NaPoWriMo
-
White winterDrafted on a page, written backwardsTo this season’s beginning.Were we ever the fogAround our decaying eyes?SwelledIn the season’s pushWithout much to soften for,In the current light of day. A plea,Turned into the seaOf vast forgivenessNever believed,For its smile that enters as sunriseUpon the defeated horizonHolds enough for a heart to surmise,That for where we
-
You tell,You spell the cause of your woe,And I come crawlingTo ease,To please you, in pain’s dire flow.The simplicityTo bereaveWhen I wear a heartStitched on my sleeve. Calm this,And do not fuel this.These urges shall come undoneTo bleed you,To grieve youOn the wires of your heartHung from the highest cliff,Spilling downIts descent from the crown.
-
Holding nowWhat little remainsOf your porcelain mouth,Of what words I did contemplateUnder the barest moon,Lifting my featuresApart from doom,Healing a heartThat never died for you. The simplest beatOf an orb of redLeaves stainsOn the floor, where walksDecrepit feet,Bleeding toes,A horror upon the shouldersOf a man in his woe. The cold iron,The rushing crimson,With veins that
-
What were weUpon a timeWhen Heaven did open its gatesTo endless gustsOf our curiosity? We were sentenced to ruin,With fable, stain in heart,To the inkWith endless marksOn the empty page. This love that holds us nearWhites us out in holiest books.What disusedColors of ending tracingThat never did forfeit the blamingWe used to sample. White castles,Endless
-
What, when upon a mile,I can shoulder grief in the harried storm?Pulling petalsAs butterfly wings,Washing down the ocean’s sudsWith my own blood? My twin and I, apart,As Heaven seems so dark,Holy Hell with I,Feeble, yet aliveWith symptoms of sadness in the hair,Without joy in each of everywhere. Her eyes, the deepest glimpseOf everything else I
-
Call yourself downBeautiful woman with blessed crown,And bleed your pain, elsewhere.Do not shed a tearLest to heighten our fear.With bleeding palms,We crawl,We hang ourselvesFrom the colors of our salvation. With your featuresDecked in ivory cascades,The future can mourn itself, as darkWaves begin to find usOn the ocean of gray beginnings.My love,Run to your nowhere,For I
-
Among you, for you,The waters keep curlingThe fog around your eyes,Porcelain,Drying against the laneWhere sadness is your stainOn the arms, embracing closeRemembrance of the fallen. Upon you, around youWhere teeming life does swirlIn the galaxy where keeps your heartSwollen, to never partFrom the idle awakening of a startTo your life’s journey to a mythOf happiness,
-
Make love to me, Paradox of no explanation. I could give you the taste, The taste of knowledge, The fruit born from a stem, Offered where bliss is nude. Cover me with your tears, And embed me in darkness. Let me sing what I can bring To your mouth, in the nighttime’s uncouth Display of
-
Who said that the world would end, When tomorrow brings the heaviest roses? Who had said that, Upon the arrival of Spring? We bleed the morning’s tears, And taste the flavor of fear, Drunk upon the saltiness of pain. Love blooms in the most miserable areas Where pollution strides around Upon human legs. We carry
-
There is death around, Stuck in the stench, upon nostrils around. What ways to see the ground, for what it truly bleeds When empathy cries a greater noise Than ever does life, when it leaves. Empathy holds instruments, as loud as the fate of others Upon the turn of their eyes away from coming death,
-
What a treat, What a romance To have the entrance, of a worn and bruised heart That does not know What path, What vein, To choose for the long road. It is all endless to her, All belonging to the infinity in her confusion. She bleeds inescapable roads At her feet. She grows tears like
-
Written with tragedyUpon felled daysWhere breaths burn upon sorry lipsThat whispered apologies to scarred ears.My love, you are as sweet as everything I could envisionOf doomsday’s arrival. There is music to play,And blood to boil.There are eyes to stay,And memories to play. There is life gone astray,And enormous portraits that waneUpon the pain in open
Modern Romanticism 