Poem – “When it comes to Love” – Modern Romanticism – 11/7/2021

Still you
Keep running the tears that to
Mankind’s hurts, in the war for bloodied dirt
Follow wails, will lead to worse.
Leave sorrow as dew
To make the mourning as morning
Without the sleep of the sun
Staying where we are entering.

While love is warm, apart
From faces scarred,
We keep the bullets entering hearts –

We send forth showers, towards eyes unmarred.

Some touch,
No falter to what God has brushed, –

As my shoulder is the bed, not the shield,
For everything you cannot wield.
With love at every breath,
A wrinkle beyond all age,
Here to tell of the offspring to death
That with winter, cannot erase,
That within books, remain as the page.

His eyes still love
With beauty he should not retrieve
From above.

With a kiss he did leave,
He dances upon flooded shores,
Absorbing tears, raising you for more.

Some stilled part of your eyes –

Can see beyond the haze, the weighted skies
From where you cry.
As love opens its wings,
You will remain, to accept what Heaven brings.

Quote – “Why the Good Die so Early” – 5/28/2021

“When the world becomes more crowded with the bad, then all the more to endure for the good. The latter are soon to find there is no place for themselves, and so they take to the Heavens to find a realm where goodness is most alike.”

– Modern Romanticism

Philosophy – “The Philosophy of Feeling Goosebumps” – 3/7/2021

“Something so beautiful, identifiable, and familiar to us is enough to raise even portions of our physical flesh to the heights of Heaven.”

– Modern Romanticism

How real is it to feel something so lodged in the mind? Of something so dark, that only ever the depressed individual could understand, is never felt during a moment of being uplifted.

Though, to be raised, in being given hope, is always among the beautiful. Everything beautiful, comprehended among the sculpted flesh, becomes not the identification to us as the insecure, unaccepted individual. Though, we each become equally beautiful, when we are raised to the acceptance that love brings.

As we hear, as we see, of those beautiful things that exist to awaken us, can cause an ever-greater sensation upon our skin that goes beyond the mere individually identifiable. Of what is individually identifiable, is understood of depression or insecurity. Yet, in what is equally identifiable among everything so beautiful, is through the understood identification of ourselves to another. Of life to itself, of one person to another, is the soon felt sensation known as “goosebumps”.

Towards what is beautiful, not merely to us, though in the universal connection between people who communicate through emotion, is enough to entertain the fragile with the acceptance that resides in the perfection of love. Our imperfection, due unto the depressive and lonely thoughts that correspond with sheer insecurity and doubt, can become alleviated in the belief of love. With love, imperfection becomes perfected.

As to the feeling of “goosebumps”, itself, it is the representation of hope. We are uplifted in a stronger sense, as such a raising of individual spots upon our skin shows that what is “identifiable” in this world does not need to be individualized and alone. We each can sit in the concert hall, listening to the majestic notes, to feel the same emotions, even if perceiving something of difference. Goosebumps are indeed the actual raising of the physical self, to the euphoric sensation of shared emotional understanding.

The physical self, so unmemorable to the depressed individual that it is the cause of their sadness. Not their mind, through depression is the representation of lacking love. Lacking embrace, that only arms can show to wrap around the woeful individual. As it is, we observe those goosebumps upon our arms, of mainly the forearms, where half the freedom is needed to hug a person, while the sleeves cut off at the elbows.

Raised flesh, is equivalent to a raised imperfection to the heights of limitless love. Within the stage of Heaven, if even for a brief glimpse unto it, is enough in the reminder for how paradise can be welcomed into another, by literal open arms.

A Critique on Paganism – Pt. 1 – “How the Physical and Real becomes Forgotten” – 1/24/2021

“That which becomes forgotten was meant to turn to ash. That which isn’t forgotten, is like the sun. As the sun continues to glow, and whenever it fades, we will not remember it. We only remember the sun, as it continues to warm us.”

– Modern Romanticism

Should a Pagan worship the physical, then it worships the endless supply of tools. It does not worship what can be loved, without it no longer being a tool. Usable, for the tissue paper made to wipe the eye of a tear, can be “worshipped”, though only because we found it practical. Have we lost sight of what it means to worship? Upon the Abrahamic God, who represents love, we cannot find practicality in Him. However, through our desperation, we wish for it. We believe in miracles, despite science having taken the place of “the practical”. Does Paganism then worship science?

