Books
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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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Love walks. She walks. Or, she had walked, and now she lays. Upon a back with eyes to a ceiling. Her ceiling. Her mind with walls and the drawn-in above. A world of hers, this Lisa, who can smile without sincerity. Radiance makes its way over her skin, masking something more than this. A belief
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Poem Titles: Due for the Delicate Kiss A Drawbridge to You Love’s Wishbone A Celebration of Love and Drunkenness When Fires Shares its Words Withdrawn and Withheld To Brush a Tear Aside Lust has an Open Image My Eyes Show Tears Alive, and Unwell Candles Melting Against… Blossomed Breast Grant Him His Fortune Love, by
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“She raises that head, to reveal the streaming face of hers, running as painful flames, as lava, from two eyes like twin suns. As though the fire in her was the only thing to raise the face, revealing the same trickles, the same tendrils, both in tear stains and expression.” – To not Sink a
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“The cure comes to us as what was lost, to then be found, even if needing to be dug up from a grave. Love is never a stolen moment. It is, though, something that was never found, never owned, never discovered upon the road where it was walking. For we are not robbers of that
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She stands so Hellish. She would move so Hellish. Lisa whites out her flame, her spark for a dream, before a sleep ever began. She stands in a fire, and walks in the inferno, for she likes the burn to touch her. She looks at herself around the flame’s tendrils, like its form can be
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“What do you comprehend?” protests Joel, going to say, “You believe you realize what thrives in my heart? I am madly in love with her!” “Do not be so angered. As a friend, I merely wish to speak with sole honesty. You are in torment with her, and even without her physical presence,” says Aaron.
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He carries her. She is guided under his palms, meant for this. For the rushing blood, the skin to be agleam under the brightening moon in the midnight hour. He has startled her, in his wrapping arms about her feebly thin waist. He watches. Her notices the whistling tension from her mouth, and he washes
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He speaks directly to her ear, “You are still so small, my child.” She withdraws to peer upwards to his gaze, with quivering lips and weary stare, to then commit a moment in a burning. She kisses him. Upon the lips, smooth with each waxen mouth that fires up a fever to the downing daytime.
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Walking upon the Calle Mayor, passing the red of nearby buildings, a thumping heart swells so wide. He wants, as he could think on it, to see over his shoulder to a past, igniting his eyes with all he once had. For he says, “I love. Though, do not love enough to be stable, in
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The inherent point in a sequel is to build upon every aspect to its predecessor. It is never to make it “different” in any way possible. If an author wants to make something be different for the sequel, then they should write an entirely new novel. For the former, to the next, in the row
Modern Romanticism 