Grief
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Some might hear or read the word “useless” as inherently having a negative connotation. Instead, one ought to refer to its meaning as having more of a neutral tone. There isn’t anything positive nor negative about what’s useless or even useful, especially in regards to where these words are often applied. If there is one
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Grief clings. Or is there something that we are clinging to, to keep grief alive? Perhaps it is something else other than even that. It might not be that we keep grief alive, while denial is what we first express upon hearing that we who loved has died. It might be that we keep hope
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“We might tell ourselves that to do what must be done, for another, is a testament to our love for them. In that, we are compensating. For what? For potential loss, of ourselves, of our identity. We hurl ourselves into another to encompass them as we often embrace them, buried under entwined thoughts. In all
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“Between the black or the white, there is nothing but everything brought forward from a certain past into an uncertain future.” Modern Romanticism What a machine knows is to compute A or B from a scenario, or from a file where something can be accessed in its objective light. What it cannot do is comprehend
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“If we can say that love must be deserved, then we ought to also believe that death can be something deserved upon another. Controlling those uncontrollable, inevitable gifts or punishments upon another, for who can believe, with legitimate credibility upon their words, that this gamble of love or death can be ruled as a designated
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No need. Most certainly,no need to hear me clarifywhere my suffering should,most certainly should be rectified.I weep when I cannot sleep,letting stars fall from each eveninginto cupped hands. I let another daypass with the petals that format the stems within vases,on the edge of tablesI cannot even reach. No more. Most definitely,there is no need
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Once I saw what gleamed, untilI only saw what dreamed. One darkrealization, never before rubbed,smeared, left under curtains; there, as a disguise to the daylightwith the misery.He wanted his chains broken,his mask torn off,left with the bandages, his skin,the nakedness of honesty. He dreamed under a glaze,a stir from a heavy heart.He hoped during the
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Broken sounds.Rediscovered signals.This path is guidedwithin each of your breaths. I draw lines,getting erasedat the last of your heartbeats,leaving me with a rhythmI cannot ignorewhen it is youI abhor. I was closeto a corpse who breathed,someone who hoarded fleshupon everyone’s death,everyone who sheever wept foras they bled upona naked floor. Those rhythms, sounds,broken like ground
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All those thornsdig deep, like shardsof reflectionsin an eternal hourglass.Someone’s lovewas once trappedin these blissful stainserupting from a church’s waters,in windows that were replicasof former erosions,of smoothness to palmspierced with nails for portraits,pierced with teeththat leave marks. Pureness in sickness,while life weeps in its defeat,fallen into armsthat keep a child silent.This love, leaking out froma
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“A smile is a stone, made for fire. Beneath that hardened mask is a puddle, where our sorrows were held down to be drowned. We held down our tragedies beneath a weight, a stone, our false smiles, though we could not help it when the fires grew to reach others and burn them away. We
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Funnel thoseteardrops, into this open,discarded mouth.I still misstastes of a sunrise,blooming without disguise,as we caressedstones on a rough road,stressing for finalityto release a breathwe held, and could notever use to turnour eyes, behind. Funnel history’s glancesdown insanity’s laughing throat.Pour down all your bitterness,as I remember it,as I only remember it. I realizethat you are pasta
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To color, dynamic. To skin,aromatic, in what comforts us,conceals us in reflection,divides us, in selectionfor whom will remain hereclosed behind doors, open withinflooded corridors. We arebandaged, in each other’s arms,seeing pain, never tamedin mirroring eyelids. Passion bites. Nerves exciteall our muscles to move usonce more, on a final twistto a connecting kiss. All our veins,
Modern Romanticism 