Sickness
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I will live,Though, how can I breathe? How can I start a fire,A flameIn this heart of mine,Without the glance that brought me life? How can I state any moment of happiness,In the most genuine of words,Without what is needed,To keep me down? What finger will be placedUpon my blistered lips? What pair of eyes
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Love all, when I call,You, to the furthest cliffs,And say, that you will stay,To speak true words, of no dismay.People seem, and also scream,To force cues,To force signs,To places full of danger,Will you be the one, to fulfill,The only one, who has become still? Your beauty is where I mark unknowns,To a center I say
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Hope is a well that springs eternally the warmth of possibility. Though, for each individual possibility, there should be a guide so that further loss is not eventual, and never inevitable. A leader, that is, should reassure the sorrowful that there is greater light than such a hopeless one can ever consume, to fill whatever
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Make of the torment,What thou will,Make of it.The priests call cues of negligence,Make faces ripe with consequence.And deliver judgement,Like God in deliverance.Oh, woman! A passion of mine. A careful consideration,To what may be beautiful,Has long been beautiful,Beside me, in her endearment.Beauty makes apples,And apples for breasts. I am tired of loathingThe external,Of my sordid disposition,Of
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Where should I fathom myself,Upon the furthest glacier that remains stagnant,To the most nurturing of moons?Blessed beauty, you’ve seen me,And my fingers are broken.And you’ve seen me, too,With eyes that are swollen and red.I’ve wept the nights away. I’ve also felt strength alike a god,And you’ve seen that, too.I’ve died repeatedly,For what I believe, truthfully.The
Modern Romanticism 