Beauty
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Sundering windslift up the flaps,the loose parts of me,those small areasI can no longer see.All I’m viewingis this descent,this long slope,one way down.All I’m hearingare echoes,those from other’scrying voicestelling me,pleading to meto turn back.I want what I want,while I knowit’s not what I need.I’ve built the bridgeI’ve set on fire,never crossing it.I was half-wayto finding
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An expression is a confession. A confession turns into art because art will be taken seriously if it can’t be laughed at or ignored. It’s the distinction between tragedy and comedy that’s also the difference between beauty and ugliness. Someone who decided to turn their tragedies into hideousness will require a great deal of patience
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Finding me,amidst this falling rain,where downpoursare mere showersagainst a soiled soul.I want to be reflectedin each puddle,where reunionsare connected,dissected correlationsbetween the faultand the funnel.I want to travelthrough the spiral,twisting up uncertaintyinto a blue and green,reshaped tapestry.Find mein places where I’ll bewatering mountainsto grow higher.Lose me,like the diamondthat’s last to fade,in a dimming sky.Evening has eonsleft
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All it was, to her, was a reception. She received, but she left behind an important piece to the whole. Something that she couldn’t comprehend, perhaps? All it has been, since to repeat it becomes needed, was a reception. Something to hold, someone to hear whisper to her heart in a space inside of it
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I declare, upon a point I found hindering to decide, that there cannot be a reason to love. No distinguishable, practical reason. There cannot be a useful reason for it in its wide arrangement of symptoms, all discussed of love, as all remain being reminders of what cannot be explained. What would be said? Only
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“Telling a story, especially of another person’s life, is always fiction. It is when that story has been written for togetherness’s sake. When truth is not told, in that story, the deception in its stead will bring unity if only as a short-term distraction. A fiction tale is something that never occurred, and the more
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“No one can regret to love. Because, to love wasn’t a choice. When we look back upon the first time we held a hand, can we analyze the circumstance? Can we ever come a conclusion or reason for that moment? Or is that merely us doubting what is has grown into something spectacular?” – Modern
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“Not in the moment, though in the past. A direction is the same as a reflection into something indiscernible and blurred, though made comprehensive and clear when drawn for the future.” – Modern Romanticism There is never something so beautiful as what a person can forgive. Then, each angle is not so much needed to
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“Art, the past. Art, the memory. Love, the art, because art cannot be forgotten. That art will bring the memories, painful and despairing, a deserved soft peace. Led into comfort, through art. Led into Heaven, through art. Art is eternal, because a memory cannot be forgotten. No, it can only be accepted. What changes the
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“There are no fires that burn so strongly as within the furnace of love that warms hands that are cold even in the morning. There are no other pair of eyes that remain with their presence, their ungulfing stare, as those loving ones that drown what they view. Let love capture you, let love swarm
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“Life can be simplified down to the two extremes to follow, if there’s no notion of balance. To be brought towards excess, or to be content to the oneness of truth. To fade into the realm of pleasure, or to comprehend that with truth there could be no discontent without something similar to infidelity.” –
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“No human, the doll, the tinkered instrument meant to snap either of strings to physical realness or of blinding gullibility, will perpetually be the case. All humans, the sponge, the tank flooded within that will break no matter the toughness of exterior. There is no skin the metal, nor face the mask that can guard
Modern Romanticism 