Short Prose – 300 Words – “The One who Grieves…” – Romanticism – 3/8/2021

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 lips, and two eyes that always made him weep. What a love that lays frozen before the petals. Skipping heartbeats and sadness that stirs in the trenches of his own veins. Blood flows, though to him, remains idle. Just a face that no longer moves. Two eyes, that never truly look back.

Standing before a lake, his heart is now just one more stone at the bottom of it. He wishes to know the world, for its end. Bending a knee, and his hard entrance to the earth will cover him. A minor leak from his eyes, to then regret.

Pangs of dread reveal him to motion, of nothing near. Bright crystal upon the lake that evokes the frozen tension, keeping him drowned. Stillness and itself, of a man with his locket, wastes seconds on the beach where pebbles are scattered at his feet. Precious moments, that could have been given to sheer recollection, rows a boat across this lake of his repeated sighs. Of sighs that whisper, of those that speak themselves in their repetition to shift with the faint hint of fog upon the lake’s surface. He is endless, both in thoughts, among his grief.

Where is the world to embrace him?

Where is the shouting command, from a Heaven that looks down? Where are the waiting arms, to welcome him back to warmth?

Find all else, and then he shall shatter.

Walking without sunlight, battered by the moonlight in his heart, and watered by the endless raindrops that shower from nowhere, he finds himself trapped in the debris. Wasted, with no mouth to truly speak, as there are no eyes to ever read.

Excerpt from a Romantic Novel – “9 Months to Live” – 2/21/2021

“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

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 times I can see your face. I could roar tears down my cheeks, creating rapids from the rush. From meager feelings, then to sincerity.

My lies, were to protect you from the world. From their faces, they shot distrust.

From their eyes, they looked to you with loathing.

When the rope was wrapped around your throat, nothing of me could process the guilt. For I was too busy falling apart.

You trusted me, while I lied to keep you safe.

Back in your arms, while poetry drips from the ends of my fingers, I can see Spring. I can comprehend renewal. I can stop feeling numb, of mind, and of soul. I can kiss all of your tears away. I can relive what was once so true, in the heat of a month. I can taste the warmth of your mouth.

I can devote.

Psychology – “Why only Positive Emotions Generates Creative Energy” – 2/18/2021

“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 generate creative energies, then all should immediately go to believe this as a wrong.

What depressed person wants to be productive, or to be therapeutic with their creativity? While the mind is consumed by those negative emotions, we do not even press one button on the keyboard. We have no energy even for that, nor to simply motion ourselves to the seat. Because, there are those who experience troubles, enough to douse them in those depressive thoughts. They linger and dwell among them, much so that there’s hardly enough movement without another to keep them somewhat less restricted.

How can depression, which limits the person to smallness, ever drive them on with the inspiration that gives them the desire to live, for as long as possible? If negative emotions can, at all, offer us the creative energies enough to be productive, so that a day does not become wasted, then it will not. We move, through being creative. For to create, is to make movement, through the inspiration that allows us to design.

It is to next say that all energies, enough to be creative, must be positive. That means the depressed person must be able to convert sadness to inspiration. Then, there is only the hope that directly relates to what life represents. It is a repetition. Of repeated motions that only become truly tired, when we must rest for eternal time, upon death.

It has to be a conversion. To change or transfigure negative emotions to being positive, as other buried positivity becomes lifted and aware to the person, there is the inspiration that generates pure creativity.

We have no desire to be creative, to be productive, when depression has siphoned us of all energy.

How can “research” believe that negative emotions can generative creative energies, when it is always inspiration that keeps the movement within life, to be productive?

Excerpt – Chapter I – “My Anger, the Addiction” – Romance – 10/20/2020

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, to the winds, where my truth, my outpouring cries could indeed be heard.

Love. The only emptiness to be had, webbing my heart like I was the fly. To its death, and then, to be held inside my mind, as if God were the spider.

I do not bleed. I only have lost.

Love is something I can exhale, to embrace the remnants of something so related to vapor. Of some face held, to some field wept upon, to raise stems with the petals. They can all lay at my feet, those petals, and still appear as fallen autumn leaves. What is my depression, as only a kind of ache, without its understood ending? No story leaves pages emptied, just like the painting cannot be made with blankness remaining.

Love is that, for I can see something that is so blackened. So much darkened, in a void that was once colored, though is now the opposite. I hold a strand of my own hair. I hold it, as I perceive its grayness. How can it be, when I am still so young?

The years behind me, moving forward to place my steps, I can see no light. Like no light were waiting for the ship I captain, to be set safely ashore. As if no island had been waiting with a weeping sort, to welcome home my presence. As if I were to become a stranded vessel, having hit the shore with an concussive impact. I shattered against stone, sounded in tune with the frailty of my own heart.

For it is that he dreams. He melts himself, masking a future by what is behind him, hidden in the snow. Love is a shower of cold for him, whether too many hidden secrets have shared the warmth of ice, or the glints of the fresh snow. If too many hints of a nothingness have grasped at him, like memories of what had been, then it can be no longer.

