Philosophy – “A Critique against LGBTQ” – 3/12/2021

“Knowing the self, being a place of limitation, being then what a human is. A source of imperfection. Inclusiveness is, therefore, not the way to involve the everything or anything of the world.”

– Modern Romanticism

Inclusiveness resides upon the involvement of those who are said to not be respected for “who they are”. Yet, their involvement is not ever thought upon, in regards to their capability. A fault with equity is to involve a person, though only upon the supposed knowledge of “who they are”. And, just what is a person known by? If not for their limitations as humans, then perhaps for their drive to be perfect? If to “know a person” does not revolve around comprehending another, as a human, then what for?

It is always the knowledge of another person or of oneself, that relates to them or the self, as a human. Though, the LGBTQ community are there to encourage the world to “involve” those who are never accepted for “who they are”. And, is it in our place to understand “who they are”, if we can believe their limitations should be voided? If not to understand a person by their limits, then perhaps we are simply arrogant and delusional.

If it is not mental illness to be a transgender, then is the former, not the latter, not delusion? And, if we are never delusional while being mentally ill, then is merely the acceptance of certain sorts only there for the inclusiveness of pure incapability? Those who are mentally ill are mainly incapable, though more-so because we are ignorant of what they are capable of doing.

Capability and incapability sticks as the back-to-back resonation for “knowing who a person is”. As we are incapable of understanding someone for their perfections, then it should be comprehensive enough to believe we are instead capable of knowing them for how they relate to us. However, with differing identities, that is more often the case, among the LGBTQ world, as an impossibility. An introduction should not be forced. Diversity is not meant to be forced. That is because an introduction from someone else, in relation to themselves as a fellow human, comes to us as simply natural. It is voided of the artificial nature of force.

Does life force itself? No, though death does. Death is the only thing forced upon. And, since this resides among the place of fear, then the word “tolerance” encompasses the same. As it is, we can only ever tolerate what we are forced to bear with. We can accept what we are friendly towards, because the naturalism of its introduction was never forced. Instead, that naturalistic way was an example of ourselves, as well. As in, it was an example of what should be, not what shouldn’t.

For what should be in this world, is the person who believe they can be everything. Even among those who dream or are ambitious and delusional enough to think they are never incorrect upon what they do, always end up at a point where they discover sheer impossibility.

To be capable or to be its opposite, shows ourselves, in contrast from LGBTQ, that life is a stockpile of what we can do versus what we cannot. It is never to “know ourselves” nor to “know another” in the belief they are a human, when we’ve kept comprehending them as capable of doing anything. As it is, that’s the same thing as using them.

Quote – “Why Love Never Dies” – 9/6/2020

“Not the love, but the trust, that quits its breath. For nothing hurts more of the ended romance, than knowing we still love them. Such means, that not love, but the trust, always dies. We love them, still remaining hurt, though our trust, our closeness, is now the parting. For as love dwells in the mind, as trust is for the body, then we cannot believe love will die, so long as memories remain.”

– Modern Romanticism

Quote – “A Man, and Sex” – 8/29/2020

“A man is gifting, when he forsakes what he feels, for the feelings of a woman. A man is vain, when he forsakes what a woman will feel, for the sake of what he can attain.

If, in bed, a man cannot gift to a woman her pleasure, in sole focus on her feelings, then he is not himself.

If pleasure should matter to the man, over the woman’s own, then he is not himself.”

– Modern Romanticism

Excerpt – Erotica – “To not Sink a Friend” – Romance Novel – 8/11/2020

She entertains to the sight of this mirror, leaning against this room’s furthest corner. Upon her blankets to a twin bed, ruffled as they are to the outcome of a night’s soaring passion, she swims through the waves of them to partake for a closer look.

She is adorable to her nature, agleam to her sight, and sorrowful to her soul. As misery creates the greater, darkened clouds, it becomes a short-term relief when passion can overrule it. A touch between the legs has made her face aglow, while her eyes are glinted like the prettied, tempered steel. Like two fastened orbs of metal, encrusted into her skull, the irises show off the only color, being like we have said, a stark green.

As she leans closer, the soon sight of herself to the vanity she exposes from her skin, the life in her form, the energy in her slight quivers, harbors a great attention to detail.

