Anxiety
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Emotion. Aflame, with attempted designation to the rope. The rope, for it cannot be cut with a knife. It cannot, for it cannot hold its weight’s own will. Its weight, of a form that wishes for death. A death that would leave countless tears to rot at the feet of their rejecter. Love waits. It
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She holds a smile in her hands, while filming the ocean’s sounds with her heart. Sounds that return to her, upon when the waters lick the shoreline. Sounds that matter only to a world that never responded quick enough, upon when sickness took her beloved. A world that only gave a whisper from a dying
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“Oh, the Schizophrenic is none so accursed as one might think. Their ability to look at the world differently can be a boon to those who see this realm for everyone, in a stagnant and uneven position. As I am one diagnosed with such an illness, it is then that I perceive what a human
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The funeral strikes the hour,As I waltz pastThe raining petalsThat do not,RepeatingDo notBurn, nor tearApart, at their solaced shower. Her hair falls back, lifeless,Never againTo be brushed by the hand,My hand,Facing the floor,Soaring towards the naked shoreWhere eyes can glimpse my stroking tears. I had loved,Meagerly loved,Simply lovedThe rose gathered amongstAll these forgotten petals.Her face,A
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How is pain felt? Is it not like the storm gathered in its heaviest gray? Would the gray remain for long, before letting loose what it has carried, being of its rain? Are we not the same in what we dispassionately yearn to be rid of? It is that brief moment of logic where we
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“How many tears could a man have concealed upon a time when he was hungry, when to soon realize upon his loss that he was only thirsty? A man lives, to drink in what he never felt.” – Modern Romanticism
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Breaking between syllables, this painter is lost in his wreckage. A void for discovery’s sake, to see a face that looks back to his pain, to the absence. As this memory unites with himself, a hollowness begins to become so apparent in its torture. Just a single pang of loneliness, doubt, and uncertainty to keep
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Watch the leavesTurn whiteThrough falling debris,Of clouds that never receive color. I am the enemyTo my own sunriseThat never welcomes my handDrowned in the sand. Too many clocksHave broken for the pieces put together,Except the hands,For about, they spinIn idle hours,Idle tears, that never descend quietly. Love has turned its face about,Motionless,Calmly,Greeting the warmest weather
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A: What have you used to cure your pain? B: Love. A: You used love? B: I found love. I found it, because it wasn’t always available.
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This entire blog is dedicated towards my only true love I’ve ever had. 1,000+ poems are written in her name. She was the only thing that ever counted towards me being “complete”. When the love left my heart, I grew mad. Mad… as in, I grew insane. This was no ordinary break-up. It was like
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“There will never be a heart within a chest if that chest is not meant to be opened. It becomes then a coffin, holding something dead.” – To not Sink a Friend
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She holds curtains Before her trailing eyes, Then asks the world, “Where were all those loathsome goodbyes That never came, before the end?” Trails come as journeys To tears, never-ending. For her, life threw turns to her, Sobbing beneath the blackest veil Thrown over trembling shoulders. Her neck is a bath For the bucket, the
Modern Romanticism 