Creative Writing
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PainIn the skyFalls with the eveningOver my eyes.I will never fill this cupWith the bittersweetRemains of another day.Your eyes,Still the rainbow to find the goldAt the pile of fragmentsTo your heart. Your heart still quakesThe echoesAcross this dying earth.I wantWhat leads onMyself, to the ruinWhere your sadness behavesMost rationally.You speak of the real,As I utter…
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Open wideThe winter that disclosesThe paradiseKept to the enclosedArms, for what you nurtureLeft to the eyesOf your own. Your beauty diesUpon mimicryOf ever-falling leaves in a seasonSo soon to leave,Dropping bloodied bladesTo the fleshOf cold earth. Drink this chaliceHeld of your tears,Thin-beautyAnd countless fears. Feast your mindNot upon your heart,For a second in time,That tears…
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It is to him that this pain, in deepest relation to his wife, can be a thing that reminds him of the moment. As love cradles, so does the ocean become carried with a few droplets that disperse from this man’s eyes, adding more to the flood. For nothing else darkens more of a wave,…
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NoneOf these tearsWere cried too earlyFrom hollow hands,For I run these stained fingersOver your heavenly curves,Bleeding with you,For every word has been true. Pain is the symphonyTo carry youPast these ruins,Beyond these discarded heartsWe cannot gatherFor the empty one,Fading our lives in the rain,Leaving trust to the grain. Every word is a symptomTo this very…
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FinalWaking of a near moment,Disguised by flowers that sleep,Of petals that weep.Leaked,Fallen of droplets to the given rainThat buries a stem,Though raises the stigma,Raises the face. You leanedTo take blessing from curse,Washed your handsIn the flying nectar.You fed yourself the escape,To make of your wakeThe joys that curl themselves,Fallen into ivory,Bleeding into glory. Rain is…
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In the current works, there are 2 philosophy dissertations being written, with one that ranges upon 30,000 words. I possess over 1,500 poems written. I shall compile 20 volumes of 75 poems each. For the future, there are exactly 20 more philosophy manuscripts to write. As for novels, there are 7 WIP (work in progress)…
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Simple woman,With dreams to bareIn quilts, unsharedTo the men who stood to stareUpon you, in the droplets,The fairFace of forgetfulnes. Hold the rose tighterIn the arms, to leave your wordsWritten in surest might,Discarded upon the thorns,Creating your pullTo where Hell feeds you the horns.To make you matter in the sin,To sting your cheeks with the…
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BeautifulRose-red cheeks,With remnantsTo which she seeks,Outside of eyes, so wideWith the vision of somethingThat never leftUpon the ocean, so vast,Carrying her tears,As not a bath of itselfTo wash her fears. Love reveals youSomething to give a noteMore than the sympathies upon your heart.Here is no more than a symphonyTo confuse the feelings you cartFrom destination…
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Love,Count these stars.For theyRemind you of the manyTraces of an element,To earth, with its close faces,Broken into sand,Awakening on the shoresOf eternal forgiveness. I am hereTo hold your handThat gives way to glass,That shattersFrom whereYou held the ocean, far apartWith the moon to give you tears,With trust, in togetherness. You areFallen upon a sword,Dreaming of…
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Something wellsUp from the longest stream of pain,The blackest shoreOf the tormenting void. SomethingSo slender, that I forgotOf youThat does not restSo plentifullyIn this wearied mind. Your face,A notion of something slowTo bury itself,Stings me with clarity for a loss. The eyes,Those hollow cries,Those other facesThat never depart, so readily. You screamOf the land’s defeat,A…
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Pulled againstThe great oceanOf your sighing mouth,Gathering fragmentsOf your broken heartTogether, for the nextMoment, in our empty space. We love to hope,Leaning against the other,Against the barren slopePulling sidewaysThe tears that once shieldedOur vacant and lucid eyes. For we love with open gravityTo stay ourselvesUpon the earth, with its clarity. We dream in the iron,The…
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Hold downTeardrops from statuesMeltedOf hearts left to the rain,For dreams merged with the painOf times so soft in the hard handsThat toiled about in the soilFor the rocks that would stopThe train of sicknessTo the other, so frail. Your firm, recollected fleshIn the handsThat never twitch,Blossoming for meA beginning to seeOf roses, in a garden…
Modern Romanticism 