“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 is a moment, not wasteful.”
– Peter A.W. Wyatt (Modern Romanticism)
Tag: Romantic
Miniature Poetry Collection – 5 Poems – “Skull of All I Loved” – Romanticism – 2/24/2021
Poem #1
“Awaiting Fog”
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The thickness
Around your eyes.
Smother your discomfort
With ease and surrender,
For defeat to shed
Ashes to your toes.
Dance with the deepest sighs
To plume from reddest lips.
Give finality
To each falling grace.
Grab your basket
Full of the scenery you plucked,
To birth taste, from your tears.
Drunk on sorrows,
Amorous with your fears.
Laid there, not curving
To the unkind memories
That leave you open.
Sadness descends
From eyes, pulled apart,
With the cries
Among the laughter,
Not told apart.
Poem #2
“Wanting you here”
The paths our eyes bleed,
Down to the forests
Grasped in our hands,
Leaves stains, made as lakes,
Ripples waves,
Dry to the tongue.
I have laughed,
In want of a final memory
To scream our worlds close,
Full to the song
Of lungs that breathed you,
For eyes that watched you.
Of oceans, between,
Losing scarlet from your lips
In the sunset,
As you see sunrise
Engulfing the trees,
Standing up the buildings.
Leaking world
Carrying loss,
Edging out a horizon’s fold
Upon a chapter,
Where stars collide
With the black of our covers.
Poem #3
“Peeling Tears away”
Save the world
From simple imagery.
As loss falls together
With loss,
Some sighs were breathed
As though netted
By the one
Who gave the last kiss.
To graves, full of burial
For tears to water the garden
Where life begins
To churn, as a soft petal
Loses its grip
To become the pillow
To smother the eyes
Of a wilted corpse.
Some sighs were never heard,
As some winds
Are never felt.
To the tears that lose
Their precious hold,
Like petals to purify us.
Coldness from the bucket,
Drawn from the well
Of blemished sadness,
Of great burns upon the flesh
While water collides
With cremation,
To makes the ashes more visible
Than the loss.
Poem #4
“Dance, to Catch the Rain”
Waste not
The places you love,
Dearest dear.
You drink the gifts.
Of ribbon,
Dressed of paper,
Colored by children
Your eyes ignored.
They looked to your heart,
If not to your breast.
Await the words,
While sadness manages you,
Keeps you settled.
Hug close, the ghost,
For he has been the dark
In your heart.
Live the world, apart
From plainest, cruel winter
Inside where memories are yours,
The keen side
Of all that decors,
Beyond all that decays.
The losing battle,
Of a side that never takes
The grave deceased.
The undergoing struggle,
With death locked
Out its own door.
Poem #5
“A Wilderness of Wishes”
All great runaways
For their dreams, to never envision
A rope would take their neck,
As stars would circle,
To burst.
All fumbled comparisons
Drive the deep glow
Of paradise, deeper below.
Why do the people
Sing on?
Falling
Trees, same as tumbling
Towers.
The fewest ants
Are not ever the type
To remember
What hearts quitted their rhythm,
With the stains of sap
From crumpled bark.
Lose the neck,
While the same cage
Surrounds the same book
Of the same burned page,
Staining fingers
Of the same familiar soot.
2nd Excerpt from a Romantic Novel – “9 Months to Live” – 2/21/2021
His mind realized this, even at the still-blossoming age of nineteen, four years Lisa’s senior, as maturity is the most profound in witnessing death. By the death of his mother, the still-blossoming Johnathan became a full flower, yet would crumble if anything more than a simple breeze were to swipe his skin. Love does not, even to a child as him, have anything to ignore.
He now looks through Lisa’s eyes, to the young spirit of herself, to realize that, in life, growth is natural, though also painful.
