Creating Writing
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A shadow has been extending from a motionless figure. How long has it been going for? How long has she been seated there, counting leaves that descend due to meeting their time? In the corporeal world, it has been a mere minute. But in her mind, her presence in this position, this stagnation, has been
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Our world. Gusts had told its tale. Its own whispers, drifting everything everywhere. Seeds once spread. Gardens had grown. Love was birthed from a small fraction of all being felt. When we felt it, we gave our eyes over to it. But nothing had burned, as nothing had lit itself up in the dark. In
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To him, all that has manifested in this aftermath might be said to be all he expected. All that destruction of a form, all because he took a different direction. Had he lied to himself at that second? All he wanted was relief. A different place to put his sanity. To whatever was left of
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Wondering. Always wondering. At what? Only a mystery. It has been kept in a darkness, swelling in all its oceanic curves. Though, there is no symmetry. There is no place a certain divide can be viewed, should that be evidence of a clean divide. We see her, jagged and raw. She looks over her shoulders,
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He stands. With a beating heart that hopes to bloom, again, he stands, until he finds himself sinking with that heart. Down to earth, bringing ear to soil, attempting to find an echo in drowned scenery. His tears have poured from such storms hanging like tattered curtains above his head. His fingers have trembled, matching
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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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He asked himself this question a hundred times. When he asked it, again, it wasn’t with any greater wonderment than when he asked it after the fiftieth time. This question, being, “Have I done the correct thing?” struggled to be given an answer. There had been no one else, besides himself, to hear these words
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Lost upontrails of ice,coated in your pale,burdening apathy.I couldn’t tell,in having eyes fused shut,who wrote your pages. They were oncewhiter than snow.They have remainedmore stilled than death.In closing that book,I have begun to float,I have begin to look pastthose tattered sailsthat guided our ship. Although, your face,your presence still burnsthin threads, into an imageI cannot
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In these hands,adorned in bruises,I have found somethingI find impossible to discard,to treat in its entire formlike worthless to scorn. In these arms,serrated with cuts,bleeding down to the bone,I am wielding something –someone, whom I cannot let gowhile this mindsurrounds itself, in shadows. In these eyes,sundered from nightswithout rest,under constant test,I am viewing who has
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Wandering closerto those lips, a havenof leveled focus, of interactionwith the dust that collectsin hands that have washedmemories, from clouds. She has staggeredthrough a wilderness of song.She has reunitedright with wrong – the same senseof misunderstandingI am remembering during dayswe were pretending to love,in those disserving plays. She has stung her futurein sympathies, breaking her
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I wished to see the daylightbefore it expired, beyond our rush,to be behind our need to toucha sign of pleasant hope,in this dimness,of worsening vision. It is this, while I wish to keep returningto wounds, that leak from wherewe were discovered, there,at a place where funerals are bare. I am living in our aftermath,but we
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I don’t believesome spare bough, can stretchfor your scars, because I havebeen that one to keep returninga fallen leaf, for your hair. Even in tears, I land backto burn into you,because I aim to accompanyyour present image,in each droplet of rainto set the stains. To set the stagemeans to welcome both. Dualities, of hopeless futurewith
Modern Romanticism 