How alike, to a woman, where his memories are forged. How so much similar to a womb, they are released, though born backwards? Strangled by the stem of sustenance, by the umbilical cord. So much the image of a leader hanged. No future, for nothing of the head can carry his body forward.

Pain is his sustenance, breathing on fumes that choke. Fusing himself with the stench, that only ever a certain history gave for intoxication.

How alike, to a woman, where his face shows itself for a kiss. So much for a kiss, that rips apart at this woman’s face. It crumbles, as each fold of a lip is tied together with her. Two faces, mourning over the loss of the self, the loss of self-understood truth. How breakable, the both of them, when they never turned within the grave to see each other.

Upon the death of some stained truth, love became their wish, once more, in the eternity of sleep. In a death of hearts, love motioned them into stillness. Their faces would not receive the other, in any conceived smile.

Passive, in a dark corner of his personal world, where this man shelters himself. He churns, like some somber child. His face speaks the same language as his quivering hands.

How does the world close itself, of its bottomless horrors, when this man merely wishes to fly? Running offers him comfort, though to only more shadows? Love does not ever start another fire, over the sick and loud memories that stammer his voice.

His eyes hold music boxes, while his fingers twang the heartstrings of some instrument recorded to the former. The return of simplistic playback, the music that possess no authentic value, controls him in his heart. Why has darkness formed an empty road? Why has death made his life walk backwards?

How is it, that with eyes opened wide, he can see no light?

Short Prose – 150 Words – “Stretch your Buried Wings” – Romance – 10/19/2020

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 I can. Before it drops, like another bough from a tree, I will kiss your hand, holding up your arm.

You are the tree, grown sick. I believed that the years would carry us. Yet, I must carry this weight of your fall. No wings so deeply buried in the earth, can ever be lifted, without your leaving.

You have opened the gates, for your arrival. But, will God love you more than me? Will God ever believe in our world? How does His name escape me, though yours won’t?

You will become an angel, born from dust.

Short Prose – 300 Words – “Broken Heart Surgery” – Romance – 10/11/2020

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 waits, though spends years in the search. Has it found whatever whisper is so different from the wind?

She will plummet. She will fall to see her reflection, in an ocean she has spilled from her eyes. She will plummet to the glass, the recognition of her tiredness. She will soak herself in what she despises.

I can. I can cut that rope. I can loosen her from her end. I can bring tears back to her eyes. I can lift this whole ocean.

I can open her, for another time. Trust? Is it so much to yearn for, for how fragile she has become? Dust cannot offer trust. I am a man with regrets that stand at his feet, and do not rise to meet his nostrils. I doubt myself, and these fires will not be put out.

We loved with blue to the oceans, and green to the skies. We grew thorns that all died when the petals came loose. We breathed many scenes of our stories, where dreams were our tokens to a better life. Outside, we were nothing. Inside, we were everything. But, a new tear has fallen.

I cannot bandage this wound, anymore. I cannot burn the rope, to let her down.

My eyes sting with jealousy. Dreams crash, as the waves that recede back to realization. A recognition, for a mirror with fragments already so unlike whatever beauty she possessed. A recognition that stands on those fragments, bleeding from the nakedness of stilled feet.

Broken heart surgery. Broken heart melody. Broken heart catastrophe. I am ended, as she is beginning her transfer.

Quote – “The Definition of an Interpretation” – 7/16/2020

“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 the nose, eyes, and cheeks remain. An interpretation is to simply pull away a portion of what was once complete, to now be incomplete.”

– A Fine Line for Justice

Quote – “Why Creativity does not Affect Mental Health” – 7/6/2020

“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 is always white. Therefore, without mental strain, there can be no expression. For we make sense of our unknowns, our confusions, in adding them to blankness.”

– Modern Romanticism

Poem – “What a Woman to Hold” – Romance – 4/25/2020

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 be filled.

From breaths,
We sail
Towards land known to us.

To the world,
We climb
Up towards Heaven, where we may sink
Again, to an embrace.

Leave whatever pain you have, to subside,
While you are in my grasp.

Leave whatever sorrows you believe in, to the goodbye
Of many more that soon follow.

Poem – “I Hold Her in my Lungs” – Romance – 4/25/2020

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 beauty
To 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 touch
To forge the mirror for her viewing.

I keep vanity sheltered,
Of herself in the stars.
I keep her eyes upon the very skies,
Of her heart in the dark
Mesmerizing walls of our abode.

She finds confinement in belonging,
Dressed as she is, in garments of white.

I see where a kiss was buried
In a neck, crude in height.

I love what should not be loved,
Of a woman with fewest treasures,
Except for herself.

Yet, my breath is what faces her,
My tears are what wet the Earth,
As my trembling hands make up each sound
Of my thudding heart.

I hold her in my lungs
As I hold my breath.
To keep her away
From certain death.

Poem – “Holding Heaven in Stones” – Romance – 4/24/2020

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 skies?

We both wield lies

As old as the sinner’s goodbye.

I seem to see some wine for the taste,

As its bitterness only goes to your lips.

Love is defined

As a heart divided to belong

To different halves.