To think on how much perhaps a dandelion regrets its own life, born to sustain itself on the nutrients of pre-disposed good flowers. To think on that, and then to ponder on the life of a rose, grown with a beautiful arrangement of petals, though could scar the palm if its stem were to be grasped. Living in such miseries, bleeding from the heart while nothing of the flesh does, is a person’s comparison to all we tear apart.
We rip the dandelion from its roots. We cut the thorns from the rose, so that it could be safely held. Even in our disbelief that life is meant to be painful, we still rip some things apart of purport.
We simply presuppose that specific things are meant to die. Or, we can accept that everything is like a burning fuse. Though, we might come to believe that through love, what seems so temporary as flesh, remains in the memory for eternity.
What does Lisa think of Johnathan’s touch, upon this moment?
Even in love, can she feel anything other than his skin? To not admit her as numb, due to her sympathetic form of grief, there is still a coldness. Though, by her eyes, to the appearance of a dead mother before herself, there cannot be much to direct to Johnathan. Rather, there is much to relive, and then, to know about, over again. Life does not repeat, by life. It repeats, by love.
Repetition is a cruel splash of the hardest hail upon our faces. Of life, where moments matter more than dreams. Of love, where sadness speaks more than the moments that indeed fade. For life, a person will always gain. For love, a person will always lose.
Philosophy – “The Primary Reason for Chivalry” – 2/19/2021
“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 where flesh is altered in contrast.
Men protect women. They do so, to keep the latter from being stupid, just like him. A man most recognizes himself as remorseful, not comprehending why he commits to all his actions.
Out of what motives, keep him committed to the most idiotic endeavors? This is a question, he does not understand of himself.
However, when a man discovers a woman, knows love, unearths this mighty force from within himself, there is purpose. Would a woman ever understand why he fell in love? There is only one reason a man falls in love. It was because he was a nothingness, before he met her.
Before meeting her, all his actions were blind. Superficial. Unimportant. Upon meeting her, his ambitions are her. They go to her. All he has built, are now hers. All he once wielded, she owns. They are gifts, of the many.
Though, his loyalty is his greatest strength.
If a woman rejects this, she leaves him powerless. She strips him of purpose, as it is the ultimate betrayal. Why would a man go through with the effort of leaving behind his past, if not to love? He loves, because he forgets. What he forgets, is the reflection of himself he cannot return to. Without her, and that image is lost. He would return to nothingness.
Then, why would he protect her, if not only to keep her from a duplication of that nothingness?
Of a woman’s continual desire to be empowered by the world, will make a man powerless. It is because, out of love, he does not want to see her fall. Though, if Nature wills it, the tale between Adam and Eve will bring The Fall of Man as an unending repetition. He will fall, for her sake. For that is what a man’s purpose is. It is also his destiny.
Pre-determined and thought out by something more divine than flesh, a man protects what cannot fall. It was his idiocy to be something of nothingness. It is now his loyalty that keeps her away from that identity.
Love Quote – “Not my Life, like your Own” – 2/3/2021
“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, the systems which allows my body to operate, are a nothingness, when I see you. A love, as what I feel for you, blankets my life, disrobes me of lonely purpose.”
– Modern Romanticism
Quote – “How to Feel Love” – 2/3/2021
“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
Philosophy – “To Debunk the Hook-Up Culture” – 1/28/2021
“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 creates the illusion of perfection in the supposed match.”
– Modern Romanticism
Does a person state that their “match”, from whomever they “hooked up” with, must be perfect? Do we not ever compare such a person to ourselves, that they challenge our own idiocy in perhaps believing ourselves to be perfect? There are fools who believe themselves to be perfect, or perhaps just “good enough”, and they will reject every person around. This is because love shows us room for improvement. Upon our flaws, we improve through all that we did not expect to see.
