Modern Romanticism

The aspect of romance, divided between the heartening and the thoughtful.

Erotic Poetry – “The Laced Disgrace” – Romance – 10/16/2019

October 16, 2019

Sickness is a place in each other’s mouth,
And alike it all, you’ve shown a trace of a future,
Unclean upon the crawling filth,
Upon the knees of some horrid Monarch.
He’d shown no kindness,
It was as the books had wrote,
He believed in worships too unclear to see,
And made things simple in driest notes.
Whoredom is the world with entertainment
Combined with the illness
Of consumption.

I am in love with my Hell,
My place made in paradise,
My utopia of a mind,
Formed as great disgust to my kind.
I splurge as much as I urge
Others to eat from my plate.
I play a game of marvelous Christianity,
Upon the disuse of a man called ‘agony’.

There is desertion next to me,
And her voice is the blizzard upon the desert,
The coldness upon the dryness,
The death upon the infertile,
And her tears come down as meteors,
Though, fire would not create the lust
Needed for a rain of seeds,
To sprout green from the white, miserable sands.


Erotic Poetry – “The Spread of White” – Romance – 10/16/2019

October 16, 2019

A dance between two icons of slenderness,
Has me whisper words full of tenderness.

There is poetry in each fragment of gold,
Upon the crown to your ivory scalp.
I thwart the crudeness you’ve absorbed
Into yourself.
And, between two pillars of flame,
Two folds remain,
To hide a show of fireworks.

Of sparks and drops of wax,
From a bent and worn candle,
A sword embeds itself,
Into a bed
Of deepest flesh,
And drags out the contents of a furnace,
Of all remaining blood to the incinerator
That may turn flesh to ash.

I would not cut,
But simply sink,
The blade between bed and bone,
And drown in the pages of poetry.

In your eyes, I become lost
In darkness where flowers become cultivated
By scents and ecstatic sighs.

My annexation is the cultivation of a desert,
Where the spread of white,
Is the spread of newness upon a sheath of gold.
To raise up a tree,
From an abdomen soaked in beaded sweat,
To see your sparkling face,
Of the same way.

For I shall melt all of Antarctica,
To see the spread of green.

Words of Wisdom – “Between Reality and Love” – Philosophy on Love – 10/16/2019

October 16, 2019

“In reality, we walk upon Earth. As well, we walk upon others. Obsessed with reality, we unknowingly walk upon others, through, as well, our obsession with discovery. Discovery of all realities, all things there to be touched, smelled, or tasted, are the senses we utilize when we perceive something in closeness. And yet, such senses of those individual three, are always to be the senses utilized when in that ‘heat of lust’ we describe to be made for ‘blood, sweat, and tears’. From flesh, we bleed, and through pain, we feel it. From sweat, we smell it. From tears, we taste them, as they drain to our open mouth. And, for the other two senses, of sight and sound, we can still be close enough to see, close enough to hear, either the sight of pain, or the sounds of pain.

For to be close enough to touch, smell, or taste, may as well be close enough to be the cause of the injury. For how can we cause the injury without opening the wound, or in the case of discovery, opening the book?

‘Appetite’ is the word we use during when we consume, utilizing the three ‘lustful senses’ in exact consecutive order. We touch the flesh, to smell the flesh, to taste the flesh. And, we are all rapists of ourselves and others at that point, obsessed with privacy and identity.”

Poem – “Love Has Breached a Corner in our Wilderness” – Romance – 10/16/2019

October 16, 2019

I turn around to repeat,
In careless repetition,
All vows and emotions, upon a plate of fate,
You deny what was offered,
From a dying God,
From a man with all the might to his fight,
His eyes were upon you,
And faced the enormous creation,
Of a statue in what he’d not undo,
A love from all broken strings,
Upon one delicate harp,
Upon one frozen heart.

I fought to cleanse the hate from my plate,
From the dish that served rather coldly,
All the misfortune I spent for a night,
For you to eat up my words.

You are the child at the feet of God,
Born with wings, aflame,
Though, are crawling with those who are lame,
There is idleness to your eyes,
And serpent shapes to your fingers.
I was born to love and to swallow tears,
Puddles glisten in my palms,
Overflown upon what gently lingers,
The subject of pain placed at my heel,
Born to desert, and gracefully feel.

Your eyes are the scorn in the desert,
The desert wind under my command,
Is all to make me a man.

The faces in their frequent shadows,
Their hearts in puddles so shallow.

Face me, dear woman, with torn heart,
All memories come barreling down,
Upon the corner of our wilderness.

In the meadow of a tearful love,
Where droplets of dew form on grass,
There is your face of its gentle sight,
For my truest love made to last.

Words of Wisdom – “The Fragmentation of a Viewpoint” – Philosophy on Love – 10/16/2019

October 16, 2019

“Many will point out, and many more will say for others to point out, and we can then be lucky we only point a single finger out of our ten, when we are pointing at something. What this means, is the viewpoint, being fragmented when one will say, ‘All are entitled to the interpretation’. Though, to what extent does the viewpoint become another viewpoint, among eight billion others, until it is merely a fragment of the whole mirror? Of a singular sight, and were all eight billion people upon this planet to hold their own viewpoint of that one sight, it merely turns whatever was significant, into smaller and smaller insignificance. We then begin to grudgingly point to each other, and make viewpoints of others, for that one viewpoint of a single person to also become fragmented. What all this does, is deter a human from closeness, into a distance. We no longer peer into the mirror from up close, into a person’s eyes from up close, to see what may be commonalities between two persons. We lose, not sacrifice, romance and love, in this. We lose the meaning of marriage, into believing in ‘expiration dates’ for those romances. It is pathetic. Many would die for an eternal romance, and many more will die because of a failed one.”