Little droplets racing from beneath her arms, driving a scent to the unfurling winds bleeding in from an ajar window, would entice even the smallest pebble, were that to hold life. Her hair, a great wind for a flurry, heaving in all direction in its disordered nature. It, too, holds a fragrance, clinging in shampoo to the utmost of its alignment. She is, inarguably, tempestuous, just as she is radiant, both in the literal and figurative depiction. Her back, arched, as her bottom throws itself upward, revealing pink for pink, gleam for gleam, and scent for scent. A defeatist nature would make anyone mad, were they to not dabble in the admiration of her. She is now like a plucked lily from a bed of algae upon a pond.

Still, great weavings of thread somewhat cloak her, about the waist, and about her legs. Her bottom, plump. Her breasts, full. Her eyes, aglow. Her hair, graced by a silken texture within each strand, and being luscious by every highlight. Modesty only ever cloaks the startling form, enough to have the yearning to tear it away.

A Quote of Wisdom – “Why Sex should be Saved for Marriage” – 3/19/2020

“Marriage is meant for sex, not sex is meant for marriage. Why does a man doubt his decision to propose? It might be for the reason that all his secrets, among the woman’s secrets, have already been shared, through they sex they’ve already been having.

Sex is revealing. Though, more-so than flesh, it is revealing through secrecy. We are not holding ourselves back, when we expose the flesh. It is the very difference between a rapist and a spouse, with the former having forced someone to reveal, like an interrogator or torturer. Truth, that is, is the very reveal of something kept hidden. For a special time, that is, because where do we go with these secrets, if they are always kept hidden? They poison us, if we cannot trust anyone with them.

Contemplation is the enemy to the stagnant rest, within love. To act loose with love, creates dissatisfaction, through wandering thoughts. One’s confinement, in marriage, is lost, and one’s satisfaction, in marriage, is lost.

It is because the enemy of love is dissatisfaction. Within love, we should only want to say the words, ‘I want nothing more than you’, and renounce all other ambitions.

In the most revealing sense, such secrets within the spouse will be willingly offered upon the other. With trust, there is strictness and open honesty that such a revealing will not be mishandled.

Sex should be saved for marriage, because the one thing we do not want loosened, are our secrets. We open the doors to a belittled life and continued insecurity when those secrets are never in the hands of those most trustworthy to be allowed them.

Bodies are not meant to be as open, as a mind should be.”

Poem – “The Doomed Harlot” – Romance – 9/21/2019

Where have graces taken thee,
When you shielded before fate and misery?

You play with the night,
Like a bouquet of roses,
Sniffed by children, and eaten by cats.

Believe me, in my woe,
You are the doomed harlot,
The failed woman of many curses.
Among that god between your legs,
There are eyes that cry a sorrow.

You glisten by day,
To glisten by night.
Both of body and complexion,
Does this aura arise.
And you make music through your sigh.

The sigh of pleasure,
The sickening sin of Lust
You bled for God and his herd of Shepherds,
Felt Hell crawl on your naked skin,
And mistook it for Heaven.

These fields of ruin,
Are of my design,
Destined to bathe,
Among the odorous wine,
Of virgin blood and castrated swine.

Stretch your form, will you?
To the ends of the cruel Earth,
You’ll see a singing shape,
The scrotum and the shaft,
Was like a tower of gold,
Now but only rotten,
Was once a key to the Earth,
Grim faces torn everywhere,
Evil politicians and their false smiles.

You doomed harlot,
What maketh yourself of ourselves,
When we praise thee, and never the Lords,
Who drop tears, as you drop both blood and sweat?

Flash Story – “The Rise of Eroticism” – Erotica

There is much to adore of a form so raw with flesh. She shows bravery by walking to a place where she may admire her form.

As I peer through this window to see her, I may watch the breasts move upwards, as she steers such a form. I may see her cheeks with redness attached, and a chin where sweat has loomed to it. Alike to a cliff where a waterfall would drain away its contents into a gorge, this is it. She does not falter. No; and she cannot falter.

I am in love with mere beauty?

Although, I see my own reflection as a deposit of soil against this filthy frame, and a window becomes a mirror. At once, what I notice is beheld before me as a face of hideousness!

A man of an atrocious appearance. So much befuddled with the wetness from grime, from endless hours in vain toil. What would I achieve in that virtuous undertaking of a task, any task, to suit a moment’s reprieve? A moment in tired rest? Underneath sheets that are made from satin or linen, from a hotel with such fabric not belonging to me?

