Depression
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Passed upon myself,Was her shadow.Like to pass over my disused and torn spirit,After a love shattered,Like the bottle I cling to. I attempted to ignore,Though, it kept calling,As it kept me company. Beside myself, flesh over a drunken spirit.Inside myself, with ignorance overdone,I only slept with myself, last night,Like some pauper in the wilderness of…
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It seems in today’s time that “depression” has been repeatedly categorized into multiple areas, almost as if these are demographics. Segregated, so to speak, and depression has become something of a place to belong, should one’s own insecurity demand it. From situational depression, to clinical depression, there can be no end to the amount of…
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She walksWith a frozen movement,For upon the face of facesThere is astonishmentFor what is above her.A little round capOrange in hue,And shaded only by the coming evening. She roams, with a piercing stepTo the snow beneath her folded handsThat each sway past her side. And, within that cap,A long feather pokes outLike a remaining twig…
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What worldEver wielded, aside from the one stained in black?Longing is our token, to betterment,Away from the association of togetherness.Like love, mistaken for a parasite,Like loss, perceived to be foremostIn line. A coming mileIs not what we walk.It only holds us to reap a new darknessThat is the one behind. In arms, delicate and un-moving.We…
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We are divided between currentsThat fall from eyes made of glass,And to shield our faces makes us witnessThe shame we decorate ourselves with,As we bleed.We bleed dewdrops over cheeks made of ivory,And kiss love awayAs the emotion it was,Meant to stay. Agony is now our new bliss,Our cheeks, our faces, the silver tears we kiss,Buried…
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Oh, idleness,Unchanging woman,Who I love.There is, to you, of what I observe,A frame, myself, and you, the painting.You have beauty that thunders a spark across the skies, above.Love cannot any longer, lift it up,All I may do is sculpt it, into a memorable form, of what I knew.I knew, through portraits that still enrage me,That…
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Your strange aurasEmit a glow I’ve not seenWith these rotting eyes, nor touchedWith ever-more rotting fingers. What a horror, in meager contours,Drawn around your idle form.An outline that masks your fragilityWhenever you’ll wake up. I see,With eyes revealed for a grave,The listless shape of your countenanceExpressing the bliss that comes with the feeling of death.For…
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Tired of all,When yearning to crawlAlong fields sprayed with your tears.Here is beauty,And there is sceneryFor me to weep over, in view of your slumber. Your darknessFights me off,Intrudes upon my light,The comfort I’ve aimed to grant. I have placed roses for you to wieldLike swords in this very field,To cast fire along the presence…
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Poetry is but a glimpseTo your feeble story.Woman, who was once my beloved,My treasured soul,My song,My emotions,And, my mind;All has now fled far from me. Your eyes, a twinkle of starlight,Beside your cheeks, the porcelain sheetsThat were made as the bed to lay my kisses,Once adorned with pitiful tears. What is the causeTo your untimeliness?Where…
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Near the windowsill where you wept,While the wood still keptThe stains of reddest tears,Because, your wrists didn’t agreeWith the color of blueThat drained from the sky. Near the windowsill where you slept,And I’m still with the memory of a facePainted by sadness, despite my gladness,For your betrayal was a kindness upon the Devil’s door.And, when…
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What is thisBetween elongated limbs?What is this short figure, that does no longer kiss?It merely stares. I carved a portrait, from dust,And made a heart flutter, with rust,And, with a face I’ve come to love,Here it is, never knowing what’s above. It peers at meIn arms as cold as its gaze.It does not move,But, weeps…
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All vow to watch you bowDown to feast upon the grapes made from wax,And blow delight upon the sightOf ornamented delicacies from your heart made of silver.You will feel when we’ve already sealedDeep inside our minds, with the time we will unwind,So that you can walk in that gait we’ve left behind. Denial is a…
Modern Romanticism 