Of whatever expectations we held for a certain person, pertaining to this “hook-up” culture, is always in relation to preference. A relationship is not a goal. For as a goal can be set or is foreseeable, we continuously blunder in a relationship as we must accept that as inevitable. We are meant to show our errors to what is also imperfect, not arrogantly spout ourselves as never needing the heroic aid of love. Perhaps the real reason for a failed relationship is too much in the expectation, and not so much in the sheer awe and wonderment upon what we find so new. Of what makes a match, is not for what we prefer, though of what we cannot stand of ourselves. As it has been mentioned, we enter love to improve or to repair ourselves. Perhaps the “match” lies in how both the divine aspect of love to combine with the imperfect nature of a human, must require two for the fullest realization.
To prefer is to lust, while to be kept blind is to love. As love is blind, so are most of our flaws until we enter that feeling. We realize all our faults, through the feeling of love. We should thus enter love as being the scenery for which we are blind to its detail, and never set the trap of expectation as love can never be in accordance to what we crave.
Love is not a craving. That would be same to believe it is a temporary thing. Even if a relationship is broken, it was not the love that broke, though was the trust become ruined. And, for the reason of why we hurt, is because we still love them.
Much of the “hook-up” culture relies on preference, of what to expect, and of what to desire. One previews a person’s profile on a dating website, as though they are a meal upon a menu. They look at the person’s face, as though like a preview of that meal. They look at their description as though like what the meal involves. They look at the other characteristics as though like certain included ingredients. It involves craving. It involves the most fundamental aspect of human nature, which is hunger. If love is somehow now in consideration of human fundamentalism, then how did love sink so low?
Should love not raise us? Should love not give us wings? Make us soar? Make us achieve what we thought impossible?
If love now relies on human satiation of our hunger, then it is now a miserable pot of poverty, of a simple survivalist approach, as it clings more to death over keeping a person preserved.
Quote – “Pain, in Love” – 11/26/2020
“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
Excerpt – “My Anger, the Addiction” – Description to a Woman – 11/20/2020
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. They are all the blows to which he simply tolerates. Of love, to which never reminds him it is fine to hurt. There is something that remains in him, of living sickness that borders upon her haunting appearance.
She could remind any man of something once there, though now not. Of someone to be led to safety, reprimanded for her idealistic and punishing ways. Of someone whose eyes were blank, though now are to be filled with the same security the man has deposited into himself.
For she reminded this man of life. Of its cruelty, of all barbaric minds that nestle within its light. Of shadows that leak through the radiance. She reminded this man of life’s toil, though now to be coursed upon a different direction, from the extended sickness.
Of beauty that descends itself through curl of tress, with plainness of attire. Brown to white, with a former entrance to the hair that runs over an erected neck, with loving smoothness. Brass to the discoloration of a non-pigmented flesh, for she is as pale with death like all fallen birds. Brown hair to pale skin, to plain attire, with of the second mentioning as identical to a dress without design.
What one somber bird she was to him, with a face that startles the sun in him to set, loosening tears over the edges to silenced eyes. He could kiss, as he could drown in her storm. He could draw from her the waters, to consume with gusto that which could not be elsewhere noticed. To beauty’s beyond, of a horizon that had set her light, to shadows that are now limitless.
Curl of tress, to plainness of attire, then to a smile that warps itself as a frozen curve. To remind him of a street that rounds in the winter, born of ice, healing like warmth, though never fades.
Quote – “The Often Idiocy of a Man” – 11/12/2020
“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 look upon the woman, herself, when sending gazes just to the exterior. Could a woman feel penetrated, by his stare? If so, then through his loving eyes, she is beautiful by the woman of her, not by the form of her.”
– Modern Romanticism
Quote – “Impossible to Betray Love” – 11/9/2020
“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 to die, as love cannot, making trust our source of fragility to each broken fragment of our heart. As it is, when trust is gone, love is pouring from our unguarded hearts to stain our fingers.”
– Modern Romanticism
Quote – “Why Love cannot Die” – 11/7/2020
“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, it is not the ending of love that is the occurrence, upon betrayal of trust. For is it not the reason, upon betrayal of trust, that our pain rises because we still love them?”
– Modern Romanticism