ecstatically
backwards at daddy,
whose magic hands
propelled him forward.
Innocent, wondering
where this
little green trike
will take him next,
never suspecting
the answer is
it won't.
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Grilled Cheese
In my experience, you can tell a lot by a person by the way they make grilled cheese. I, for example, begin by putting the griddle on the burner, but not heating it. Then I meticulously spread margarine onto one side of the first piece of bread, being careful to spread it evenly and into every edge and corner. After I finish this process with the first piece, I place it butter-side-down onto the griddle and turn the heat on. I then unwrap two slices of American cheese with extreme caution so as not to rip the slices. I place one slice into the corner of the bread that is on the griddle, and then tear the second slice into perfectly shaped and sized pieces to fill in the gaps between the whole slice and the edges of the bread. The outcome of this process is an even layer of delicious processed cheese food between my two perfectly buttered slices of bread.
Judging by my tactics thus far, you might believe I'm a perfectionist, a little compulsive, or maybe just plain crazy; perhaps those
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It wasn't until I looked out the tiny, port-hole window of the 747 and saw the safe, green coastline fading into an a mysterious blue expanse that I realized what I was really getting myself into. I was truly leaving, headed across the Atlantic Ocean to a place so entirely different. I boarded a plane at Hartsfield-Jackson with twenty students and chaperones that were almost as foreign to me as the country to which we were headed. We touched down in Madrid and I stepped into the expected and familiar chaos of airport baggage claim. As people ran by me, yelling to each other in rapid-fire Spanish, my third-year gifted Spanish brain was overwhelmed by the onslaught of new language and strange new culture.
For the next week I was immersed in a language and way of life in which I had the proficiency of a preschooler. I was amazed and fascinated with the differences between America and Spain. Not only was Spanish culture completely different, but each city and region had unique sub-culture
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I Don't Understand
I don't understand
how you could do this
to me,
to him,
to all of us.
You walked away.
I don't understand
how you did all this.
But, you, understand this -
don't come back.
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She keeps her hands busy. Shuffling papers, turning pages, stapling, un-stapling. Walking to the bathroom, small talk with the receptionist. Tapping out messages on the light gray keys. Going through the motions. If she doesn't stop moving, she doesn't have to think about it. With her hands busy and her mind occupied by the pointless minutia, there's no room left for the loneliness. In her office, day after day, keeping herself too busy for the never ending wave of darkness to envelop her. But when she gets home, she sits all alone in the dark, cold room; with nothing to do but think. She sits in the hardback chair, staring at the cool, blank wall. She sits in the solitary prison of her own creation, the isolation of her own mind. She feels alone; she is alone. Her life, without meaning, is motion after motion to avoid the truth.
Her apartment is bare, almost as empty as her life. Three rooms- a kitchen, with the hardback chair, the bedroom with an uncovered, dingy mattress in the corn
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United States
Favourite style of art: Photography
MP3 player of choice: Zune
Favourite cartoon character: Linus from Charlie Brown!
  • Listening to: Heartland - I Loved Her First
Happy Father's day to the best dad a girl could ever ask for. He's my hero, my fishing buddy, my favorite poet, my partner in pun-nery, the one who can always make me laugh, the dad who's fixing up a seemingly hopeless motorcycle with me, the one who nurses my wounds - physical and emotional. He's the "Puke-Parent," he's the one who taught me how to live life to become a productive member of society, he's my confidant, my supporter through all things, the one who has always talked to me as if I'm an adult, the one who has done everything in his power to give me the best life possible. He taught me about motorcycles, and how to drive a car, he's told me a million times that the number one rule in anything is "Don't Panic!" (I'm still working on learning that one), He has the biggest heart of anyone I've ever met. Above all, he's my best friend, and my daddy. and I will love him until the end of time. ♥ Happy Father's Day to the best, kindest, most wonderful man I have ever known.


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x-TheBasicFlaw-x Featured By Owner Nov 15, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks very much for the fave!
the0riginalSIN21 Featured By Owner Nov 29, 2010  Student Photographer
Thanks for the :+fav:
KingsPlayCards Featured By Owner Aug 13, 2010
Thank you for the fav!
OfPeaceDestroyed Featured By Owner Mar 29, 2010
Thanks for the faves!
SkinnyGinny Featured By Owner Jan 6, 2010  Student Traditional Artist
hey thanks for the
gsagoaliegurl77 Featured By Owner Jan 6, 2010
yah :] i saw your new deviation on the news page, and i read your username and was like... that sounds like it would be her... :] haha the truth is, you actually know me. but your deviations are awesome :] i never knew you had a dA
SkinnyGinny Featured By Owner Jan 7, 2010  Student Traditional Artist
thankss :)....but i know you...? not trying to be rude or odd, but how??? :?
gsagoaliegurl77 Featured By Owner Jan 7, 2010
school :] i'll send you a message on FB, i dont want to post my full name on here and there's no way you'll get it from my first name alone. haha
mspinkelefant Featured By Owner Dec 16, 2009
thanks for the fave!
musicxmirror Featured By Owner Aug 2, 2009  Student General Artist
thank you so much for the favorite! :^]
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