We love, in the sunset.
What of the sunrise?
What of when I see you open your eyes,
Against the blue of a dispersing night?
And I see green?
Deep in the fabric of our quilts and sheets.
This, I notice.
Two dotted portions of Nature,
Embedded deep in a face I’ve kissed
Upon numbered times.
We love, in the sunset.
But, what of the sunrise?
What of the moments, kept in so much awe
For the sunbeams that turn your skin into a shimmer?
What of it?
I can see it,
The happiness you had concealed,
When it was dark.
And beneath the covers,
It was darker.
Love can hold many hues and shades
In its moments.
Let us kiss, in this light,
For you are part of it.
Sweet maiden’s breath,
And sweet maiden’s tresses,
Of individual length.
Like a vision
Of something in a spectacle,
Dancing above a lake.
Her form, washed in the presence of water,
And her contours, as elegant as ever.
With the currents,
And the ripples,
To her, in the bluest coloring
Beneath the welkin sky.
Does it wander her by?
Sweet maiden’s breath,
And a virgin texture,
There is a Kingdom awaiting
For you to drown in the embrace of unfolded arms.
As you shy
Away from the sadness, in your eyes.
A sweetness in the mirror,
Was only a glance.
And the things that sprout
From shoulders and neck
Seem to be
The nectar that showers
Your hair in the sheen.
Little droplets of liquid sweetness
Your shoulders and neck, in the loss
Of what saddens your eyes.
I’ll share kisses
And under the blue in your skies.
His mind resides on the edge
To obsession’s pledge.
He’ll never realize
He is making the suffering,
And not the love.
Why make her wield the pain, on her eyes?
Why sever the thing that could still make sanity flourish?
It is in the eyes,
Fear is on its opposite end,
And each tear drops to the world’s end.
I say to fight for love,
Though, to fight for it without clarity,
Bakes the bread of insanity.
Beloved, with curtains so dark in their texture.
You can see through them
To detect, my seeking gaze,
So that I may embrace you, beneath quilts of softness.
Like a book with two covers, to merge the story together.
We are felt as the pages, written with words from lonely sighs.
We are felt without the goodbyes, to make us longing in what waits.
The few droplets of sweat that rain from our minds,
The few droplets of blood that land to our hands.
And, like rabbits, we run through whatever had once made us dark
Behind the curtains.
Here is where we tell each other that nothing was wrong,
And everything is right.
The burning hotness
Of a five-pointed little thing.
You, as the star I discovered, in my universe of the infinite.
Arms wide, for the taste of the air,
And legs the same, for the allowance of my entrance.
Yet, I hold you upright,
Like an infant to be seen by a mother.
My love, you have eyes that beam upon me
The radiance of any star,
But, I chose you, because I came upon you
In the darkness.
Love cannot cool down,
Love cannot stifle its show of rays
Of this hotness
From your form, and from your sheer presence
Under the moon, where your tears used to soak
Your cheeks, for such will be no more.
No more sadness.
But, only sheer gladness
In the waking of my place upon Earth.
And, I will hold you upright,
My star, to see my scars,
In the twilight where we’ve ventured far.
Twice, I’ll kneel
To remind myself, of my devotion
And my error.
I offered my name to you,
And here I’ll kneel, once more
For the forgiveness, so needed
To move past the grime
In our romance.
I bleed upon the floors, my heart with its sincerity
To never see you cry
Again in our time.
A woman’s breath
Gives me reason, to walk with you
Through the current, unfurled
From feathered lips.
Sweetness as rosiness,
Like the face that melts from my touch
Upon your pallid cheeks.
I am in love
With a stream, occurring from feathered lips.
The storm is gone,
And the harshness of our lives has passed
With the harshness of stone.
And we can love.
And I can love
With all the softness upon feathered lips.
Love is spotted
Across your heart, as the empowered longing
To see everything meant to be,
Yet couldn’t be.
I was in you, upon a time,
With breath upon every bone in your form.
You breathed over me, in the past when
We knew love for the fields, and their scenery.
I am still in you, am I not?
The little memories, lost in a mind
That has become thwarted by fate?
Forever and again, the film reel of hurt plays around.
Like a cog or a wheel, in the joints of a delicate instrument.
We feel, and remain to feel, each pain of movement
We will taste for coming and remaining years.
Words are the very chords
Echoed out from somewhere deep,
Plucked upon heartstrings, in the fullest moon.
Love lifts clouds
Away from your tired face.
Love replaces them
With the blushes of a sunset, vivid and wild.
Breathe deep, those notes
I will come to hear them
Even in my most hazardous trials,
Because, you mean the world.
Twist the velvet
Wrapped around your curving shoulders.
And breathe me a kiss
That is laced in the wine from our evening.
Your eyes hold a subtle
Hint of what I’ve come to notice
Just the fevered rays of a sun that I’ve been lacking.
Just the warmth of something meant to be staying.
Rather than run,
I will drown, in the sun and its heat.
In May of 2018, I was diagnosed with Bipolar 1 at a hospital, during a time I was weening off an anti-psychotic medication. I suppose that during the process of weening off that dreadful drug, I developed Bipolar 1.
It affects my writing by keeping it in two directions: an “aggressive” side, and a “sensitive” side. It is funny that I am in my “manic high” mode to write the aggressive work, that relates to philosophy. I am in my “manic low” mode so that I may write my sensitive work, that relates to my romantic writing.
I feel inspired and “lifted” in that specific state, when writing my philosophical and theoretical stuff, that is written purely based on observation. During that point, my mind is in a “hyperactive” state, moving at a 100 miles a second.
I feel downtrodden and slow, to write my romantic poetry and prose, and heavily suicidal, often reminiscing on past memories of a certain love I once had. I gain the inspiration then to listen to Barry White, or listen to the band that got me going with my writing, called My Dying Bride. Romantic and somber, and I write according to the slowness that seems to be objectively tied to love.