Sadness
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Stilled,Without a sign to the breathThat would raise youTo feel the morning’s showerAgainst your cheeks,To receive the gleamThat can display lifeFor your acrylic eyes. I could paint youIn the way you are,Blossomed from a rose in a grave,Written out as a song of sleep,As to you, I could not save,Though death whispered its lullaby. MarksCreasing
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You turnThe blue from the storm,Leaving me to grapple the wavesBy my hands,Upon this desolate landWhere the ripples break me. You churnThe waters beneath my crutches.I rotate these handlebars, slowly,To fathom your deepest apologyThat came riding from your mouth,When the last breath was taken. Like a church that never met winter,Like a lake that never
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“In the attempt to stop pain, a person learns. It is pain, caused. It is repair, created. It is structure, in the knowledge through what pain has damaged, that fortifies ourselves against the next blow. We are prepared for future endeavors, when we stabilize ourselves. However, in what we see around us, being of no
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“There will never be a heart within a chest if that chest is not meant to be opened. It becomes then a coffin, holding something dead.” – To not Sink a Friend
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“We are but men, drawn to act in the name of revenge we deem to be ‘justice’. But when we call our vengeance ‘justice’, it only breeds more revenge… forging the first link in the chains of hatred.” – Nagato (Naruto)
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“No amount of returned pain unto the one who has dealt pain unto you, will heal what hurts. It will, in fact, only serve as the reminder for what you have lost.” – Anonymous
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It is somewhat often that a man will find himself to be nestled near to silence, as if his arms were wrapped about the form of a woman. Her comfort is brought into that solace, that silence, because she seemingly has nothing to fear. What of Anton? He raises himself, to form steps with the
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“The saying remains that we are not a reflection of a social realm, though it is true instead that society is a reflection of ourselves, of our own hands, as it is in our own making. Why men weep, said to be rare, is not a teaching by society. In fact, it is a result
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There was once a time when the poetry I wrote possessed much feeling. Now when I write them, the feelings only bleed out, rather than erupt like a geyser. I rarely feel the “chills” I usually get when listening to my favorite songs, nor do I cry like I used to. I enjoyed weeping when
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Let me smile Just for a while. I feel you weeping In the newest night Where the keenest fright Has washed us both of our right To feel content, within our light. Why do we cry? Why shed tears, as birds Made to float or fly As droplets glide Down to people’s cheeks That are
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I have forgotten what it meant for her to stay alive. I have forgotten what it meant for her to keep trying. Love was once the ground for her to walk upon, though it has collapsed beneath herself. She bleeds tears to create the roses, with dew to drop off petals into the ground. Pain
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My eyes turn towards where you sail,And, also swim.My eyes turn towards where you screamOn a subtle whim. You ride the currents above my stare,Because that is where my loathing has its bathing.You row oars across the sadness,Beneath the starry nightOf our mourning.You have chosen the straw closest to my heart,That was also the shortest.
Modern Romanticism 