Romantic
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“Stripped from your wild self. Your yielding self. Of bare back, bald breasts, and kissable lips… How have others seen you? How can you foresee me, seeing you? Such beauty. Such admirable beauty. A simplicity to the arrangement of your hair. To your fingers, burning at the tips like candleflame. This is special, dear. This
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Poem #1 “Awaiting Fog” TranslateThe thicknessAround your eyes.Smother your discomfortWith ease and surrender,For defeat to shedAshes to your toes. Dance with the deepest sighsTo plume from reddest lips.Give finalityTo each falling grace.Grab your basketFull of the scenery you plucked,To birth taste, from your tears. Drunk on sorrows,Amorous with your fears.Laid there, not curvingTo the unkind
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“Protection is a sign of preserving intelligence, while bodies can be dispensed. For what is the difference between two models of differing appearance, and two wounded men on the battlefield whose severity of injury is also differed?” – Modern Romanticism If intelligence can be saved, then we have no need for seeing difference of forms
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“It is not my life I cling upon. It is yours. I possess no heartbeat. I reveal no true movement of my limbs. Should you ponder, then I wonder on your thoughts. Should you fall, then I will, too. What is a life, if I have no love to cover it? My fears, my voice,
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“For it is not to simply feel love that allows us to entrance into it. It is the arms we enter, due to it always being the other we feel. To love, is to feel who we are loving.” – Modern Romanticism
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“The one expectation one should have for a relationship, is in what makes a human. To expect the average characteristics of a human, is to expect an error, and to have acceptance for that error in consideration for yourself. To ‘hook-up’ with whatever you expect, sets the trap to what you did not expect, and
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“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
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Beauty is born upon her, with marks to her fields of skin. Imperfections that amount to the truths of this once-wounded woman. Cured by absence, though remains scarred in this man’s heart. Remains treasured more in his mind, than that orb of red. Of memories within bleakest stains, that never fade. They are the shadows.
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“To the woman, whose graceful shape is often seen by the man as perpetually imperfect, is merely the onset to wasted time. When he hurls criticism, though never corrects, it is that he stares to her external mask. Nothing is corrected, for that mask is the attempt by her for correction’s sake. He’ll not ever
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“We say that love remains, calling our hurts forward, due to that trust was betrayed. We say we hurt, out of betrayed trust, due only to love being the haunt, being the memory that remains. Though, to love, divided from trust, it is to the former where we place the certainty of it. Not ever
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“It is love, overwritten by the importance of trust, that we say the former might die, while buried alive. For we are to trust the one we reveal all of ourselves to, making love merely the buried background of a sun that warms our backs. We do not see love, yet we feel it. Though,
Modern Romanticism 