Cling upon me, For your immediate comfort. You have wept with a shivering form, And eyes that obey all contention. A face that needs no bliss, as mine Or your own, for the coming deprivation.
Disease me, your wounds of many fields. Kiss me, O woman of much gathered, Suffer not, when the world comes tumbling Upon our bosoms, so wide and heavy. We are but deformed infants, Birthed without care.
When we scream, who will hear us? When we strike, who will we hit? When we bleed, who catches such drops? When we feel, who feels us?
We are so much the crime, the fear for a world, That turns inside out, to see itself. We are the parasites for them, As we care for them.
Oh, beauty. You have oceans too deep for this world, And eyes that would strangle its own veins. Deny me all, so that I may see me maddened, Make me quiver as you do, So that I may break your fall.
When upon the time in a distant romance, When love once guarded her form, When a frame had guarded a painting, When my arms had guarded truth, I knew for once in my life, That my home is not this home; It is the space in her heart, And upon a face, where quivers an aching smile, I would die to know her, again, And make beauty remember me for the while.
Death has shaped her space, A black heart has now formed tendrils, Corruption has made its presence, Am I still in love, or have I made death? When modesty once placed itself about her, As the love I made to guard her, It was always a remembrance, It was always a field of achievement, It held a texture alike to those cheeks, The ones I kissed adoringly.
My beauty, make we weep, Beneath the moon of the evening melting Of its silver coloring, in where I repeat, “Make we weep! Beloved, make me weep.”
I breathe dust now over your shoulders, And find merriment only among petals, Where your tresses caught the air.
Flesh now guards my skeleton, and I’ve grown old, Like the robes loose about the monk, Like the hair loose about a woman, Like the tears loose about the eyes, Like the serpent coiling about the lie.
Love, with a breast I cup in one hand, And your face in the other, Would you rise if I kissed the mouth, That said we weren’t worth the long road?
My sweet, kiss my bitter lips. My love, how shall we dine on my guilt? My beauty, with everything sweet to see, My bitterness, is yet exquisite.
Under moon and star, Under faces apart, In love and lust in fire, Far, we walk, under the endless fog, To find a memory that was once pleasant. Dream with me, dear woman.
Your black hair comes in long strands, Down to where it reaches your toes. Your lashes, your eyes, and your fingers, All have curves to see, alike the earth, And its curvature. See me as former, never as latter.
Rawest pain and purest shame, Has encompassed me in highest notes. There is memory in my mind, Tears in my eyes, Each one, dropping upon soil at my feet, Feel this with me, dear woman.
Is there Hell to separate us? Is there Heaven to unite us? Is there family to be made, When we die tonight on the frozen rocks?
Beauty has marked my way, By dismembered flesh. This is a tale of remembrance, To one loss, that pined my heart. One that left me aching, One that left me wanting.
Oh, father. When shall you return? Grief has left me with stains Of the countless struggles beneath swaying grass, And petals that fall to my hands, Leave me to count the steps, if you may. Leave me, for you’ve felt not the need to stay.
No blame, upon not even the sickness, I am only in mere longing, from your absence, Your guidance, a shelter that was so aware, To the shadows I cast from myself. To the faces that seem to forget, I hold upon my throne a note that I’ve kept:
One note that reads, “There is much challenge to overcome, Much to see, and much not to believe, There is much wisdom to know, And much more not to show, Nor to share, nor to care.”
I had believed until now, that the world deserves promise, I had believed that the many smiles were true, And until I grew to know, that there’s deceit, Among faces swollen with pride, Among hearts said to be alive. And, among the rest, there we have infant apples.
Few would dare to show themselves, In a world so unkind, as kind. Few would dare to realize the waking tension That bellows the flames around their mark, Into the forests or meadows Of either Heaven or Hell.
We live, as we are, under skies gray and barren, With a wilderness as our hearts, Solid and strewn in the world’s deceit. And I have lost the guidance. I’ve become among it, the deceit and the swelling tension; Fires and waters, making the earth spark and shimmer.
Go well with it, we have faced kingdoms and death. Of grief and pangs of anger, of emperors beheaded. Of despair, confusion, and the overcoming Of a manufactured fame. We were never the ones to earn the world’s trust, As like anyone, whose purpose is it.
We were organic in our compelling, And makeshift in our failings. As humans, we felt the urge to bereave Over that which we hold close To bosoms and hearts, When the latter may never start.
It is winter, and upon this season, Cold compels me to draw close The numbness. The havoc winter brings, to others, Shall bring comfort, upon me. And never will I find beauty to be a cause.
“Are we all alone with our thoughts? I’d believe it to be true, considering one’s thoughts are merely an echo to what the eyes had seen, formed to be a memory. One’s memories, and a memory is the only thing that can be titled a ‘perception’. What one had seen, and then, what one had thought upon, creates a perception, or a memory that could haunt the individual to their grave.
Isolation is a word that defined the ‘asylum’. Asylum refers to be alienated away from society. They were buildings, as physical and literal structures, made to house the maddened and depraved. They were people no one wished to be associated with; and it was said that they were ‘physical and literal structures’, but what do we make of the skull that houses the mind? This is a metaphysical and metaphorical example. Isolation. It is repeated here, for one is indeed alone with one’s thoughts. It should be said here that a ‘law’ or a ‘betterment’ only goes so far before Nature overwrites it. Madness, among any illness of the mind, is the most lonely mixture of emotions.