Love is not practical. This would make the Abrahamic God neither practical, nor physical, and not even something in comparison to “existence”. Whatever “exists”, in this world, can be touched, can be held, and that to a human, is a physical and external thing. Though, love is not a tool. Do we say to a person, whom we love and cherish, that they have merely been whom we use? That would be betrayal. From betrayal, comes a lack of trust from the one betrayed. If we are meant to trust God, then how does God trust us? This would be more evidence into God being unable to be at all physical, if something in which can be used can also trust us. For what trusts us, is to the care of it. If we worship what can be used, then we depict reliance as something more necessary than what is within ourselves. Does a tool connect to another? Or, does a tool merely fix what is wrong with another? And, if a tool only ever fixes another’s problem, then it will never be able to understand a person, within.

No tool understands itself as such, until it is given purpose as one. Though, where is the purpose in being loved? There is none, if love cannot be used. Love cannot be what we say we feel, when we use people. Does the Pagan comprehend that “the physical” is nothing more than the sheer reliance upon endless possibility? Can we rely on God, or can we rely on science, to make the possible occur? Pagans would worship the latter, in that sense. All others, would comprehend and be sure of themselves. For all that is known of love, is to know the self, and thus, be honest with another, without deception.

We cannot discover the endless, in possibilities, within love. However, we can discover that love is an endless Creator to possibilities. As in, we cannot be dissatisfied, in love, were we to hold it in truth. We cannot be dissatisfied of a oneness, when those possibilities, endless as they are, cannot make us satisfied. If one ever witnesses a woman wishing for truth, though instead takes the endless into her arms, then nothing is ever whole. She takes the endless, with the continuance of a broken or unfulfilled heart.

Nothing that is physical, can be worshipped as love. Do we worship another person, for the sake of their love? Or, have we been worshipping them, depending on them, because they were merely useful?

To worship a God of love, is to find Him useful. That is against love. That is, even unknowingly, believing more in a tool, over love. Though, through our physical forms, we can act, if we love. Though, we cannot solve, if all we do is combat the endless problems of others with ever-more conflicting and debating people with their differing solutions. What we should solve, is a person, by knowing them at heart. That is love.

Philosophy – “To Hell with the Activists” – 7/3/2020

It is as if a human cannot comprehend what cannot disappear. Life, itself, that is, as it seems such activists are siding more with death. What pertains to existence? Is it what will not disappear, entirely? For something like death to disappear, would cause life to have no purpose, as life. As in, to die, because it can. Though, to what cannot disappear, being life on its own, being of life, itself, relates exactly to what an activists advocates against. Some desire prejudice to be extinguished from our world. Some desire not merely the whole of prejudice, though certain prejudices, like stereotypes, or racism. Why desire to make disappear, what cannot ever leave?

Humans are humans. People will always be people. There is no departing from who we are, at our core. What we call a “social construct” in the desire to tear it down, will inevitably result in ourselves being torn apart. We tear ourselves down, because we called what we have created a “construct” that such stupid minds believe was not made by human hands. They must believe that. They must believe that at the center of human instinct, we were not the ones to create Hell.

Hell is a construction, though more-so a causation. One can only extend Hell from their inner selves, being of what won’t soothe itself, without communication. For we are only ever prejudiced, as an expression, because we refuse to communicate with the unknown.

Hell is caused, because it causes destruction. Destruction cannot be constructed. We cannot tear down what is tearing apart ourselves. We will only succeed in tearing apart who we are, being the named “equality” that defines ourselves to be like someone else. Of the same instincts, of the same reasons, of the same motives, to fight for something that we don’t want to see die.

To extinguish the flame of the human spirit, is to make disappear what cannot leave, being life. It will not leave, because we don’t want it to leave. In essence, what an activist “fights against” is themselves, as they are blind to what they are also contributing to, being of what they oppose.

And, why would we want the greatest form of entertainment, to be erased? Human stupidity becomes our laughing stocks, when it is shown. Why would we desire prejudice to be gone, when we can find humor in it?

What an activist wants, if they cannot at all make disappear what will inevitably remain, is money. They are actually proving this written point, that they yearn to fight for their own families, through their own careers, in profiting from something that will be eternal. In being eternal, their careers are eternal. A non-stop fight to a non-stop fight, this is, and these “activists” burn in their own Hell, as well. They feel pain just as anyone else does, and disappear as individual human existences, as anything else that holds shape. But, they will not go away, just as anything else of life, itself.

Quote – “When Evil has a Greater, Hidden Light” – 6/20/2020

“It is that pain of a monster, that urges their ongoing casting of shadows. Their light, when unearthed, burns a fierceness from buried beneath so much Hell. Love, the ultimate emotion, sees through Hell, sees beneath Hell, to comprehend the monster beyond the wounds. See their tears, comprehend their sorrows, for their lakes will be greater, clearer, than the pools of blood.”

