Poetry Book – Released! – “A Slender Little Romance” – Purchase a Copy as your Support

https://www.amazon.com/Slender-Little-Romance-Peter-Wyatt/dp/1733382232/ref=sr_1_2?dchild=1&keywords=a+slender+little+romance&qid=1601562160&sr=8-2

Within this collection, the reader will discover the words of a young man, whose personal life has experienced the up and down avenues of love. Like a heart, love has beats and rhythm. Love is the feeling that has us stay for those patiently awaited moments. Love is timeless. Romantic poetry is a way to express thoughts and feelings through words that the reader feels as though they are experiencing the moment with the author. As we are attentive to the words from the one we love in our lives, it can be the same with “A Slender Little Romance”.

– Peter A.W. Wyatt

“A Slender Little Romance” – Confirmed Poetry Book Titles – Promo

  1. Due for the Delicate Kiss
  2. A Drawbridge to You
  3. Love’s Wishbone
  4. A Celebration of Love and Drunkenness
  5. When Fire Shares its Words
  6. Withdrawn and Withheld
  7. To Brush a Tear Aside
  8. Lust has an Open Image
  9. My Eyes Show Tears
  10. Alive, and Unwell
  11. Candles Melting Against
  12. Blossomed Breast
  13. Grant Him His Fortune
  14. Love, by Sunrise
  15. Beautiful with, Beautiful without
  16. Love Holds the Stars Upright
  17. Break Me Away
  18. The Patterns in your Eyes
  19. Holding you, in Arms
  20. The Cracks within Me Smile
  21. Sweet Maiden’s Breath
  22. Grace
  23. A Thrown Line Down a River
  24. Your Kiss Meant Everything
  25. A Taste of Love
  26. The Entrance of Love
  27. Your Sweetest Flavor
  28. A Bridge between Hearts
  29. The Lifted Veil
  30. With your Eyes comes the World’s Tears
  31. Like The Hell that had been Patient
  32. Do not Die, before my Farewell
  33. Two Areas to Kiss
  34. Too Much Feeling to Burn
  35. The Olden Love
  36. To Dare Resist
  37. Beneath My Light
  38. A Genius of the Heart
  39. Love Has Two Little Marks on your Neck
  40. Too Many Tears upon Earth
  41. A Poet’s Failure
  42. With Everything Golden about You
  43. The Red in our Eyes
  44. A Dying Radiance
  45. What a Bereavement in this Empty Place
  46. Beauty Reflects in the Stillness
  47. Why do you Cry?
  48. Tell Me who you Love
  49. Hysterical, Now
  50. Your Face Reminds me of Glass
  51. Dress your Eyes with Morning Dew
  52. Pain I can only write about
  53. Do you Fight for Love?
  54. Beloved in the Dark
  55. Leave Me Transcendent
  56. A Noose for Drop of Rain
  57. Without You, I am Nothing
  58. Something Fragile in your Heart
  59. Some Time, my Love
  60. A Broken Set of Eyes
  61. Eyes that Leave Heavy Streams

Anatomy of an Author

“I cannot help but to love what I have found. A heart. Hers. It would remain isolated, without a branded kiss. I leech my own, through the vessels that remain upon my discovery. I am the sailor who throws himself overboard. I cannot love myself, not for a moment. I sacrifice myself, to see her gaze, so resplendent and astute.”

– Peter A.W. Wyatt

To my Love…

There is nothing so decimating as the heart giving up.

It is why I won’t.

You are everything. My light would diminish, if I stopped loving you. It is a light that cannot vanish.

My love! My light!

My world. You are everything.

My eyes fill with tears at the thought of smelling your hair, kissing your hand, running fingers along your thigh, dreaming of worlds that will have us. I cannot let go.

I will dive into that abyss after you.

I will love you, even after the sun stops shining.

Tears will stop. They will stop.

Philosophy – “The Definition of Unfairness” – 11/30/2020

“To the introduction of fairness, comes as the introduction of unfairness when it is brought forth to be compassion. Equality is not compassionate.”

– Modern Romanticism

Equality is not compassionate.

Could one “introduce” fairness into a working environment, full of people believed to be treated with unfairness? That is the same as offering special treatment. That is unequal, to the rest.

It is the same as a nurse falling in love with a cancer patient, and soon offering more attention to who they love, over the rest. This makes the only “equality” within the workforce, to represent something of mechanical function. Outside of the workforce, in specifics, a person is understood by one’s family to not be a tool. Within the workforce, there is no more than tools.

