Short Prose – 450 Words – “A Man’s Love for a Woman” – Romance – 12/3/2020

We cannot look at love as anything other than a mode of stillness. Captivation.

Here, a woman named Lisa breathes, brought down upon a loveseat from her husband, Jonathan, and his hands. He has kissed her forehead, remaining damp to his lips from exertion. A wandering smile, darts from East to West across his mouth, when his gaze steps into her own.

Love does not forget, as it never aims to release, completely. Upon the loveseat, she rests, though in Jonathan’s arms, she remains.

It is a still voyage, where his heart has been dumped overboard as the anchor, from a ship made of gold. Love is that. A stillness. An ocean that remains calm, though by us, can make waves rise towards Heaven encased in a storm. A stillness, though never something to force. It is our emotions that imperfect us, though it is love that makes us realize them in fullness. Love. That which encompasses all emotion, is love, are the words of binding. Of rings that hold the same gold as that ship, so encompassing. The steadiness remains of it, as a surrounding ornament.

It is love that we are blind to, while engrossed in fear. Our realization for who we love, comes upon when we are trapped by them, embraced in arms that do not release, completely.

Beautiful, though abominable, are we, without love. Though, with it, we are understood of each imperfection, disguised over as we did with scars.

Love cannot manipulate, as when Jonathan can see Lisa, has knowledge that he cannot move her limbs of his own accord. When it is that a person can pray for love to move the dead, it proves always fruitless. Love cannot manipulate.

Love cannot raise form, though spirit. Through Jonathan, to his aching wife, Lisa, there is a captured memory of her, always entangled in his mind. Without a need to unbind her from his own cranium, he lives with the thought. For in love, there is no desire for a release, for a complete one. Even of her, whose own limbs have become disarranged by illness, love yet rests.

He loves her. Jonathan loves his wife, and from a simple glance to his face, can be understood of his loyalty to her. Of vows, of a loving heart, of a part to him that will not ever quit, he remains. Beauty for him, of a woman who has not gained a year upon her features, to his eyes, keeps the smile glowing upon these lips. Of his lips, smiling as they are at this moment, is one that cannot melt from neither sigh of grief, nor exhalation of exhaustion. He smiles, because he loves.

Poem – “Just a Kiss will do” – Romanticism – 12/3/2020

Under these heavy curtains
Of doubt,
There bleeds something beautiful,
The nuptiality that can recreate
The truths in myself.
My sickened soul,

That once sung aloud
All the harmonies of love
In the dangers we visited.

My soul now twists,
In uncertainty,
In perplexity.

Living through you,
In the deepness,
In the mire of you,
Under the clouds of you,
For believing in you
Has become a pain.

Just a kiss will do
To settle the unceasing sickness
Of unfeeling.
Just a kiss from you
Rested upon my rotting lips,
Will stir me,
Will birth me
Brand new
In your arms.

Philosophy – “Why Racism is a Product of Fear” – 12/2/2020

“The greatest weakness of all is for one to believe they lack it.”

– Modern Romanticism

In a realm of situations, there are specifics. In one pointed out situation, there’d be a person who could say, “It is subjective for what one thinks.” Though, that situation was merely broken down from all others, alike it. To the specific situation of prejudice, it is like all others. For there is a universal trait that we do not normally consider. We’d not consider it, since it would expose human flaw.

It is fear that we do not consider.

Fear is universal in each situation of prejudice. Among all those situations, that unifying factor could indeed be the key to unity. Among all human weakness, people are joined together to heal.

Fear is a weakness, there for either the soothing of it, or the exploitation of it. Since the latter option is always available, no human openly admits to what they fear, on normal circumstances. In fact, who would admit their fears to a stranger? Who would, besides those who are never heeding caution upon that stranger, that such an unknown person might exploit it? For it is that humans always come upon strangers, and it is that a stranger becomes a friend when they are trusted.

Trusted for fears? That requires closeness. To be close, would mean to mend such weakness, that through togetherness, two people fear nothing. For they are no longer alone, when holding hands of differently-colored lights.

Beauty is that which always is weak. We are weak, when beautiful. As it is, “beauty” should only be defined as what makes us lost in ourselves, at first unable to trust anyone with our history. We hold beauties within ourselves, about ourselves, saved for the acceptance by another. We do not loosely toss truths about, anymore than we should nonchalantly tell a mother her child has died. Humans hoards their truths, being same as all things beautiful, saved for a person who could accept it, and continually compliment them. A man can call a woman “beautiful”, as she’d never thought of herself in such a manner. Then, that man is trusted by her, if his words were sincere. As it is, all things so beautiful come together, are unified. Though, weakness still remains, since further insecurities will lead to needing further reassurance.

Who can one trust, without looking into the eyes, without being close? And, if one is betrayed, one still learns. One has learned what shouldn’t be, versus what should. One has learned the falsehoods from the truths.

