Excerpt – “My Anger, the Addiction” – Description to a Woman – 11/20/2020

Beauty is born upon her, with marks to her fields of skin. Imperfections that amount to the truths of this once-wounded woman. Cured by absence, though remains scarred in this man’s heart. Remains treasured more in his mind, than that orb of red. Of memories within bleakest stains, that never fade. They are the shadows. They are all the blows to which he simply tolerates. Of love, to which never reminds him it is fine to hurt. There is something that remains in him, of living sickness that borders upon her haunting appearance.

She could remind any man of something once there, though now not. Of someone to be led to safety, reprimanded for her idealistic and punishing ways. Of someone whose eyes were blank, though now are to be filled with the same security the man has deposited into himself.

For she reminded this man of life. Of its cruelty, of all barbaric minds that nestle within its light. Of shadows that leak through the radiance. She reminded this man of life’s toil, though now to be coursed upon a different direction, from the extended sickness.

Of beauty that descends itself through curl of tress, with plainness of attire. Brown to white, with a former entrance to the hair that runs over an erected neck, with loving smoothness. Brass to the discoloration of a non-pigmented flesh, for she is as pale with death like all fallen birds. Brown hair to pale skin, to plain attire, with of the second mentioning as identical to a dress without design.

What one somber bird she was to him, with a face that startles the sun in him to set, loosening tears over the edges to silenced eyes. He could kiss, as he could drown in her storm. He could draw from her the waters, to consume with gusto that which could not be elsewhere noticed. To beauty’s beyond, of a horizon that had set her light, to shadows that are now limitless.

Curl of tress, to plainness of attire, then to a smile that warps itself as a frozen curve. To remind him of a street that rounds in the winter, born of ice, healing like warmth, though never fades.

Poem – “Love is a Blanket of Eternity” – Romance – 11/9/2019

Love is a shell,
When it is not covered,
By something that will nestle it
In moments as sweet as beading faces
Of a woman, hot in exercise.

Cities as old as time,
All bow before the might of love,
When it is that blanket of eternity.
A kiss, one heated kiss,
Upon a mouth, sends through shivers.

A blanket, for it is a quilt,
Made of silk, the softest silk,
From a spider that knows not to lie,
Whose web would be a single string,
From a woman who knows not to cry.

Love is a blanket of eternity,
And I have covered a grave with it.

This bed of soil,
Is only a bed of flowers.

Poem – “Among Your Death” – Romance – 10/26/2019

I will live,
Though, how can I breathe?

How can I start a fire,
A flame
In this heart of mine,
Without the glance that brought me life?

How can I state any moment of happiness,
In the most genuine of words,
Without what is needed,
To keep me down?

What finger will be placed
Upon my blistered lips?

What pair of eyes will know
The cries emitted from this sentenced heart?

I will live,
And no longer know love.
And, how can I breathe,
Without the comfort of comfort
To truly lay me down?

Erotic Poetry – “An Entitled Bosom” – Romance – 10/26/2019

Face me,
Your stagnant aura, of many aromas,
Puts me beneath you, in a dying dedication,
For I’ve discovered it.
You deserve it,
You have earned it,
A caress upon a wild and entitled
Bosom that shows a gloss.
You were loved by many,
Until the one who will shower you,
With kiss upon kiss.

Star above,
Song below.
Allow me to bellow this melody
Upon your idle features,
As I describe what I’ve conquered:
“A lady of pain, who slept away to cry,
Has a herald of agony below herself,
A beauty with tresses like bark from a tree,
Shedding down to where I may see,
The entitled bosom that needs itself to be seen.”
Thrust aside those worn garments,
And offer me the breast for my wielding.

Go on,
Capture these kisses upon each orb of flesh,
Marriage has caught us in its net,
Its veil,
Its place of pride and wine,
Within a Holy Grail.
I kiss, and I kiss, again,
Two breasts,
An entitled bosom,
As your hands reach upward to remove the hair
From my eyes, stained from cries.
And I sigh, to bleed upon an ever-more
Golden ring and golden pride,
Bleeding for a face too adorned in lies.

Poem – “A Glance upon your Swollen Heart” – Romance – 10/25/2019

Love is a famous thing,
My bird, my devil.
You have sprouted wings for myself to see,
Hoping for this face of mine to utter some sound,
That will
ignite the world around.
Our garden of decay,
Is where we share these notes of love,
Alike our merry Heaven with a house of stone,
Falling to our feet, from above.

I will hope to meet you, in coming time,
Kiss you, beneath tree and star, combined,
Blessed beauty, you have been made mine,
Structured in a well of empathy,

Screams and sighs, we allow for each other,
For kisses and holiest rhymes,
To bleed upon another.

Destitute, we once were,
As children of a demonic world
And we are now the crudest things,
Beneath wreaths of love, and greatest imaginings.
Once, we were brethren of faraway hopes,
And we kissed beyond a sea,
We suffered torments without vows,
And now,
We are lovers in swollen hearts.

A Description – “Two Faces in Love – One Bent in Tears, as the other Offers Forgiveness” – Romance – 9/11/2019

There is where guilt resides in either Man or Woman’s heart.

The guilt for Man states what he has done.

The guilt for Woman states what she has not done.

To see Man as a giant, would make him be the one to create footprints, or a path, and where he has trekked, he has created destruction, in that path. And as a giant, it snows behind himself, and that snow would represent the guilt of Man.

To select Man as society’s opportunist, makes society the slowness to which forgiveness and trust becomes necessary. And who offers this?