One cannot introduce fairness for all workers, without also introducing special treatment. For the introduction of special treatment, is the introduction of unfairness and inequality.

There is only one “equality” or “fairness” in the working environment, and that is the objectification of each man and woman. There is no room for compassion, unless special treatment and attention is in order.

It is true that “special treatment” will be designated, targeted, and specific upon a person taken from among the rest. There is a prejudice to that. Why should that person who has targeted an individual, treat them as an example that the rest would follow suit? Even among a hierarchy, all are at the same level, as tools, as instruments of construction, even when an inch taller on a scale.

Equality is not compassionate, for it always turns into a thing of selection.

Equality and fairness, when perceived by a human to reference these specifics, becomes the human’s way to hijack Nature. We then perform our own way on natural selection to allow only certain specifics to ascend.

Mixing compassion with function always has the former win over the latter. For this is because humanity holds a greater power, seen by the common human as what should always overlap inhuman behavior. And, it always does.

As humans, we are not tools. As humans, we are loved. Though, compassion has no place among a tool, when meant to be one.

The constant feud between tools, or people wishing to be viewed as humans, becomes a series of infighting in one’s own country. A “subtle civil war”, so to speak, as each person fights for their “rights”, among the desire to remain standing. All this introduces is constant paranoia, among a perpetual cautiousness on who to trust.

Could compassion ever be involved in the workforce? It should not. One could say the words, “Humans are not tools.” Though, were they to throw the word “humans” out of that statement, there’d be no meaning left.

For “meaning” holds meaning on something a person finds precious enough to protect. A right to be. A right to be human. Though, to be a tool, and then wish to be human, is all the inequality a person should understand is, in the workforce.

There are only two equalities, in this world:

The first is to be dead.

The second is the toiling labor of a worker, who burns with the motivation to return to their home. At home, they are, at last, a human.

Poem – “Kisses to make you Breathe” – Romanticism – 11/30/2020

Delicate
As virgin snow,
As buds

To bloom frozen waters
From discolored veins.
You have of your eyes
Unseen history,
To place in trusted hands.

Living under silent boughs,
Losing waters
From storms, in your
Closed stare.

I offer the kiss
To make you breathe
With the come of Spring.

Too many offerings
Have been made
To your church,
As you never flourished your secrets
For sorrows to enter tomorrow.

A grand steeple
Raised to make your neck,
A precipice, that is your head
With lips for a burial.

I offer no sadness,
Continued or rebirthed
In your arms
Like to carry buckets
Full of your tears.

I offer love
Fresh upon a stem,
Stretched for a kiss
To make you matter,
To give you breath.

You are not for desertion’s flight,
With wings that spread decay.
You are here to stay
To find that the future might

Give you a way.

Poem – “Monsters are Sensitive” – Romanticism – 11/30/2020

Looser than decay,
My limbs do stray
To the curtain of you,
Draped with delicacy.
There can be no more moons
Left for my howls.

Can they hear my cries?
The winds carry them,
Just as they lash my back.

I never knew but a broken-off
Petal,
Could follow my trail.

I am here to condone you,
The subtlest shift in the wind
To carve the sands,
Aimed for my direction,
While the beast I never knew
Joins me in dedication.

Love sighs
As the gusts through stems
Of roses before a grave.
I will depart
With a leaf in your hands,
Taken from Autumnal tree,
Blessed with ivory’s curse,
The moon to be
The torment of me,
From the curtain of you.

Poem – “To Drown, in your Place” – Romanticism – 11/29/2020

How I hold your hands
Close to my lips,
Feverish, they are
By the sudden storm
Above your head.
How the waves touch
Your barren skin,
How the ripples never die
To the calmest stillness.

Loving
With wires left to untangle
Of your matted hair,
Where my eyes, buried in tears
Bleed, for all to be aware.

Your eyes
Form the oceans
For my collapse,
A silence never stays
Enough for me to pray.

To drown,
To crown
Myself, the fallen King,
Yourself, the risen Queen,

Pulls oceans apart
For your passing.

What a sickness
Upon you!
What a love
I call the doves to,
That you might wash ashore
To hold hands with the sand,
Speaking of happiness
Where you clean yourself.

Philosophy – “Why Diversity cannot be Forced” – 11/29/2020

“The importance of diversity is in its expression, of language. Yet, can art be forced, without the burnout of the soul? Must extreme measures be taken for the person of their language to force truth forward? Forcing diversity seems to be what makes the torturous interrogator.”

