“Being somebody doesn’t at all mean for a hundred-and-one people to know you. Being somebody means for only one person to know you, to understand you, to trust you. To comprehend the heart, would not mean for a multitude to be in love with you. To comprehend the heart, means for a singular heart to comprehend a singular heart.
Fame dehumanizes the person, renders them dishonest and corrupt, from within, because to ‘be somebody’ always comes with the temptation of having a lot. The truth is, ‘being somebody’ requires ‘knowing somebody’, and that comes with a one-on-one challenge. It comes with the ultimate form of trust, that deals with sharing secrets with a certain singular someone, who would not at all divulge them to untrustworthy people.
It is because love is an emotion that conceals the flesh to the eyes of whoever would be shocked. Whoever is shocked, are not those who would easily understand what is concealed. It is just the same with a wandering and cold child in winter, given a cloak to be kept warm. And, to know someone, well enough to reveal those secrets imprinted on the vulnerable person, requires the special skill that comes with the words, ‘bare it all’. Like with a man to a woman, her vulnerability clashes with his gaze, when she can easily show to him, what she trusts for him to handle with care. Love knows, and as some Christian would say the words, ‘God knows how many hairs are on your head’, it is for the same reason.”
Tag: Fame
Poem – “The Many Tears that Seek Shelter” – Romantic
I fell beside thee,
And formed for us, quilt made of romance.
I love all that you are, of all eyes made to be orbs,
For the future’s peering, into its watery distance.
We sail in our fear,
And quake beneath tears,
Oh, how terrible are the stars under your eyes,
You’ve made a bed for us both,
A bed of love, made fullest in silken quilts.
Famed, we have become.
In love, we are as one,
As two creatures, of Buck and Doe,
A chase, a nest upwards in Heaven.
Oh, how desire sweeps us to the current and its edge
Near a river; for how does death think of us?
Love is a muse; It is made to be you,
As you are the loveliest pearl from this shore.
Give me kisses, sweet one,
Full of life,
Full of your eyes,
With no more raining stars,
With no more idle flesh,
No more death.
Nothing but the truly fascinating face,
Of white cheeks and bleak tress.
Lovely in form, anguished at heart.
I will cure the sorrow,
The one so much alike the Mary of Christ;
For how many times have we embraced,
As vulnerability! As vulnerability!
We are only made beautiful, when loved.
“Oh, love, when will be reach the shores,”
You ask to me.
I say in response to you,
“Soon as the sail is full of wind, and your eyes!
When they never fall another tear, we will reach.”
Give me the benefit of a morrow,
Of a delight, not made by sorrow.
What have I, when not among you?
Nothing, for am I not without the sanity,
And insanity, that love bequeaths.
Poem – “The Beauty of Her” – Romance
In admiration of your form,
Upon the pedestal where you stand,
The base to make you a statue,
Raised high enough for viewing eyes.
In loving you, I have made art,
I have made a woman of marble.
I love thee, with all thy famous beauty.
Console me, dear one, with all the infamous tragedy.
The fallen tears, down from your cheeks,
Will come to my tongue,
Love and Heaven are twins,
In this rising moment.
I look, and I see,
All the famous beauty.
Behold, before me is a woman of stone,
Of greenish and blueish marble,
Cast by hands that trembled,
Formed by a mind within rivers of fear.
Come find me, if you can,
Shell of a man, that I am.
I speak to me,
Above golden seas,
To see if I can,
See all that I am.
What a man, who cannot even comprehend,
That his sanity has fled,
Far from him.
I see beauty made from stone,
Lips turned from a softness,
To an utter solid.
Life cannot ever stem from her womb.
Life cannot ever make something of itself,
From her bosom,
To gorge itself upon the milk,
That will flow like nectar or honey,
From breasts concealed in thread.
Allow me to realize,
The final graces, of my madness,
My gladness must cease,
Beneath,
All the faiths to this lost world,
For I am one with only my brush;
My hammer;
My pick;
And my brain,
That throbs with echoes so like Poe,
Or Bulwer,
Famed in the agonies of delusion.
Oh, ye famous beauty.
Love has never been of us,
I see no flesh of warmth,
But cold from stone!
Though, I shall form thy hands,
To make you blow a farewell kiss.
Modern Romanticism 