Again, could fear be our admitted element, out of us, to the open where in each of these situations of prejudice, we are unified? We can know such truths, to not be distant out of ignorance and fear. We can see past the surface, past the skin, past the eyes, to the mind and heart of an individual.

We need not be so ripped apart, as a wound is when the flesh has come undone. For we can also penetrate flesh with empathy. We can make a person weep, without stabbing them. We can hold what is trusted, in our arms, without betraying them. For if we did stab them in the back, they’d be ripped free from us, once again. Is that the “freedom” people wish for?

Love is the mighty forgiveness, of this world. It forgives histories, grievances, among all flaws a person had placed entirely too much focus upon. After death, forgiveness is the power that forgets negatives, as it remembers the positives that had made a person live.

Though, if fear could be the singular flaw, that instead of stabbing a person, could be admitted, then the other side could, too.

We can admit to being so afraid, that we all clash together, not as fire, though as water, as tears. We could break as the waves, against the rocks that be the earth at our feet. Why don’t we?

No situation of prejudice is so different, that this universal aspect of fear cannot be the key to surrendering ourselves to who is meant to be loved.

Poem – “For You” – Romanticism – 12/2/2020

For you,
I would gladly burst myself
To share an ocean
Of depleted roses

To match
The emptiness in you.
To you,
I would stretch
Scarred arms,
Bleeding palms,

To sing songs of sickness
Out of you.

For you,
I would smile twice
In the same moment.
Next to you,
I would love with two hearts
To fulfill your own,
Defeated upon the earth.

Out of you
I would scrape the despair,
For places we do dare
To deny for ourselves,
We go there.

We go where Spring leeches colors
Out of Autumn’s remnants.

Becoming seated
Upon a park bench,
Beneath descending petals,
Beneath the frozen moon,

Among the hazy sun.

We can sway
In place, nervous to touch
The other,
Without falling for the burn,
The churn
Of stomachs that flutter
More than hearts.

Loving beauty
With much to match
For fulfillment’s sake,
Let us drink of our kisses,
Sleep in the wilderness
Where nothing more precious
May be of us,
Than us,
For you.

Poem – “Remind Me of the Pain” – Romanticism – 12/2/2020

Remind me of rushing waves
Sentenced like the criminal
To his Hell, down your cheeks.
Might I swim
At my own whim?

Remind me of barrels of poison,
Toxins for the drunkard.

Hold your hand to the storm,
Catching silver rain,
Mourning with stains.

Sing praise,
For why not
See the sun, when it glimpses you
In the rising ashes of dead stars?

You are broken,
Along with our world.
Just amusement from ignorance,
With disappointment from knowledge.

Lay your head back,
Let me kiss
The rain from your eyes,
While sweet scents of Spring
Shed solace upon your heart.

You collapse with arms wide open
To embrace the Heavens,
Away from me.

Poem – “I Lose you, in the Light” – Romanticism – 12/2/2020

Loving beneath
Your stars,
Counting raindrops,
Over scars
That hold innumerable
History never complex.

For I could read
What is born from you,
Losing teardrops,
As the puling infant.

Upon a fragile night,
With moon to storm a fever
Above me,
Pieces of you, came to me.

Taking memories
From your heart,
Folding pages in my sleeves
Of a timeworn shirt.
Lifting a veil
Will never come again,
To see the sun
Without blinking.

With a halo of stars,
Loving galaxies
All depart.

My sun,
Your universe
Never met in the ash
With lightyears across.

Poem – “How I Chase, to Avoid” – Romanticism – 12/2/2020

Each grace,
Stumbling over
Your expressionless
Bleeding and kneeling
Beneath the sun,
In the path of your startled

I move,
Towards your world,
Apart from mine,
In the green oceans,
With the blue lands.

I lift
Boulder after boulder
From you,
While you were trapped
Under pebbles, so heavy,

Inside a coffin, so light.

I rain
Teardrops to you,
Singing grief
Under this blank curtain.

Can a glimpse of some other love
Touch you, to rise?
Can light be that which departs
The black from the white?

Stains of pure oceans,
Of sadness that will not give
Away its message,
Unless for earth to cross it out.

Short Prose – 350 Words – “Lost in your Arms” – Romance – 12/1/2020

A burial. You are my tomb. My place, in the world, is forsaken. Upon you, I will rot, decay and slumber. In your arms, I am lost. I do not heal, for I am lost.

I have always burned a trail for my feet to carry me. I have executed innocents, for the sake of my path. I did not look over my shoulders, to see their shoulders. To see the weights pressed upon them, I did not look. I did not wish for, in my time of pain, to see theirs. On my path, I went straight to your arms. In them, I last little more then a petal without its parent corolla. Though, I will die, treated by your last kisses.

