“We should state immediately that to be loved is a greater risk, than to be feared. Would Hitler ever have stepped down from ambition, to see whomever he loved? He rose, alike an insect climbing up the highest wall, alike a moth that attempts to reach for the sun, though burns away by its own attraction. Love is the emotion that causes one to willingly submit, and drop whatever shield, whatever barricade they raised against another. Though, a competition of fear, would make another attempt to break the barricade, using what is opposite from will, being force. Force is associated with politics, and love is never assimilated within it.
Power is a force of fear, while love is a force of power. Though, within love, we fall beneath the one we called an ‘enemy’, with a willingness to surrender. And now, we bleed tears before their voice, say that we were wrong as that ‘enemy’ voices the honesty we avoid.
Tears stream in love, not blood.”
“Any government that promotes love is a government that will never comprehend anyone’s pain. It is pain that is the comprehension, and yet, the politician upon his tower, sees one as the rest. He will not take into his arms, the individual someone, and understand their story. Empathy is personal sight, upon personal pain, for love to be given, personally. And no politician has ever been the Saint to do this.
Even Christ named his disciples, his closest followers, and remembered their tears, their sorrow, their pain. Had a politician ever had close friends? Perhaps. Though, it is always the matter of ‘like attracting like’ that causes platonic relationships to form.
Rather, it is ‘sympathy’ that such governments promote, to state that Individualism matters for nothing, to state that each person desires the same needs.
Demands are indeed exceptional, when they are not met by the voice of the needy, though by what corruption voices.”
“When it comes to life, rarely anyone has a ‘choice’ to do what they must do. Personal responsibility isn’t something that grants choice, though grants the forcefulness of duty. And so, it should be asked, ‘What spoiled and inept fool is ever given the opportunity for an infinite amount of choices, without becoming that spoiled fool who, at the same time, condemns the rich?'”
“Is it not too late to fathom the blood that must be cleaned from a woman’s hands, during when she tends those wounds beneath her? And, is it not too late to comprehend what the first wound was a woman tended, that was beneath her? Her loss of virginity, that was the wound, the anticipated loss of something that made her a woman. She reached down, upon that memorable day, and drew her hand back to see blood. Upon other days, she reaches down for other wounds, for other places without love, and draws her hands back to see blood. She saw wounds, saw the tide leak from them, and saw a swarm of flies surround them to breathe in the stench.
And finally, is it not too late for a man to once more, find it in his mind to clean the blood from a woman’s hands? He had taken her into the state of a woman, not for being a destroyer to flesh, marking him the rapist, though to be the lover, the devoted lover, and the devoted lover who does not deny what he’s done.”
“There’s a difference here, as it should be infinitely stated, that to have a ‘right’ to do something, is more likening to having a ‘power’ to do something. What do we call rights, in the real world? We name them privileges. People protect rights for one reason: they believe them to be endangered, thus noting the fact that such ‘rights’ are always temporary. Just like life, we protect it, we preserve it, and like an endangered animal, we put such species in protection, so they don’t become erased from existence. Therefore, to have a ‘power’ would mean for one group to try and control another group. This is named to be ‘tribal warfare’, and for millennium, each new ‘superpower’ has always thought itself to be better than another ‘superpower’. We are merely humans, who look for a fight, looking for a crack to ooze through, so that we may see another side’s territory.
A ‘right’ becomes temporary, when it is superseded by a power. Therefore, there are no rights, only powers.”
“Can empathy be brutal? Yes. It can be brutal. It can be brutal upon the lover and the loved. Love is an emotion that stirs night into day, until the star we carried in our minds, is lingering above our drunken faces. We will deny love as long as possible, until it begins to hunt for us.”
All of my pain
Goes into this kill,
This one kiss upon the terrible form
That sought me to be still
That sought me out,
To be heavy with the weight of loss,
For you were there,
Until you were not.
Your absence might appear kind,
It is unlike the place I will find
Yourself, among the dust of a ruined city.
Might it be one that you collapsed,
Might it be one where we embraced,
Might it be one where we entrusted,
Fate, to see us laced,
In the twine of love.
And I will come with a dagger weighing
In the hand of a man’s temperament,
In the hand of authority.
There is nothing to die for,
And nothing to live for,
For such, I will drag you back to see
The real terror.
Fall upon me with the world apart,
And I will offer you a word,
To see you married, to see you gladly
Dressed in the adornments befitting
Elegance of all its domain.
People do not know, the pleasures we make
Of each other.
People will not know, the symptoms we create,
That race forever.
They will not ever see the subtlety of love.
They are too much like rats,
Scurrying towards a trap,
Towards a fate,
They need chaos, and we need an empire,
In our hearts, in our glistening hearts,
Where we may find that Hell will hear our commands.
Come upon me,
Or what will you do?
What else to do,
Besides drink up our own version
Love is a shell,
When it is not covered,
By something that will nestle it
In moments as sweet as beading faces
Of a woman, hot in exercise.
Cities as old as time,
All bow before the might of love,
When it is that blanket of eternity.
A kiss, one heated kiss,
Upon a mouth, sends through shivers.
A blanket, for it is a quilt,
Made of silk, the softest silk,
From a spider that knows not to lie,
Whose web would be a single string,
From a woman who knows not to cry.
Love is a blanket of eternity,
And I have covered a grave with it.
This bed of soil,
Is only a bed of flowers.