Poem – “It’s not Her Fault” – Romanticism – 11/29/2020

It is not your fault
The ruins around me
Resulted from my own hands.

Blood has been spilled
To temper these walls.
My own.

Structures still so resilient,
By the outlying current.
Sadness recedes

Me, back to where I
Say I can deny

All the love I cannot feel.

Upon your eyes
A certain coldness resides,
That I cannot seem to hide
From bleakest reality.

For you burn through me
The words,
That I despise myself,
That I shatter these arms,
These legs,
With my silence.

Upon your form,
Of flesh melting in the sun,
I allow denial to my hurts,
For you.

My pain never mattered,
Yet I cannot release
You, to the wind.

Poem – “Born so Beautiful” – Romanticism – 11/28/2020

Sprout thee,
Delicate majesty.
Your face is sculpted for me
To see.

The storm you wash me
In bedeviled tranquility,

Has me wander,
Has me breathe

The whisking fantasies
Beneath moonlit ecstasies.

Can this love be pure,
Upon your frail form?

Can you see the tides we create
On winter’s life, swept?
Like white curtains atop
Your barren, black eyes,
A bleak sunset
Shrouded by frost.

I have come to take you aside,
Hold you, in the afterlife,
Breathe you, in the cruelest strife,
Fold you about my arms,

Loving you, where Autumn walks,
Living you, where beauty defeats
Me, to my knees
That I might be a child, once more.

Kissing you
Under the rain,
Cures my pain,
Washes stains.

Poem – “My Tears come as Pearls” – Romanticism – 11/28/2020

To you,
For you,
Can you wear the rain?
My love,
Petal yourself
In these stains.
My heart cloaks itself
In the cold,
Wearing a shroud of dark
Delicate and old.

I want to come to kiss
Those very pearls about your neck.
Your life
Is marked by the fallen droplets
From the withered rose,
That I am.

You are all
To the nothing I am.
I am just a man
With dust between his fingers.
Yet, you are
Love atop a waterfall.

My tears come as pearls,
Staining your cheeks,
Soaking your tongue,
Lasting as vapors over your chin.

Philosophy – “The Reason to say ‘Men and Women’, in that Order” – 11/28/2020

“Life cannot be born, without a beginning to pain, for no woman could end it without first a care for her own.”

– Modern Romanticism

Why has there been a change, to now say, “Women and men”, in that order?

It is no by means a sexist remark to believe it should be the opposite. Because, to believe the order, being “Men and women” is sexist, goes against logic. In the order, “Women and men” is to say “Omega to Alpha”, or “Ending to beginning”. We can then ask, “Does life begin, or is life meant to end?” Are we just Nihilists to the meaninglessness of life, and that all meaning becomes joined, upon an ending, upon a birth to a dystopia?

Upon disorder, rather than order, we would say, “Ending to beginning”. That’s the “Omega to Alpha”, in the representation of a purge, to the beginning of something else. An ending to something, to the forced beginning of another, without Natural Law.

We would realize, guided from “Ending to beginning” that such beginnings to this world are unclear, as they no longer give us hope. To the “ending” part, there is understood from this an extinguishing of what was always clear, though is now killed.

The most natural thing about life, is that it has a beginning through a seed. Men plant that seed in the womb, thus is the reason for why God was made a Father. A woman cannot become a Mother, without that seed. We can behold before ourselves, the onset to “Progressivism”, by which all things natural are led through progress inevitably towards the unnatural. For how else would life become so unnatural, if we no longer followed things by the “Natural Order” of beginning to ending?

Beginning to ending is the “Natural Order”, though all things so natural become artificial when they are questioned enough to be dissected. Dissected, or rather, destroyed, for that is how order breaks. We dissect, or break, the objective “meaning” of life, down to where it holds none. We are left to then say, “Women and men” or “Ending and beginning”. It is because what is killed, or what has “fallen”, has now become the latter. It has become the representation of what has literally ended, to now the literal beginning of something still so unclear.

Pain is the testimony to a beginning. Labor, which is what a woman runs through, upon childbirth, reflects the work needed to enter pain, to then end it. A woman begins nothing of life, for even if she never engaged in sexual intercourse to become impregnated, she still needed a seed. Even if science took over that natural process, the woman still needed a seed to enter herself.

If pain is what begins life, or creates all beginnings, then it is to its ending where we comprehend that such is the only thing ever meant to end. Yet, it ends, naturally, by the death of it. Is life none so tolerable, that we must numb ourselves to reality? We are then a living corpse.

To say it in the order, “Men and women” merely represents “Beginning to ending”. That is how life naturally progresses in development, within the womb. It ends its development, to begin another one, in active life. The purest creation, being life, requires a seed for its beginning. We say a woman can start a business, rent an apartment for her residence, be a single mother to provide for her children, all on her own. Though, nothing of this can be seen, as no sons nor daughters can be birthed, without the man’s seed, without his beginning.

It is again that we say that God is the Father, for He beholds for us the creation around ourselves. All literal beginnings of life, would have to result from a seed. An entrance, to an exit, is the beginning of pain to its ending. The beginning of development, to its ultimate end. To then, the beginning of something else.

Poem – “Wet Scars” – Romanticism – 11/27/2020

Finding fault
Where ruin lies
In the wakeful rain,

Where blue sheds with blue,
As storms reside above the mist,
While life hangs a curtain

Before the dreadful hour.

Two weeks close endless chapters,
Laden in everlasting warmth.

But, to touch would mean to fear,
If not to die.