Woman offers this trust and forgiveness, unto Man, so that Man may no longer need to converse with Woman, to see her own past, and feel the need to cleanse it. That would make him heroic once more, and place him in the potential guilt for which creates ever-more knots and binds, and confusion.

To select Woman as society’s opportunist, makes society the rapidity and quickness where chivalry is lacking. It is due to that chivalry was strictly invented for the sole purpose of seeing a future without “passing or ignoring things that are missed”. And such refers to when a government will, especially in today’s realm, never be the one to share their ideals with every person who lives.

And through the love from Woman, and from the depression of Man, society would thus, becomes the slowness that relates to appreciation for each action.

Trust is neglected in today’s world.

People are taught to trust themselves, and that the world is full of betrayers.

To cure this, one must comprehend what exactly is the definition of trust:

The definition of trust is to never exploit Man’s guilt for his actions, for his doings; because, Man has DONE, over Woman who remarks guilt over what she has NOT DONE.

An emplacement of external trust in any society would make the exploitation of guilt from Man never a benefit to Woman; and from this, there would be the actions from trust. That is, acceptance for Man, so that Man is trusted to do better.

That is trust. An acceptance of fault and flaw, so that Man is trusted to do better, and do no worse than what guilt has done to make him depressed.

As a giant, Man does not know what he has stepped upon, as he refuses to peer over his own broad shoulders.

He has stepped upon insects.

In proposal for a woman of a man’s choice, Man gives unto Woman the diamond that represents his heart, the largest thing over his own ego; and such a presentation of a diamond, shows that his heart has always been largest, in contrast to his form.

As a giant, Man had stepped on insects.

When having knee bent in submission to her, through devout and truest love, Man makes himself an insect.

He peers upwards, and looks into her eyes, and sees both the sun of one eye, and the moon of the other eye. He sees both black and white, not in terms of both success and failure, to remind him of his past; instead, he sees both the guilt of himself and the offered forgiveness from Woman, that she does offer so that he trusts himself to once more, make the right decisions.

Poem – “The Art of an Angel” – Romance/Descriptive

How do I, describe the one,
Who has, lifted me, from deprivation?

How do I, describe the woman,
So beautiful, as to, unearth woes, from a, past life?

To make me see, all that, has come to be,
And the failures, from faiths, I transgressed, too horridly,

All mathematics, and all stars,
Point to an answer, I’ve long been, desiring to witness.
All of beauty’s image, stands before me,
In the caressing, of angel wings, and a lucid smile.

There, I see a face, engraved with stones, of purple, and red,
And a naked form, of ivory

There are, to each leg, the comparison
To pillars, of ice, or pillars, of marble.
I adore her shape, in her making, that trembles,
Under the warmth, of a dashing sun!

“Face me,” as I say it, to face me,
You are now loved, once more,

By a man, who made a woman, as a statue,
An admiration, for a life, so lonely.
I am in awe, as I’ve remained, in awe.
Movement? Is there movement, in a lifeless shape?

There must, be ebony,
A stain, on my fractured heart.
It is there, and I’ve felt it.

It has covered, and here, I know it,
Before the denial, I’ve kept.

Brainstorm #1 – “A Lady’s Isolation among Virginity and Awareness” – 7/25/2019

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.

Introduction to a Novella – The Blood of Mara – “A Convent of Sacrilege” – Erotica

The greenery from trees is shadowed by the jeers of the public, in this setting in London. The moths of the night are here to dance upwards towards the moon. They are here to dance, and they are here to frolic. Many other sights pertain to the loneliness that London exudes.

The beauty of one woman’s smile travels over to the haggard appearance of a pauper. She empathizes with his shaggy attire, but the pauper recoils from her kindness. She offers a coin to his hand. It is a but a moment before he withdraws it.

Another sight of this loneliness is reflected at a stand where two men have stopped to buy goods. Oranges, peaches and plums are to be eaten at their home. The meal will always be tranquil beside the dancing of a candle flame.

All that dances will be merry to the tunes of the cawing voices of men, and the crystalline, emerald, or brownish gazes from women. The dancing is feeble in the night, or alive and welcomed in the day. One candle calls itself home in all these places, near to a desk where a poet starts his craft. The candlelight warms a small area around the wandering fingertips of the poet. It could burn the flesh and leave him wanting for more.

It is so exciting when the folk race through London and its beautiful squares to enjoy their festivities. But there is a house of certainty that has been built on the corner of a street that was once a salon, and has now been converted to a home, and a large one, at that. Within come the groans of ecstasy belonging to a woman who is experiencing deep pleasure.

Her gaze travels and wanders above and around the room where she dwells. Dark corners have captured her mirror image in its reflective blackness. She has noticed her own soul in this drear. Her face holds beauty that is still, as though frozen on a pair of white cheeks and ruby lips. It does not move from the expression it exposes; one of euphoric highs and grinning lust.

Her skin is somewhat revealed in the dimming light of the fading evening. When she moves a hand to her legs, there are many strands of hair for her fingers to graze. The touch causes this body to tremble. Her love for herself goes higher than it could possibly be elevated. A reddened cheek contrasts with a hint of pink near a pair of fingers that caress the glowing color.

One more groan elapse in five seconds, enough time for a pauper to hear this delight. He clenches a bottle which he had emptied, and hearkens to the music of womanly pleasure, for it spills out of a window into the street.

Then there is a sound that disrupts her from her play. It is the sound of the front door opening and closing, abrupt and crude, as though the person entering were rushed.