“It is grief that stains the living soul. It is not peace with the bereaved, since it is peace with the dead. Those who grieve are in pain, because they wish to be with the dead. To recover from this, reverse the wish to be with them, to the understanding that the dead live on in the heart. Comprehend that, that love is eternal through this. Their peace for remaining life, not for the pain to them.”– Modern Romanticism
Slowness to sobriety. Fill me up with the porcelain from your eyes, with the sentences that perspire upon the lids. Keep me afloat in your drunken state, in the arms that swim, while nails begin to dig. You let fall your fingers to pierce the wood of a coffin, while I am settled in the furnace of death’s warmth. You tear. You yank. All of you wants me to lift this side of myself, though I am too heavy. I am simply wearing my tears as crystal or diamonds, though the wealth could not be brought anywhere else.
Futures with you, all crushed. Slowness to sobriety. Stay with your own, the fevers upon your cheeks where kisses were laid by others, among the snow. Among the debris, the dust is yours to lay blankets over. Express your hope, where flowers are fallen. Keep your eyes closed, when the sun begins to set.
A funeral demands a winter. There is a raven, among the clouds. There is ice around that animal’s eyes. There is all that, while talons have scarred my symptomatic heart. I once felt love, as though a sickness. Offered of friendship, presented in the ribbons in radiance. Offered of another heart, asymptomatic of the tendrils of love’s blight. A head caught in a curtain, with nothing transparent around. Here, to being lost, where love presented its cost.
I find myself in a heath, where winds come weathering my ankles, keeping my stance a sore one. Funerals walk alongside myself, in the depression of abandonment. Friendship tossed me, overboard. I disused myself, against the coming waves, gifted of the flowing and teeming winds. Coldness, as an encasement, once then to drink of a drunken stare, last to see me drowning. Of an anxious embezzlement, being that theft to a broken and useless heart. I disused myself. I fed myself to the fanned flames.
Fever and winter, with raven talons to scratch my worn heart. Like a cotton shirt, ripped with ease, much among the brush that grows the same for the garments of no real warmth. Just a yearning for summer, of being appropriate against the idea of winter. In being buried, I became the blanket. Just another sadness, among the heat, within the grain, drunken upon the waters that come collecting to me. Into me, those waters, as they silence my pain, if only for a moment while the rest floods on.
“Do not keep your hold upon the droplets. For they are meant to water the roots. Do not let anger, through the fear that burns what is dead within yourself, consume the wilderness meant to thrive. As pain may be the thorns, everything beautiful is the rose. You might find the stem unwieldable, as a tightened grasp will hurt. Let it. Let the blood stream down the long rope of green. Then, let your tears let spread the roots, at your feet.”– Modern Romanticism
“No man will cry over sentimentality. He will, however, weep when the boulder during the present, buries him further into the earth. The guilt, harbored upon his shoulders, docked as a ship within his heart, overloaded with the cargo of self-disappointment, offers him the curse of blame for what he could not protect. Competence is, to a man, his own pride. As he kneels over the ruin of what was once so beautiful, so gorgeous, there comes an innate sense of remorse to swallow his senses, and to ever be the last understandable thing to come embrace him.”– Modern Romanticism
A: Oh, beloved. Was I always your only mistake?
B: As just the very one who abandoned me, the only regret who has come to be both truest and most false.
A: You regret so much, of so much abandonment, though I led you through your darkest trials.
B: You led me, to then bring me towards my ruin.
A: Was I too much?
B: You were enough, though it became enough for me to take no more of it.
A: The abandonment?
B: You loved, though you abandoned me when the tasks were done, when the darkness was over. When you did leave, the darkness returned. You led me towards that, though I never did the same unto you.
A: Was it because you never led me?
B: It was because I always trusted you.
A: I’ll not ever give up. I was merely a man without anymore purpose. It was not the darkness to make fade, that ever gave me purpose. It was to embrace the light, being you, that I held onto. I wanted you. I needed you. I bled the darkness away, so that I might find you, the light. What was I? Never your light. I seemed to have only erased the darkness, to become it, myself.
B: If you’ll never give up, then why did you give me up?
A: I make excuses. It is why.
B: What is your excuse?
A: To never see myself, in the reflection. I saw you, and only ever you. All was for your sake. All was never for mine. I make excuses.
B: These are your excuses?
A: These are my pains, that I suppose you won’t comprehend.
“People’s lives don’t end when they die. It ends when they lose their faith. Will it be death while still holding strong to faith, or a long life gained by renouncing it?”– Hanzo of the Salamander (Naruto)
“Never believe it is a choice to weep, for when a man does, he is no longer protecting himself. A choice to weep, would directly relate to force. When does a man force tears, other than to lie? When does a man cry so naturally before a woman, other than to be truthful?”– Modern Romanticism
Men do not choose to weep. They choose to not weep. For their choices extend upon the protection of themselves, and were they to weep, they’d vehemently express their need to protect another. When a man hardens himself, to never weep, he is protecting what is within. If he cries for another, that is his expression to say the words, “I am protecting you, by making myself vulnerable.”
To say it is society to force a man to never weep, to encourage no tears from a man, is a falsehood. It is not society that tells a man to never weep. It is men who tell themselves, when facing their worst personal moments, to never weep. Men encourage themselves, teach themselves, force themselves to never weep. For this is how a man lies to himself, placing a mask upon his face that tells the world that truth does not need to be said, by him.
How are we to say that society is teaching us, when we are the makers to it? We are not the reflection of society, so much as it is a reflection of ourselves, of damage caused by our own hands. Of all things we see around us, of poverty that litters the streets, to sickness that withers a crippled man, is either the negligence or the deliberate acts, of us, to have caused it.
