Suicide
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“What comes first? Love or trust? It must be love, because we cannot trust everyone.” – Modern Romanticism Does one know why the person commits suicide? It is objectively an act of self-punishment. Since it is that both love and death are gifts, due to that life cannot see when either will arrive, the person
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“Whenever does the choice become clear to the awareness of finality? It is received upon the last effort to control, out of the lack of it.” – Modern Romanticism It is to the suicidal person, that a lack of control is their way to say that the end will be their way to have it
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She holds curtains Before her trailing eyes, Then asks the world, “Where were all those loathsome goodbyes That never came, before the end?” Trails come as journeys To tears, never-ending. For her, life threw turns to her, Sobbing beneath the blackest veil Thrown over trembling shoulders. Her neck is a bath For the bucket, the
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“As it is, a person becomes suicidal, not because of the presence of the abuse that life offers to them, but because of the lack of any nearby heart. That is, without genuineness offered, a person becomes lowered into that dark state. It is to say that the one cause of a suicidal mentality is
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Near the windowsill where you wept,While the wood still keptThe stains of reddest tears,Because, your wrists didn’t agreeWith the color of blueThat drained from the sky. Near the windowsill where you slept,And I’m still with the memory of a facePainted by sadness, despite my gladness,For your betrayal was a kindness upon the Devil’s door.And, when
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Little birdWho weeps, and still creates songAfter bloody songIn her bath of red-colored water,As her garbs lie heaped upon one another,On the floor, outside of reach. I saw what twisted my vision,A hue in a bath of waterAnd it was the color of the sun, yet without the warmth,For a knife has drawn evenlyOver the
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There is nothing greater, in my mind,Than to see myself lying flat,With a stream of crimson as my remaining color.Fertile, I am,In blood.And, to leave behind,All the water and land,New drops upon the soil, as other’s tears,For I’d care not, for their sadness,Just the dream I achieved, in seeing my end,By a stream, a current,
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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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Pain, I have endured,And pain, I never silenced.Pain has always been company,My neighbor, my friend. Pain has always flowed,Behind me,To show me,The sands of a thirsty shore. The disease called pain,Has been my cure,Has been my reminder,To who I am, the miserable one. Fate has always controlled me,Made me one with a sadness,Fate made me
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Oh, so open, is my heart,To the currents beneath my feet.I have fallen in love with death,And released the veil from its eyes.Death has shown me a profound pleasure,An old song of ribs used as chimes. Beautiful, though vainly spoken,What beauty? What mercy resonates in it?Have I once loved? Where is the light?Death surrounds me
Modern Romanticism 