Romanticism
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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 memoriesThat leave you open.
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White summerWhere stillness engulfs the spiritOf a mother, with her eyesNailed to the lids,As a casketNails her form to the earth. Weeping was all the worldCould release,Of rain, silver in its puddlesFormed at the feetOf those who dulled their sorrowIn bleakest disbelief. The kindnessOutstretched, from armsThat yet trembled,Laid there, upon shouldersAs if waiting for waterTo
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Short Prose & An Example of a Blogger’s Life – 200 Words – “For your Love” – Romanticism – 2/19/2021
For what will transpire, I will breathe a thousand more words. Though, the one that is saved, is straight from the heart. While you were true, I merely lied half of the time to reach you. While you were real, only half of my heart stuck to this. Though, I could cry upon all the
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Bless your curse,Sweet one of no remorse,The love between you and IHas come crawling short.We danceWith fervency to mimic a void,Of attire made in blackTraces to what we lack. Loving you,Beauty of nearest shore,Has been a harmonyIn a heart of my own,Hurled forth to be shown.Now from emptiness’s hollow stream,Comes solace through a gentle gleam.
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One world,Too smallCannot count the radiant teardropsCreating rivers upon my cheeks,Bountiful in the lakes they create,By one loveKept to broken roomsOf silence, left to weepingFaces I show you not,Too demonic to bare,Too forceful to share. I hold a wound,A crevice that will not close.Your love has been there,Your dream has come aware,A moon has replaced
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GraftedBy an awakening smile,Holding slender by the hand,Enjoying tunesSet by the choir,Rolling uphill by the damsel’s gaze,Swinging in the swell of enchantment,By the enchantress’s haze. His mind,A cold reluctance,As a place of winter amongThe city’s stare,Or his faceAs a simple notion to be sad,While words collapse against page,Seeing tears caught by the wind. Bells and
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How many dropletsWill spill from the moon?We have laid here, together,Matching ourselvesWith the weather,The fevers from a fireplace,As you are mine. Scarlet hair,Beaming eyes,Folded skin, over curvesSoft as petaled snow,Of trees that connect each star,Dropping flakes easily as remembranceTo this unseen moment. You writhe in your pleasure,Folding grins against frowns,Feeling pain with my diningUpon scentsAs
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Outward,Past the rubble,The lights gleam a vesselIn my painstaking handsHolding a woman close,Of her rays,Upon her voyage. Weathered footprintsIn the icy ground.Loosened salt from the rooftopsOf my temples,For I still bare the sight of toil,Even on a day of unity. Her kiss had lastedTo the amorous twist,Strengthening me towards the North,Where flavor comes mixedWith the
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“Our hunger increases upon noticing what is wrong, needing to be rid of, in the world. And, for all we see to be wrong, we must consume, must dissect with utensils, to understand. Keeping us beneath, however, in the food chain, we realize soon that when we fatten, we are soon to be consumed, by
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“How can hope, be this sick?” says he, to the fog of himself, before the mirror’s idleness. For a reflection’s sake, love is his only teardrop to come forward, marking his humanity into the glass. It is at his feet. It is a puddle, mirroring him. A photograph. Of a woman, to the world. To
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“In hatred, a person is always reminded of what they once loved. To be challenged on loving the individual, another time, is to be faced with the necessity of never hating them, again.” – Modern Romanticism
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“How can a person ever be wronged to glorify the power of love? We are nothing without it. Evolution is impossible, without it. For no insect could one day become an elephant, without love. Why do we say that to love, is not realistic? Why do we say of someone in love, they are never
Modern Romanticism 