Humans have already given up their freedoms, if they believe some phantasmal force called “society” teaches them, and they are not in control of what can be created, instead of caused.
And, what happens when we break society? Do we break ourselves? As in, does a man find breaking down a wall, something that makes him cry? When he destroys a building or even his own marriage, is that only when he is meant to weep?
Must it be something a man can destroy, that makes him cry over its damages? What if, when upon a better moment, he can shed a tear over something meant to be protected?
Men weep over what can be protected, because he no longer protects himself. Soon as he buries himself in the feeling of self-punishment, saving those he loves from it, he weeps.
“Why else would the Cat Lady amuse herself with a storm of cats? Why else, if not to cover up her loneliness with cats? Obsession is that which one cannot move past from, for depression digs one into a hole, into the ground where one no longer walks, though is a particle of the past. The earth, meant to be walked upon, meant as a place to ‘move forward’ in one’s life. Though, if obsession is the depressed person’s motive, it is their fear to the future that keeps them concealed, just as a corpse is, covered by dirt.”– Modern Romanticism
“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
Why ever do rightness unto another, when distrust is gathered upon you, blanketed by those I once did love? It is you I love, yet it is they I am forced to resent. It is you I am forced to say is the most important essence. That, to go back to a former time, would mean my death. It is you who cannot let me go, when hands are wet from the cold waters of a winter ocean. With ease, hands can indeed slip free the burden of all guilt.
Why weigh us down, under love? It has always been you who I have loved. It has always been you, I can hardly fathom. It has always been you, to the day that I die, that you might die with me. It has always been you that when you disappear, will be when I cast my final breath.
My love, from trumpet call to scraping the strings of violins, I can feel the stir of something warm. Yet, for their sake, I bury it. For their sake, of the ones I once did love, I bury my love for you. And, only when I hold you, can I know what I will raise. And, only when I weep upon your name, can I know what has been built.
“No person is ever content with their own lives, should they be filling the gap in other people with what they should be filling into themselves.”– Modern Romanticism
I have treated pain as the source of my creativity. Though, these days, whenever I write a poem, it is not from inspiration. Sadness has always been my inspiration. Though, when life is under control, it feels alien to even admit that. Because, contentment with life is resulting in discontent with my work.
I have experienced, in 2018 and 2019, a Hell of a depression, and an immense amount of fear, though did not come from nowhere. It was a situation I had to handle, and then I came out of. Though, it was only a little later, when depression struck again over something else, and then I was forced to say upon myself, “Either I can live with this pain, or I can come up with an idea to heal it, instantly.” I chose the latter.
Of course, with any decision, it has its consequences. In healing my pain instantly, I drove creativity out of me. Though, life will always throw me another curveball. This, I know. But, when one feels strong in any point in their lives, has things maintained, one is then discontent with what they can produce, out of creativity. This would mean that discontentment with life will produce a creative work, for the artist to be content with. It would also mean that contentment with life will produce a work, for the artist to be discontent with.
From discontentment to contentment, it must be the same in a parent who looks upon their own childhood, to see something that never occurred. Then, upon having their own child, their own creation, they drill those absences to be a presence in the offspring’s mind. This forms the parent’s content, though perhaps the child’s discontent.
From creator to creation, then from discontentment to contentment, we are not satisfied, as humans, until what was absent in the past is present in the future.
She holds a smile in her hands, while filming the ocean’s sounds with her heart. Sounds that return to her, upon when the waters lick the shoreline. Sounds that matter only to a world that never responded quick enough, upon when sickness took her beloved. A world that only gave a whisper from a dying heart, from breathing lungs, as his eyes closed to one last fallen tear.
She holds her heart in her chest, bare with wickedness to each sagging breast. Roses are collected at her feet, missing their stems, while leaving the red to flood a clashing wave of vermillion to the drifting sea. Her mouth comes open, to let loose not merely a syllable, though a breath to it, as well. A gust, and half a name that was matched, rips from her tongue, and lays flat upon her lips. The ocean does not take it.
She drifts. Her eyes wander, as the ocean does, to the skyline, in view of a rising sun. In darkness, she cascades. In this darkness, tears run to form puddles beneath her eyes.
Love lost, as she finds her breath in the ocean. She hears her yearning in the waves. She hears him, like the whisper from a dying heart and lungs, battering the chapter closed. She hears a love that never gave another day.
Yet, the sun rises, makes a glimpse of light, a slight feeling of warmth, to her face. How can another day matter, to this stem, this bush, whose roses have fallen? How can it matter, when she bleeds her colors to the blue?
Her arms, so bare, hold shoulders that tremble.
Her face swims in her torment. An apocalypse of grief, where hearts turn black, as oceans turn grey. How many eyes turn her way? How many embraces can she hold? How much sickness can allot itself? How much more? How many places can she open herself, to be shut inside as a mouse to its temptation?
Of blood, so warm, yet it drains from her, to the cold ocean. The sea, where fires are lit on the horizon, though bring no relief. The glaciers of her grief stand like lighthouses, guiding her sighs along to be passed. Out her throat, and then, on towards the madness of another thousand nights to weep herself to sleep.
For she had buried it all, deep in her heart. She had lost it all, deep in the soil. Six feet that averages the height of a man, growing under the earth. The roots of his memories scatter and spread like trails of ebony. Of darkness that leaves its moments for this woman to remember. And, is it a curse?
Gently, she leans her head back to view the sky. Its pallidity wraps her. Its overcast appearance takes her. For she wishes to be an angel that knows no distance.