– Modern Romanticism

Forcing truth, to the surface of one’s own esophagus, is to eject diversity without its naturalism.

We are not intimate with ourselves, with what we express, with what we feel, when another means to place us “on the spot”. For those who force diversity are also people who mean to humiliate. They are the psychopaths, the extractors, and those who wish for truth to be regurgitated.

Examples of truth, of all diversity, is to the ideas of it, spoken next for speech’s sake, then made tangible and physical.

We love truth, for we trust it. We cannot love God, for we cannot care for Him. Yet, we can love God’s words, as we are silent in our attentiveness. Though, to Creation so natural as a spawned life from a womb, we cannot force without resorting to a philosophy that pertains to the inhuman. Whether inhuman or psychopathic, the “interrogator mentality” is the abomination meant to be purged without diversity for what kills.

It takes no special instrument to slay, though to extract truth? That requires genius.

Yet, it requires an equal amount of genius, not of the evil and malicious intent, to create truth. It is of example, of Creation, that truth is made. For we do not force it, when it is made, anymore than a mother must force her child out of her, during labor. Anymore than a husband rapes his wife, out of force, to impregnate her, would make the diversity; because, it will not.

Diversity is always a creation, born as an example unto it. Artists do not force it out, anymore than creativity can be turned on like a faucet.

Poem – “It’s not Her Fault” – Romanticism – 11/29/2020

It is not your fault
The ruins around me
Resulted from my own hands.

Blood has been spilled
To temper these walls.
My own.

Structures still so resilient,
By the outlying current.
Sadness recedes

Me, back to where I
Say I can deny

All the love I cannot feel.

Upon your eyes
A certain coldness resides,
That I cannot seem to hide
From bleakest reality.

For you burn through me
The words,
That I despise myself,
That I shatter these arms,
These legs,
With my silence.

Upon your form,
Of flesh melting in the sun,
I allow denial to my hurts,
For you.

My pain never mattered,
Yet I cannot release
You, to the wind.

Poem – “Born so Beautiful” – Romanticism – 11/28/2020

Sprout thee,
Delicate majesty.
Your face is sculpted for me
To see.

The storm you wash me
In bedeviled tranquility,

Has me wander,
Has me breathe

The whisking fantasies
Beneath moonlit ecstasies.

Can this love be pure,
Upon your frail form?

Can you see the tides we create
On winter’s life, swept?
Like white curtains atop
Your barren, black eyes,
A bleak sunset
Shrouded by frost.

I have come to take you aside,
Hold you, in the afterlife,
Breathe you, in the cruelest strife,
Fold you about my arms,

Loving you, where Autumn walks,
Living you, where beauty defeats
Me, to my knees
That I might be a child, once more.

Kissing you
Under the rain,
Cures my pain,
Washes stains.

Poem – “My Tears come as Pearls” – Romanticism – 11/28/2020

To you,
For you,
Can you wear the rain?
My love,
Petal yourself
In these stains.
My heart cloaks itself
In the cold,
Wearing a shroud of dark
Delicate and old.

I want to come to kiss
Those very pearls about your neck.
Your life
Is marked by the fallen droplets
From the withered rose,
That I am.

You are all
To the nothing I am.
I am just a man
With dust between his fingers.
Yet, you are
Love atop a waterfall.

My tears come as pearls,
Staining your cheeks,
Soaking your tongue,
Lasting as vapors over your chin.

Philosophy – “The Reason to say ‘Men and Women’, in that Order” – 11/28/2020

“Life cannot be born, without a beginning to pain, for no woman could end it without first a care for her own.”

– Modern Romanticism

Why has there been a change, to now say, “Women and men”, in that order?

It is no by means a sexist remark to believe it should be the opposite. Because, to believe the order, being “Men and women” is sexist, goes against logic. In the order, “Women and men” is to say “Omega to Alpha”, or “Ending to beginning”. We can then ask, “Does life begin, or is life meant to end?” Are we just Nihilists to the meaninglessness of life, and that all meaning becomes joined, upon an ending, upon a birth to a dystopia?

Upon disorder, rather than order, we would say, “Ending to beginning”. That’s the “Omega to Alpha”, in the representation of a purge, to the beginning of something else. An ending to something, to the forced beginning of another, without Natural Law.

We would realize, guided from “Ending to beginning” that such beginnings to this world are unclear, as they no longer give us hope. To the “ending” part, there is understood from this an extinguishing of what was always clear, though is now killed.

