Romantic Poetry
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The worn feeling,The pressuring sensation,To move.The dryness in my heart, where should stir blood,The motion of my form, against the songs of sadness,Bellowed from my lips. The loss,The emptiness,Inside of me.The beauty that was with you, something held upon like gold,The form you would give to me, as something to hold in one arm,Has become
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Bled upon the leavesWas my sorrows.I held tears on the edges of my fingers,And swept them into rivers cold as ice.Love held a bitter burnUpon my tongue,As a feeble memory lingersIn my trembling heart. Love cannot be this miserableTo have undone.For why is itThat I have to begin at square one? Like two meadows apart,She
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Sometimes, upon when I lay my headAtop a pillow, I will see the edges of your formTaking shape at the foot of my bed. I see the tears that begin to floatAway from my eyes,And you’d catch them, with hands open for their approach. What will you sayWhen the day comes,When you will see me
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Her tears were for my cup,To count of every drop.Her eyes were the lakes for me to dip my feet,And to bathe within their frozen stare.Her pain and her sorrowWill last for every tomorrow. My beating heart,And her legs that walkThe miles across landscapes wet with the contentsOf her bleeding spirit.My beating heartResonates not with
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Passed upon myself,Was her shadow.Like to pass over my disused and torn spirit,After a love shattered,Like the bottle I cling to. I attempted to ignore,Though, it kept calling,As it kept me company. Beside myself, flesh over a drunken spirit.Inside myself, with ignorance overdone,I only slept with myself, last night,Like some pauper in the wilderness of
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I once folded her memoryIn my arms,During the night.Her sight, so meant to be long goneWith the tide,With the currents that fall away from my eyes,As agony floats along. I once did thisWith feeling,With the same feeling,Of a million sleeping years. I had bled eternal blueFor as far as the sky stretched.To the horizon, where
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What worldEver wielded, aside from the one stained in black?Longing is our token, to betterment,Away from the association of togetherness.Like love, mistaken for a parasite,Like loss, perceived to be foremostIn line. A coming mileIs not what we walk.It only holds us to reap a new darknessThat is the one behind. In arms, delicate and un-moving.We
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I am watchful, upon your barren formThat no alonger moves with each subtle sigh.Your arms will no longer sway when you decide to dance,Your hips, the same.And for each ruby lip that I had always aimed to kiss,There is only Hell for the life I dearly miss. Hold your head in the snowDear beauty.You once
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Like two bleeding suns,My palms were crushedUnder the weight of your heavy formThat dropped from the bleak monochrome.I saw what would have shocked me,Were I not already knowing it. Your form is inescapable,Like a palette to an artist,He wields it like a shield,While his eyes are the color that he perceivesWith every carefully aligned strokeOf
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What had been lifted,Is now fallenUpon the fields where there used to sprout yellow,And now only sprouts the red of shame.What was once golden in the light of companionshipIs now a feeble mess of disgrace. We had dancedBeneath the whip of survival.Sought to kiss, beyond the waves and the endless morrows.We had sailedUnder choirs that
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My hands wet with the dewThat has crossed my eyelids,And dropped with graceUpon the flesh of my palms,As I fell to my knees. I bleed wine, from my wrists,And bleed the sea, from my eyes.And, bitterness encompasses both. Late when the feeling comes to subside,Under the boughs and brambles of this winter season,I dip into
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And what seat have I placed myselfWhen beside me, seats only a space?My Queen had bledA drop of melted snow into the soil,And its color was red. For a King with his vulnerable selfIs merely a man. I dreamed sweetness, of softnessBefore the morning arose,And when it died,I imagined the sun as your rising face,Delighted
Modern Romanticism 