– Anonymous

Quote – “Why in Love?” – 6/17/2020

“Love is one fanciful reveling for a one who cannot depart away from it, to be among Hell. It is not Hell, this love, for humans without it, are demons. We uncloak ourselves, nude, so vulnerable, and cannot be anything other than honest, when we love. As we find more sweetness in seduction, we will find more bitter honesty in love.”

– Anonymous

A Personal Message – “To All that has Been Loved…” – 6/4/2020

“Is it all too unfortunate to never desire another love, another heart to belong to, another home in which to place your form? I have, as all it was yearned for, wanted nothing more that the discovery that forgoes all of science and its findings. Love. A love that would not shatter, unless within the jaws of fate. Something so uncontrollable, as something so unseen, was the fate that shattered the love. I sting within, as I sting without her. In all the times I yearn for the love to return, I now say to myself that it will return when I die.”

– Anonymous

A Quote of Wisdom – “How Far does Empathy Reach?” – 3/5/2020

“How far does empathy reach, besides beneath the Hell piled atop the guilt that one runs from? Empathy has, as I believe it to have, the power to burn a hole through the floor of Hell, of a person’s Hell, to see what the evil person does not wish to see, of themselves.”

Poem – “Oh, Love; How can You Weep?” – Romance

Oh, when you’ve begun to weep in the sickness
Of your unending pain.
What embrace can I offer,
Different from the last?
What kiss may I give,
More compassionate than the former?

How can weeping be a benefit,
During when hope lies fruitful and hale?
You continue to see tears like raining sapphires,
Like raining blood, like raining rubies.
Like the emerald between your fingers,
Like grass that has been taken.

Oh, when you’ve begun to weep in the sickness
Of your unending pain.
What embrace can I offer,
Different from the last?
What kiss may I give,
More compassionate than the former?

You have tears still hanging loosely
On that forlorn stare of yours
It burns holes in my mountain of pride,
And makes the forests crumble to ash.
Love holds its doors open,
For us to walk through its gates,
And you’ll weep, merely weep,
Despite our hopes, despite our wishes.

Has faith been lost in you?
Under the many doubtful turns
Have you come to quake
In the fear,
Because of my doings,
Of my lack of them?

Upon the floor, you crawl with eyes streaming such sadness,
Above my arms, I attempt to let you see, the Heavens for their blue,
And you stream sadness,
Upon Hell and its washed hues to make shades.

I feel strong, only when faith is an occurrence,
Never weak, and never faltering, when there’s no doubt,
From you, my wicked beauty.

Make me want you, more than the highest angels,
I am no monster, my love, no devil of danger.

We kiss, do we not, when we desire relief?

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,
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.

Poem – “Dreadful Longing upon a Rock” – Mythological

She was the wind,
She is now the sea,
Calling out, for sailors to breathe
Their last, upon their own thirst.
While gulls transport, from water to scrap.
While faces of Heaven see downwards to her,
They call no strength to her longing,
Her suffering,
Is for a hopeless muse.
It is an ocean that brims darkness.

A fever, she once caused,
For the sake of amusement.
She now sings for the sake of relief,
She now hearkens to her voice,
Nested atop forlorn waters,
Upon a rock,
With nary a voice else to be heard,
Lest from her,
Whose longing curves rivers to the sea.
And beauty suffers endlessly.

Death, and its silvery essence,
Of white faces and burned-out flesh,
Of amorous curves from a helpless woman,
Of the harlot with her child,
Deprive her, the longing one, of her filthy pain.

Lose the denial,
For the meager while,
Name her sake to exist,
And place each pain on a list,
Scrawled by poets who are martyrs.
And translated,
By scribes from the Vatican.
Nuns and their habits,
Form faces of worry,
As all Hell falls between a woman’s memory.

Once a virgin, now a woman,
Now a creator of alarm,
In want for whatever else serves,
She sings the lone pain,
Deprived of any love, a futile love.

Make her famous, for Heaven’s kiss,
For God’s angelic mercy.
Make her the most wanted being,
Of sculpted flesh, of hanging breast.
Oh, God!
Oh, Christ!
Her putrid form is an encasing,
Over that which all have longed,
In the stagnant misery.
Oh, there is youth so gone!

By her wicked feathery wings,
Black as night, and her lips
That are drenched in her tears and blood;
By her desires, of everyone’s shame,
And her thirsty groin,
Two breasts as two apples,
And a mind of no one’s kind;
She is unloved, and so am I.
She’s lost the beauty she’ll ever be,
For a lover was never, her sanctuary.