The most natural thing about life, is that it has a beginning through a seed. Men plant that seed in the womb, thus is the reason for why God was made a Father. A woman cannot become a Mother, without that seed. We can behold before ourselves, the onset to “Progressivism”, by which all things natural are led through progress inevitably towards the unnatural. For how else would life become so unnatural, if we no longer followed things by the “Natural Order” of beginning to ending?

Beginning to ending is the “Natural Order”, though all things so natural become artificial when they are questioned enough to be dissected. Dissected, or rather, destroyed, for that is how order breaks. We dissect, or break, the objective “meaning” of life, down to where it holds none. We are left to then say, “Women and men” or “Ending and beginning”. It is because what is killed, or what has “fallen”, has now become the latter. It has become the representation of what has literally ended, to now the literal beginning of something still so unclear.

Pain is the testimony to a beginning. Labor, which is what a woman runs through, upon childbirth, reflects the work needed to enter pain, to then end it. A woman begins nothing of life, for even if she never engaged in sexual intercourse to become impregnated, she still needed a seed. Even if science took over that natural process, the woman still needed a seed to enter herself.

If pain is what begins life, or creates all beginnings, then it is to its ending where we comprehend that such is the only thing ever meant to end. Yet, it ends, naturally, by the death of it. Is life none so tolerable, that we must numb ourselves to reality? We are then a living corpse.

To say it in the order, “Men and women” merely represents “Beginning to ending”. That is how life naturally progresses in development, within the womb. It ends its development, to begin another one, in active life. The purest creation, being life, requires a seed for its beginning. We say a woman can start a business, rent an apartment for her residence, be a single mother to provide for her children, all on her own. Though, nothing of this can be seen, as no sons nor daughters can be birthed, without the man’s seed, without his beginning.

It is again that we say that God is the Father, for He beholds for us the creation around ourselves. All literal beginnings of life, would have to result from a seed. An entrance, to an exit, is the beginning of pain to its ending. The beginning of development, to its ultimate end. To then, the beginning of something else.

Poem – “Wet Scars” – Romanticism – 11/27/2020

Finding fault
Where ruin lies
In the wakeful rain,

Where blue sheds with blue,
As storms reside above the mist,
While life hangs a curtain

Before the dreadful hour.

Two weeks close endless chapters,
Laden in everlasting warmth.

But, to touch would mean to fear,
If not to die.

I live on the wires
Of imagined contact,
Beyond the waves

To pierce the haze.

My love lies, torn,
Upon her empty eyes.
Does she waltz,
Or does she slumber?

Bleeding lives
Create burning oceans,
Scarlet in the sadness,
Desperate in the madness.

She holds a noose, tight,
With solace breathed
Through a nose,
Soon to collapse.

As water enters water,
While oil burns atop the sea,
I can hold, as I plea
For her return
To me.

Poem – “Lovesick” – Romanticism – 11/27/2020

A fever warms you,
Yet my arms cannot touch you.
The outline of your form
In the debris that nestles you
Has me cry with the falling
Of snow, in the haze.

I cannot even
Graze a cheek.
I cannot even
Touch a lip,
While yours grow old
In the welcoming dark.
I cannot even
Hold a hand
That trembles.

Fear blossoms
Bleak petals,
Between these floorboards.
I speak
From across this room,
Asking for leaves
To not drop from your eyes.
I tell you words
You already know.

How much sickness
Embraces you,
Outside my reach.

How much warmth
Reddens your cheeks
I cannot teach.

To kiss,
Would mean to die,
Together,
Under the sighing trees.

Poem – “Little Life in Autumn Leaves” – Romanticism – 11/27/2020

She starts to remember
How the ocean began,
Of naked tears, to outdrawn fears,
Little more than a scratch upon the sky
To cause this downpour,
Forming the largest puddle.

She starts to remember
Her heart, bleeding wide open,
As a doorway, without barrier,
Without restriction.

How much she loves in the morning,
With eyes full of dew!

How much she lives in the evening,
Broken, yet brand new.

I, too, can see the past
Remembering how we did last,
Of hearts swollen in the night,
Of teardrops creating shadows,
Losing light.

Her hair, full of embers,
Flame resides in the strands,
Individual and woeful,
Yet, I bring her aboard
A vessel, for the teeming ocean.

A life, lasted in pain,
To then a wife,

Graceful and tame.