It is for this reason that the artist will repeatedly state that no one will comprehend the work of the artist. This is the reason why many artists of genius will commit suicide, due to those of lesser intelligence throwing glances in the artist’s direction, and enforcing this lonely feeling.
And what overwrites illness? Companionship, for if love does not cure the madness from the diseased mind, then nothing else will ever replace the nurses and doctors among a so-called ‘psychiatric center’ with one goal to ‘never show tears’ or ‘form attachments’ with the patients.”
Love, I’ll not ever lose this hold, Among your hair, there are scoops of debris, And among your cheeks, there are flowers agleam, While among your lips, there are words stilled and silent, As your chin was dipped in ashes, And beholds a pale hue for myself to see.
Start weeping, and I will lose myself, Your form is rotted and stilled, And still do I see the colors that surround, Your naked self, When I had dipped my feet in your honey. Oh, beauty! You have such a worldly complexion!
I ache, and I break, when the world takes us both. Love finally crashes its own waves on the shoreline, As I lean down to kiss you, For but a moment in utter bliss. Complete me, my torment and my woe, My dream, my sky. My endless goodbye.
She has encumbered her mind with the sadness of regret. What of her memory? It is drowned in a scathing of her liquid mind; a woman of vanity that conflicts with a desire for a future. Her independence is doomed to meet the past; what of her memory? The memory she possesses, Valarie, as is her name, sees shadows.
Shadows that creep and shadows that are so much the silhouette. She desires to see the future, away from a husband, though is seeing the past. She pulls humanity backwards. Disparity is her surname. Valerie Disparity. Beautiful woman, is she, and a woman of the north. She has accumulated nothing upon the south. Her loin is still but matted with the flesh of the hymen. Domination has not been upon her. It is this way, while seduction still drools from herself.
Many men turn their eyes, distracted by something so natural for a man to be a distraction. Away from the sufferings of poverty, a man throws his glance in Valerie’s direction. He will grope, as the pauper, to reach for an apple or a peach, because morality is not of him.
Valerie’s face, so brimming with red, welled up upon cheeks that run the red to her collarbones. The red ceases upon that spot, and we notice her lips, as well with crimson from an applied cosmetic. Her face, and then her eyes are too, noticed, with blue irises, creating a scenery of one sky above and two places to look. Withdraw from it, and you will lean towards Hell, towards the poverty where a life crawls on knees and only the knees.
Her future, dreamed to be a paradise of an envisioned eternity of escapism. There is nothing that Valerie delights more in, besides the urge to be away. From what, does one ask? What to escape from, and to what future of what paradise of escapism? A future so uncertain is there for her, and seemingly throws light upon her face, and such hued cheeks turn gray as dust. She feels fear.
A future full of her independence, and yet, the dumbest of men could comprehend that a woman’s focus is her past, her memories; and all of her mind entwined as a reminder to what was good. What was once good, that is, is her prime focus. The first kiss. The first dance. The first romance. And then, the first bedding, with a man of her choosing.
The dumb man cannot ever see the past of a woman, unless he ask for its reminiscent words departed from her parted mouth.
The reminder in what a woman says is her correction to a past, is the past as tainted, and she throws the past forward; and in doing this, the past is recreated in men. A man’s mistakes is recreated; and of curiosity directed solely as a woman’s instinct, there is life continually either preserved or destroyed. What has it for a woman to destroy life, to act as men, to be as brutal and stupid, as men? Carefulness would be of a woman’s regime, were curiosity not to be among her instincts.
Curiosity creates envy. Envy creates lust. Lust creates pride, even should an accomplishment not be made. Pride soon becomes as loose as happiness, as contentment, until no accomplishment is made; and then, among bloodied, brutal people that we are, we find comfort only in blood, in conflict, in life.
Oh, Valerie; with crimson upon shades of crimson. There is lightness in your breath, and speechlessness in your gaze. There is quality in your bosom, and life in your stillness when one marvels upon you even dancing. Love, we will do; though, the only gift we will have is humble gratitude.
Face me, where you stand, As your face shines the warmth, Upon my disastrous form. My body is heavy With the pain of illness. Disease has struck me, Like the stick upon the drum, Like the madness upon the mind.
My eyes are seen in yours, As they too, swim in a lake of tears. Do not be so idle, When faces look upon yours, To cast pity in your direction. They are only in the attempt, To be kind, For they wish to offer a heart.
Take in yourself, The solidness of a new morning. My beloved, Your face is so very wet, With the tears. But, I implore you! Do not blame Yourself, for yourself is too new.
There is much sickness in me. Embrace me once more Upon this rotten bed. Let the tears be sweet, And the kisses deep. Show me not this pain. But, make me a blessing, For your heart.
As a man, The night speaks harder than day. As a woman, I might falter to see the mirror, For fear of seeing what asks to quicken; And I am in pain for it all.
I feel tears, More than I allow them to run. I breathe pain, More than I feel it.
I sing the song of sadness and heartache, Even more than the world can empathize. I feel disappointment greater than madness, In my desperation, there is greater longing For a touch, for a word, for a something, To my shoulder, shoulder, and shoulder.
I find pain to dampen my distress, Roses are comforting for their thorns, Bruises are lovely for their color, And death is much for the painting Due to its very stillness.
Love has made herself a woman, And she says to me that nothing is right Where we live, or where we scream. To the clouds, to the moon, And never the sun.
