#lovepoetry
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With one wicked remarkBy your feathered tongue,A lightness in your voice,To soothe me,Down into unwarranted pain.And the sting comes upon my arms,And my legs,And my neck,Is enough to be drunk. I would call this pleasure,Were the levels not so different,Between yourself and me.And were our faces not so different,Of your own and my own.I am
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Upon thy broken and velvet back,There is a tiny frailness,A little bird without wings,It sits, while I sit, and I paint,To see what I’ve always envisioned,A woman with eyes like onyx stonesWithin a lake of sapphire,And a face of pure porcelain,Dotted with freckles like leaves in another lakeOf immaculate white milk. But, the bird atop
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Come closer,Frail one, to my door,Where you’ve heard these screams before.Where my limbs had once crashedTo the floor,And had then risenTo meet your throat,With a solid grip to drain life away. Pain and shame is now an empire,Among all the redness to your lips.You’ve tasted blood,Have you not?Your dream for lonelinessHas become a sheer reality.
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Beauty recedesAs the ocean and its fluidsUpon stark shores,Masking us in its amassing plenty.I still hold your hand,Despite my eyes upon this dark ocean. Each recession,Each regression,Is like swallowing another tear.And each wave against my feet,Is like one drop upon my knees,During when I am curled up against defeat. Love should hold hands with love,Beauty
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A foolish criminal,For I murdered a love,We had shared with wine and blood,With sweetness and bitterness,Among the beauty and the ugliness,With sugar and sand. Love should be our Thanksgiving,A memory we should treasure,Though, I had murdered it, and left a bird to rot. I would thank myself,For being alive,But, I am nothing but a criminal,Who
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I fell upon, the highest romance,As an angel, centered upon his flight,Downwards, I descendedTo see, where I caught, my sight.Love was a plaything, once to me.Love is now a treasure, befitted to seeFor its ornaments, upon nuptial evenings,And songs sung aloud, in credible musings. Downwards, I flew, destined to showWhat I know, to be, the
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When the beloved takes her breath,When the beloved oversees deathAnd its wilted form,It is me, she’s placed her eyes upon,For one more caress on the roadTowards distant riversWhere tears fall at even greater length.And among the house of screams,A thousand-and-one of them,There is her gentle placement,Of one thin finger,Against my lips. I have been in
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What was love without the blame, again?A lash upon my own backFrom me, my own slave-master.I defeat myself,Blame myself,Writhe in the guilt of disappointment.And I see my tears fallingWithout a say to where they land. What was love without the coil,The constriction?The restriction,From life with sharp wings? What was love in all its devouringOf my
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Wasted tomorrows,And grueling eternities,Are in short supplyTo the blow that struck upon innocence,And created the loudest rhythm.I have emotions, do I not?I bleed the grandest colors,To a world that cannot see them,For they are divided,Between success and failure. Love is where we stareTo the sky.Love is where we reachTo the other endOf a lone and
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In all hanging eyes,There is but one,With a lone stare upon a someone,Though, he is too much a toiled man,With the same stains on his hands. Now when blood is shared with blood,His hands have only held another’s.A woman’s hands are as frail as the oldness she’ll grow intoUpon when the world looks to her,
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Known by Heaven,Of my own illness,That is linked by two.Illness of love, illness of death,And I am caught between,As life beneath the shallows. And I see where kisses hang loosely on your lips,The very beauty who has left me,For I see your phantom,A vision, born from a medicated body. I wish it were real,Though, you
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What world have we not believed inUpon the making of our love?Two streams run betweenThe sides of your delicate head.A tiny form is all you have,And I’ll not break itFurther, when our worlds collapse. As great enemies wanderTo where they shall battle,We’ll be ever-further apart,From the other.I see your face so aligned,With thin streams that
Modern Romanticism 