I contemplate over my endless end. It is just a second more, though it is infinite. A pallid reckoning that sweeps me, as you do, gently to its reverse, in force. The love of you, attempts to bandage me. I cannot be bandaged, as I cannot be healed. Look at me, like an infant, aborted. Release me, as though you never loved me. Leak me out of you, like something to forget.

Draw me in the sand, though let the winds sweep the dust away. Place a curtain atop my demise, to then set a fire upon it. Let me not be known to you.

Diseased, as I am, living in times so natural to me. Loving you, as you love the dead.

You are weeping. Tears exit your eyes like dewdrops hanging from the ends of grass-blades. How many dreams must imagine themselves, for you to set your own path? Could you lose yourself on another mile, upon another extensive cloud?

Cross yourself as ivory in the dirt. Make yourself the purity that becomes known, to the world among its filth. Lift yourself. Send yourself, and do not look over your slender shoulder to see me, wasted in the wreckage.

You are the pathless angel, who must discover a course with your wings. Find utmost certainty away from me. Help the devils, driving empathy into them as a nail.

Poem – “Kisses to make you Breathe” – Romanticism – 11/30/2020

As virgin snow,
As buds

To bloom frozen waters
From discolored veins.
You have of your eyes
Unseen history,
To place in trusted hands.

Living under silent boughs,
Losing waters
From storms, in your
Closed stare.

I offer the kiss
To make you breathe
With the come of Spring.

Too many offerings
Have been made
To your church,
As you never flourished your secrets
For sorrows to enter tomorrow.

A grand steeple
Raised to make your neck,
A precipice, that is your head
With lips for a burial.

I offer no sadness,
Continued or rebirthed
In your arms
Like to carry buckets
Full of your tears.

I offer love
Fresh upon a stem,
Stretched for a kiss
To make you matter,
To give you breath.

You are not for desertion’s flight,
With wings that spread decay.
You are here to stay
To find that the future might

Give you a way.

Poem – “Monsters are Sensitive” – Romanticism – 11/30/2020

Looser than decay,
My limbs do stray
To the curtain of you,
Draped with delicacy.
There can be no more moons
Left for my howls.

Can they hear my cries?
The winds carry them,
Just as they lash my back.

I never knew but a broken-off
Could follow my trail.

I am here to condone you,
The subtlest shift in the wind
To carve the sands,
Aimed for my direction,
While the beast I never knew
Joins me in dedication.

Love sighs
As the gusts through stems
Of roses before a grave.
I will depart
With a leaf in your hands,
Taken from Autumnal tree,
Blessed with ivory’s curse,
The moon to be
The torment of me,
From the curtain of you.

Poem – “To Drown, in your Place” – Romanticism – 11/29/2020

How I hold your hands
Close to my lips,
Feverish, they are
By the sudden storm
Above your head.
How the waves touch
Your barren skin,
How the ripples never die
To the calmest stillness.

With wires left to untangle
Of your matted hair,
Where my eyes, buried in tears
Bleed, for all to be aware.

Your eyes
Form the oceans
For my collapse,
A silence never stays
Enough for me to pray.

To drown,
To crown
Myself, the fallen King,
Yourself, the risen Queen,

Pulls oceans apart
For your passing.

What a sickness
Upon you!
What a love
I call the doves to,
That you might wash ashore
To hold hands with the sand,
Speaking of happiness
Where you clean yourself.

Philosophy – “Why Diversity cannot be Forced” – 11/29/2020

“The importance of diversity is in its expression, of language. Yet, can art be forced, without the burnout of the soul? Must extreme measures be taken for the person of their language to force truth forward? Forcing diversity seems to be what makes the torturous interrogator.”

– Modern Romanticism

Forcing truth, to the surface of one’s own esophagus, is to eject diversity without its naturalism.

We are not intimate with ourselves, with what we express, with what we feel, when another means to place us “on the spot”. For those who force diversity are also people who mean to humiliate. They are the psychopaths, the extractors, and those who wish for truth to be regurgitated.

Examples of truth, of all diversity, is to the ideas of it, spoken next for speech’s sake, then made tangible and physical.

We love truth, for we trust it. We cannot love God, for we cannot care for Him. Yet, we can love God’s words, as we are silent in our attentiveness. Though, to Creation so natural as a spawned life from a womb, we cannot force without resorting to a philosophy that pertains to the inhuman. Whether inhuman or psychopathic, the “interrogator mentality” is the abomination meant to be purged without diversity for what kills.

It takes no special instrument to slay, though to extract truth? That requires genius.

Yet, it requires an equal amount of genius, not of the evil and malicious intent, to create truth. It is of example, of Creation, that truth is made. For we do not force it, when it is made, anymore than a mother must force her child out of her, during labor. Anymore than a husband rapes his wife, out of force, to impregnate her, would make the diversity; because, it will not.

Diversity is always a creation, born as an example unto it. Artists do not force it out, anymore than creativity can be turned on like a faucet.