Modern Romanticism

The aspect of romance, divided between the heartening and the thoughtful.

Words of Wisdom – “To Differ the Quality from the Quantity” – 8/11/2019

August 11, 2019
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“As anyone who holds even the slightest understanding of Psychology, the human brain is incapable of holding two primary focuses. Rather, there is always a primary and a secondary focus. Should quality be the primary focus, then quantity will become the secondary focus. Should quantity be the primary focus, then quality will become the secondary focus. This is to say that should the artist never seek fame, then they will wield their brush like a conductor wields a baton to command the orchestra. This is to also say that should the artist seek fame, then the artist will never tire of taking multiple dives into association and labeling, all-the-while believing repetition to better suit the work he’s creating. Such a former scenario of quality creates that which is built to last. Such a latter scenario of quantity creates that which crumbles when a species comes to deny the existence of time.”

Poem – “Blinding Tears, and Blinding Rage” – Depression

August 1, 2019
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I am seated, with my head in my palms,
And I ponder to myself over what I’ve lost,

Besides another tear.

Another tear,
Another flake to the ashes,

Another memory to the burial,
Another fragment from the heavy weight
Seemingly lost, and now,
The Earth possesses it.

Of blinding tears, and blinding rage
That seems to be all I feel.

As my emotions are frenzied,
Between these two voids,
These two bleak confusions,
These two natural diseases.

Failure stings as much as it bleeds.
Wounds are nestled on my heart,

Guilt has wrapped itself
Around my tired form.

My form, vivid in all its gleaming,
Of all wounds with ragged flesh.

I would never be proud,
Of anything I’ve conquered,
On either fertile shores,
Or watery deserts.

Love once made its way to my mind,
By a singular path
;
It drew so many marks,
On where I allowed it to roam.

And now a mirror blocks my path.
It is my own path;

And a path, with such a mirror
That shows my face.
Revealing death, I see two eyes like orbs of steel,
Made present in what they reveal.

A face of ruby, and a heart of stone.
A man of no mercy upon his tired body.
I draw emptiness around,
Like a frigid cloak taken from a tundra,
Love, at my left hand,
Death, at my right.

And I collapse them, together.

Words of Wisdom – “The Fact of Heaven” – 7/20/2019

July 20, 2019
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“Where we displace ourselves, as naked flesh, to be lifted, is in our discontent, to soon be contented. In life, discontent. In love, content. All angels call the flesh to rise. What does this refer to, besides the aspect of such flesh becoming the unified flesh? The flesh of God, is all flesh; and the message of Heaven, is at once, to hear music, at the same time, to create art, at the same time, to read poems. Shivers and quivers are what we ‘feel’ when we are lifted. It is a place that science has as well, discovered, among its numerous discoveries, dubbed the ‘higher brain’, and is the same place as Heaven. Rest. Development, or the developed. The fully grown. The eyes that see the rest. The rest, or the rest of everyone. The content. The beauty that has been raised. To love, and above to where love, and Heaven, resides. We seek answers, as humans, do we not? Then, where will we ride this power of reason, the power of the question, besides upon a road of doubt and uncertainty? Endless question is endless doubt. A destination is a place unseen by human eyes. An experience as love, is continually denied. For its use, there is none. For its moment, there are many, and they are numbered to infinity. Do we desire to see God? To finally see his so-called ‘reality’? It is not a reality that may be seen, but experienced. In who we love, in what we adore, is God.”

Poem – “Your Youth and your Resplendence” – Romance

July 13, 2019
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Save me, graces,
The bleeding wound,
In me,
Has long thought of to be free.
Your idleness matches
My failure. And to the ship,
Where there are sailors,
They mask themselves in the breezes.

Fate awaits me,
Her dying body is a shelter,
One that throws love overboard.
Underneath my feet,
There are many serpents.
There are many insects I have crushed.

There is a face,
One so smooth and so round,
One so much attuned with life,
That it mocks me.
By a smile,
With teeth that are porcelain-white.

Death came natural to her,
As life comes to me, as futility.
Her youth and her resplendence,
So white and so vivid,
That I desire to devour it,
Beyond the lighthouse.

Come as she may,
Oh, woman of tragedy.
To the faults of every mire,
Of every sea and every sire.
Of every tombstone that grows higher,
To love, and to her arms, is all I desire.

Epic Poem – “Long Beloved Beauty in Life” – Part One – Romance – 7/8/2019

July 8, 2019
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The apocalyptic shadow,
Of my eminent devastation.
My salvation,
Could not have come sooner,
By the noose,
To the box.

