Creativity
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He believed more in betrayal, than that of love. Watched, as the stars kissed his cheeks. Waited, as the haze melted him into a portrayal of surrender. Laughed, as the clouds mocked him among their height. He kept something. A locket. Of a face with two roses for cheeks, blush for the sake of the
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“Repetition is a cruel splash of the hardest hail upon our faces. Of life, where moments matter more than dreams. Of love, where sadness speaks more than the moments that indeed fade. For life, a person will always gain. For love, a person will always lose.” – Peter A.W. Wyatt
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Short Prose & An Example of a Blogger’s Life – 200 Words – “For your Love” – Romanticism – 2/19/2021
For what will transpire, I will breathe a thousand more words. Though, the one that is saved, is straight from the heart. While you were true, I merely lied half of the time to reach you. While you were real, only half of my heart stuck to this. Though, I could cry upon all the
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“Depression is not a cue for productivity. Nor is grief the cue for a need to neglect the immediate sensations. We discover something so pure, as the positive emotions, only when everything we currently feel can be converted over to inspiration.” – Modern Romanticism If research tells us that both positive and negative emotions can
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I have lifted. I have always cried. Of stones that were carried in my arms, while tears fell from them, soon as they were squeezed. I was expected. To release truth, I was expected. Like love was something I could fall through, beating my heart, burning in my skull. I released. I let go myself,
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My love, where you sing your cries on an empire of your Hellish loneliness. How can the churches believe you? How can your smile ever be parted, from you? I will bleed along with you, my love. Treasure yourself, for the funeral cannot be far off. I will kiss your hand, for as long as
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Emotion. Aflame, with attempted designation to the rope. The rope, for it cannot be cut with a knife. It cannot, for it cannot hold its weight’s own will. Its weight, of a form that wishes for death. A death that would leave countless tears to rot at the feet of their rejecter. Love waits. It
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“An interpretation holds a singular meaning: to splinter away what is perceived to be a whole, into now an incompletion. The incomplete picture is the entire picture interpreted. One can look at what it means to interpret something like tearing off a fragment of a portrait painting, such as the drawn-in mouth, so that only
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“Whoever said that creativity affects a person’s mental health, has it backwards. It is mental health that affects creativity. It is the emotions of the madman who is the best creator. Without those unknowns stemming upon the blank page, there will be no ink to draw from. For that unknown is black, as the page
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Love has a way of sharing textures Soft as the snow we roll in. I have held the many tears for my consumption, I have breathed the stars into her eyes, I have felt the world shudder in her arms, For that world was our own. From rains, We fall Into a void made to
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A breath for a bird,To keep her wings afloat. A guide for a smile,To keep it going for the while. I need the prettiness of her aged beautyTo mimic the skies never to part,When I keep it together. I feel the worship of my hands, upon her skin.There is fire raised, from each touchTo forge
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Why can I not Wrap myself in the rope that engirdles you? You are defined by the night, As I am defined by you. Each love seems to float For varied persons Towards Heaven, As it is where failings go. So the blood did boil? And, did it overflow? Did your pain raise to the
Modern Romanticism 