But, I am here to now see a woman in admiration to an astonishing figure, am I not? I am not here to berate myself. I am only here to see that which strikes out upon my face as a woman of no scolding to what she notices.

Two breasts like two pears, evenly displaced from the other, and perky enough to create that tip, alike to the pear’s shape. Of famous eyes that glimmer among the room’s arid temperature, and arms that do the same. Of those same eyes that are buried in the deepest shade of brown. And those same arms, that sway widely after she’s expressed admiration before this mirror in her room.

Oh, how I wish I could be that mirror!

How I wish I could understand that mirror, as well, and how it came to be in that corner, of where it stands.

Beautiful as she may be, she is only a figure, and I as well, see my face, once again; as it stares back at me, I can feel such a sting. A loathing, a pressing, and a great hatred that steams from somewhere fowl.

I know it.

In admiration of a figure, I admire the slave. The form. The worker. I would admire them, and still think highly of their efforts.

Who had sculpted her, I now ask?

Who had made the curves, that relate so much to the Earth, and its same curvature? Who has made the eyes with so much color alike the deepest shade of the bark upon an oak, or the deadened Autumn leaves?

Had I mentioned her hair, where female vices spring truest?

To make it alike to baldness would be to spread contempt upon both the beauty and travesty of a heart.

Had I mentioned the greatest detail, being the button to her abdomen, alike to the disused outlet in the wall of the Victorian home; or especially alike to either of this woman’s ears, that hearken to the neighboring parties, ones that are creating tunes upon gramophones?

For I say this is important, because in viewing it, I see of this woman, the vastest of sympathy. To breed. To offer. To allow.

And I am merely an object, disowned.

Poem – “My Love, with thy Heavenly Form” – Romance

Those kisses,
To which I offer for two nipples,
And a bottom,
To which I offer my grip.
Your face asks for a stare,
My own; I’ve become aware.

Your eyes show stars;
I am in their marveling glance,
Deep kisses I share to a face,
Upon two cheeks, these kisses are laid,
Upon two lips, these kisses are laid,
They are laid down, so that angels weep.

Do you weep, fairest angel?
My love, have you wept for this passion?
A kiss I give to thy abdomen,
A beat from a heart, a second one!
It is so, that I hear one come from there,
My beauty, with family, we are here.

A face I must always hold,
And cradle in my firm touch,
I am so much in love,
That crimson spills free from this chest,
And pain begins to crumble,
So that my empire is set free.

Poem – “My Love, Let Me Breathe” – Romance

Wherefore do we speak, when in an embrace,
From words that ripple through our forms?
Entwined, we dance between velvet stars,
Entangled, we have mourned in past memories.
I am your child, and I am puny.
You are my beloved, and I am in you.

Sheets surround us,
A rope is at our feet.
A love has groped us,
A love that set us free.

Are we in love, in this heat?
In this Hell, are we in love?
But, you are as beautiful as every dreaming night,
When in the haze of rising love.
A puddle now forms a color upon these sheets,
Something has leaked.

Romance, and petulance, made a form.
A love, we have grown, up to see a moon.
You have a body that would baffle,
The highest angels,
And all the gods would marvel at thy radiant face,
For it is better than the purest silk, or softest gold.

A breast that moves, like two ships upon water,
They roar a lapping on the heavy waves.
I am in love.
Yes! I am in love,
With a woman who is she,
The many gestures that I have freed.

Though, are you in love?
Have you found love in our heat?
I have struck a heart,
But have I played even a single note?

Poem – “Upon the Bed, I’ll Lay Thee” – Romance

Your growing fragrance,
Matches this room and its aromatic candles.
And I have found it upon myself
With my hands to claw at the flesh of thee,
To tear and yank the burden of attire I see,
To match the nakedness to the maker of me,
Who is a demon that I cannot let flee.
You have sweat glistening upon an arm,
And a face that whimpers beneath the soaring skies.

When I choose to love, I live as the beast,
To devour the wholeness of your making.

When did you last submit?
Where will you see yourself in coming years?
Above the sands of shores where shades dance on a form,
That has never been nude.

I shall lay you upon a bed,
For myself to see,
And to glimpse a moving breast,
And two legs like the purest white from birch.

When I’ll make you mine,
I’ll differ nectar from wine,
And make the world find me tiresome.

When will I grow intolerant?