I live on the wires
Of imagined contact,
Beyond the waves

To pierce the haze.

My love lies, torn,
Upon her empty eyes.
Does she waltz,
Or does she slumber?

Bleeding lives
Create burning oceans,
Scarlet in the sadness,
Desperate in the madness.

She holds a noose, tight,
With solace breathed
Through a nose,
Soon to collapse.

As water enters water,
While oil burns atop the sea,
I can hold, as I plea
For her return
To me.

Poem – “Lovesick” – Romanticism – 11/27/2020

A fever warms you,
Yet my arms cannot touch you.
The outline of your form
In the debris that nestles you
Has me cry with the falling
Of snow, in the haze.

I cannot even
Graze a cheek.
I cannot even
Touch a lip,
While yours grow old
In the welcoming dark.
I cannot even
Hold a hand
That trembles.

Fear blossoms
Bleak petals,
Between these floorboards.
I speak
From across this room,
Asking for leaves
To not drop from your eyes.
I tell you words
You already know.

How much sickness
Embraces you,
Outside my reach.

How much warmth
Reddens your cheeks
I cannot teach.

To kiss,
Would mean to die,
Under the sighing trees.

Poem – “Little Life in Autumn Leaves” – Romanticism – 11/27/2020

She starts to remember
How the ocean began,
Of naked tears, to outdrawn fears,
Little more than a scratch upon the sky
To cause this downpour,
Forming the largest puddle.

She starts to remember
Her heart, bleeding wide open,
As a doorway, without barrier,
Without restriction.

How much she loves in the morning,
With eyes full of dew!

How much she lives in the evening,
Broken, yet brand new.

I, too, can see the past
Remembering how we did last,
Of hearts swollen in the night,
Of teardrops creating shadows,
Losing light.

Her hair, full of embers,
Flame resides in the strands,
Individual and woeful,
Yet, I bring her aboard
A vessel, for the teeming ocean.

A life, lasted in pain,
To then a wife,

Graceful and tame.

Poem – “From Somewhere Deep” – Romanticism – 11/27/2020

How great to lift
Tragedy to majesty,
Concealed by the curtains
On greatest defeat.
Your life has smoldered in winter,
Drowned of ashes,
Then to ashes, you return.
Black decay has been your flavor
To comprehension.

I hold your hand in my burning own,
Gaping this palm
With the brightest, embedded nail.

I die for the horrors you keep,
As my mind has stung,
While my heart still beats.

I still live,
Though breathless, I act
As this fall of anchor in puddles,
In your tears.

I slow our caress to a strong grasp,
Blending blessing with burden.
You kiss the wind,

As I smelt words into a poem.

My love,
Blindly, as you recall
Your days, outnumbered by pain,
By washing, crimson waves,

Can you hold onto the hands of the clock,
Instead of my feverish own?

Poem – “Closing you, in Weak Arms” – Romanticism – 11/26/2020

By a certain loneliness,
As was the creed of you,
The rule
To which you were bound,
Like the book with hardest cover,
Not to the truth of its pages.
Yet, I love what drops
From the wreath above your head,

As leaves to the Autumn awakening.
Here, your lips stream the path
For your feet, to my weakened arms.

Go across,
Speak this name of mine,
As it brands itself to your flesh.
Your tears come as diamonds,
As your fingers are like candles,
Wicked with flame.

What love,
You have lost.
Joys do not know you,
As trust has always left you
To dine on the dust
Beneath your feet.

My plan
To have you wrapped
In truest intention,
Places my heart upon the altar,
That you might hear it beat,
That you might live
Beneath the sheets
Where I possess you.

Poem – “God is Old” – Romanticism – 11/26/2020

Belonging is the house
Of unrequited belief,
Where flies are swatted
From lips, so pallid,
Beneath the storm, weaved by
Their leper hands.
I saw how they pierced the air
With their fingers,
Just as the curtain before
The blinded bride.

I saw the space between them,
As they drunk in the firelight
Of enemies so old in the night.
Belonging in the house,
To worship something of dust
Lingering on the books of tragedy,

Among unremittent success.

I saw their gatherings,
Fewest, with frailest voices.
A blind man was with perception,
Yet muted to the deaf.

Romantic pairings
Drew kisses from the orchards
Where apples fell.

Quote – “Pain, in Love” – 11/26/2020

“Do we ever forget who we love? Or, do we ever forget who loves us? Are we to reduce ourselves to the selfish fool, who cannot appreciate the selfless gesture of kindness? It is in our pain, that trust has died, not ever love. Love does not become torn apart, for that is not what pains us. Whether distrust, or impossibility for continued life, we are pained by the memory. We are only ever in pain, at the time of the beloved’s departure, because we still love them. Whether that be in death, or in a simple leave, the eternity of love is proven upon a singular realization: that, the rooms are empty, though they never left.”

– Modern Romanticism

Quote – “The ‘Uselessness’ of Love” – 11/26/2020

“Here, the scientist might say to love, among prayer, among God, that such things are impractical. Yet, it cannot be more obvious. Nothing of love, is practical, is utilitarian; so why would a scientist say such words so apparent? Is there ever ‘evidence’ for love, being metaphysical? Does not the scientist work with physical components, able to be dissected? Through dissection, a body is. Love cannot be dissected, for it is not physical. Not with use, so love cannot ever die. Eternal as it is, love cannot be killed. To the Atheist who says the words ‘God is dead’, most likely believes that memories can also die, at one’s whim.”

– Modern Romanticism