To the soil, and attempt to rejoin,
What I had lost.
Was she lifted?
Was she granted,
The heart of God, of any God, of any faith,
Rather than my own, for I failed?

Indeed, I failed, as was my wont.
Accustomed to failure,
And now, she lingers among rot,
As a woman,
As a soul,
As torment in its very incarnation.

What is my music?
It is death, as I see it.
What is my loss?
It was a woman, as I knew her.

What is my frailty?
My guilt, as I feel it,
What is my safety?
The suicide in an evening, guided by a dimming sun.

Oh, pain, empty yourself upon my lashed back,
Afore the pain was ever there,
Afore the lashes were ever struck to bleed,
My back; my love is gone.
And a truce was spoken,
To the nearly-open wind, and bound nothing.

Poetry of Longing – “I Fell upon a Thorn” – Poem #2 – 7/8/2019

July 8, 2019
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Unloved and made for pain,
Here is me, made for the world to see,
What is death with a breath?
What is love without the sigh?

With a face once so full of gold,
And no more beauty to behold,
Angel wings burned,
A life upturned,
Like mine,
And I fell upon a thorn.

Sympathy is the reward of the overthrown,
Stepped down to meet a nation of dust.
Empathy is my very foundation,
Where rust and floods are the foundations to my home.
I am made trivial, and swollen,
To the proverbs of a desperate age.

You drive the earth forward
With your gentle push.
You make my lips turn upward,
With your frugal song.
A song of light and plight,
A song that cries to open fields.

I am lifted by love and its grace,
Raised by age and despaired by loss,
What has become of me,
Upon this lonely sea?

Oh, love, without the breath, it is empty.
Without the death, we are empty.
Without the protection, we are frail,
Frail and alone.

Poem – “My Lady, in Silence” – Romance

July 7, 2019
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The most beautiful of orchids,
Has soon met her fate,
By a dying rose,
Upon her somber face.

Her sorrow reaches to the Earth’s end,
Away from my trembling hands.
Disease and pestilence, are my only reward,
For my fleeing from safety.

Her number grew gradually,
Among the rotten many.
The many poor to which she brought herself,
Low, for a kiss,
Flooded London’s districts, and France’s cemeteries,
And made failure as her triumph.

For she dances with a sparkle to amaze,
The thwarting crowd, who reach
For the moon’s elongated arms.
I feel fate crawl upon us.

I feel the nectar unbind my wounds,
And cause misery to cease,
I am among the tragic few,
With fewer tears to name as new.

I am a man with no name,
And sees a woman with no face.

Her eyes, and her beauty
Struggles to fight the willful fight,
Beyond temptation, beyond dirt,
And so I may hold her in longer arms.

Her dreams and her woe,
Become nothingness, so slow.

Words of Wisdom – “The Man to the Woman” – 6/30/2019

June 30, 2019
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“The man’s words will never directly reach a woman’s mind, no matter if they aren’t romantic. Even when logical, they will strike to her heart and pluck the strings like notes played upon a harp. This is for the reason that a woman admires honesty, while logic is the epitome to honesty. Those words will raise or lower themselves, like Heaven to her head, or Hell to her knees. A man will sing a song, while playing a woman’s body as an instrument. No negative expression in this, for such words do not need to be a shout, nor the strings plucked to make the music of disorder. The music can sound as elegant as the chirping bird when upon the bough of some birch.”

I Bring Thee a Rose Made of Silver

June 20, 2019
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I bring thee, a rose, made of silver,
For it clashes, with thy complexion,
That has formed itself, through silver tears,
And such sorrow, that quakes, thy heavenly bosom.

God knew, who to hire,
So that the artisans, would sweep their knives,
To carve, the most ebony-laced form,
Imaginable, to my keenest eyes.

Here has my sympathy, been withdrawn,
Over to the next statue, where there is she,
A futile attempt, of a portrayal,
To a woman’s depiction, in sight of Heaven.

He, the artist, lacked in skill,
So I bend my knee, to kick it down,
And make what I will, of its heap,
Of limbs, and scattered kisses.

Send to me, my love, the courier,
He has spoken, of messages, to whom, I say, there is
An Alexandria, a Bridgette, and a Charlotte,
My making hands, are soon ready.

Filled with the passion, and the simplest desires,
There is still much to make, of another,
To often am I, the artist, said to be God,
Just a man, with a keen devotion.

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