Flash Story – “Too Indebted to Move” – Romantic Literature – 10/14/2019

October 14, 2019

“The heart races for one reason, to let one know the sound of a march; for there have been as many lovers upon this Earth as there have been deaths of bloodied soldiers.”

Between birds and stones, flesh and bones, we sing that song of love as like a message on the wind; though, where does it stray? It strays nowhere, if the lover remembers, and keeps hold of moments beneath trees as old as time. Surrender to it, and this means to surrender to the shudders from your heart. The heart races for one reason, to let one know the sound of a march; for there have been as many lovers upon this Earth as there have been deaths of bloodied soldiers. They drank the contents that flowed up into the esophagus, that should have been contents touched not by the flight of indifference, though by the comfort of love.

“I am too indebted to move onward from this flame, the love we are holding close to ourselves,” says a man with a glass of rose wine to his lips, staring upon a nude before himself, with glances heavy and long, “Your eyes, magnificent in shape; your form is a plaza of many stands, each showing ripened fruit for the occasion; and how I would hold a pair of breasts alike pears to be swallowed whole.”

Love is a sculpture, beheld before a man as a woman of his making, of the wholeness to his honesty; and, nothing is allowed to break it, for him to retreat back into the waves where his loneliness resides.

He approaches the woman, with flame to his mind, burning all weariness from former attraction to an enemy of rest. To a workforce, that had bought his time and sold him his fortune, for a place among a union of degraded and futile; they had all aimed to see a future too far. Too far, and too unknown, for love remains as the most unexpected thing to manifest itself before a one, and it is a wall.

He names himself as the “broken one” to her, before nestling his head in a bed of flesh. Warmth surrounds as easy as the sun may surround the Earth, so it isn’t winter upon every morsel of land.

Words of Wisdom – “A Man’s Manhood in Romance” – Philosophy on Love – 10/14/2019

October 14, 2019

“Should a man smile upon the exiting from a romance, he is dirt. He is the fool, without the water that he ever drunk from being the waters of a woman’s heart. The path before him was always solid as dirt, and he never was inside a woman’s heart. He was sure, he was certain, without any place to soak himself in her tears, shower himself in her sadness; because, when he does, that is when he does the second thing to prove himself, after the first thing. Begging for forgiveness is the second time when a man submits himself to her might. A woman’s might, in this sense, places a man first on his knees, during when he proposes, and the second time on his knees when he’s committed a grave error that may end the romance.

The quote that describes a man’s home as his fortress, are the walls he keeps sturdy from within, because those walls are the walls of a woman’s heart. He is within it, and he is trapped, willingly so.”

Words of Wisdom – “A Man’s Tears of Failure” – Philosophy on Love – 10/14/2019

October 14, 2019

“When does a man weep, one may ask? It is when he has lost. Show a woman to him, and he will never again see the world in black and white, caught between success and failure. He will see the colors of her, from her smile, from her scent, from her garments.

Though, should he lose her, he will feel as though he’s lost, once more, receding him back to a former time. He will never want to see his own face, he will neglect cleaning himself, and his own garments will turn to rags.”

Words of Wisdom – “Love is a Place of Submission” – Philosophy on Love – 10/14/2019

October 14, 2019

“With love, it is first a matter of like attracts like, before one knows more, enough to discover parts of the other half that one does not like. After which, those dislikes will challenge the love, until such imperfections grow into perfections, by the love, itself. Love grows all into wholeness. Like the flower that was once a bud, or the flower that held onto its final root before it would die, any care granted to it would make such a fragment find its other pieces, to create the whole. From imperfection to perfection, love is the closest experience to humanity’s only understanding of infinity, in our little worlds of limitation.

In love, one faces themselves, their mirror image, to discover perhaps what they could never like. That is, what they had denied to ever exist. God may be the picture to this, through repeated denial for Him, in today’s time. Love is an emotion we do not stop for, because, in love, we continually walk past all things that could keep us bound. Fear resonates in this, love penetrates us in this, makes us vulnerable, and we are forced to drop our meager pride, to see its light.

We do not stop for love, because love is an emotion that requires willingness to submit to it. In a political world of force, all that is lacking.”

Words of Wisdom – “The Result of a Disheveled Romance, at the Fault of Man” – Philosophy on Love – 10/14/2019

October 14, 2019

“Does a man treat love as a game? If so, then his woman will play along to the beat of however he plays her heart. She will dance to betrayal, so to speak, as his loss of loyalty will be the music of betrayal. To a woman, betrayal is subtle, and seen first by her, though kept as a secret for her gossip. How does a woman lie? It is through what she observes, and in what she has accepted to be the truth, even if what she has embraced is going to affect her enough to damage her. She cares not for the definition of truth, but merely embraces what is given to her, as that could be either anything at random, or everything in wholeness. And, it is up to a man to give himself, all of himself, so that she comprehends not the truth, but his honesty. It is this way, because she will not be able to differ truth from lie, though only the offering, in whatever a man has made up for himself, before he met her.”