Woman
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“In ways we feel vulnerable, we are in love. We trust, because we reveal to the other what we’ve held back, when alone. Darkness, holds the same appearance, as loneliness. Everything we reveal, is trusted by the beloved other, to not be scorned. Rather than the truth to scorn us like the sun with its
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“Since it seems that men will feel regret for their action, while it seems that women will feel guilt for their inaction, does this mean that the beautiful woman can only be beautiful, can only ever provide color to the world, when her guilt upon each thing neglected, is the nearest thing her man can
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We have called Hell away from us,Indeed, we have.We have omitted the pain from our future,More than once.A little thing like pain has roasted our worn hearts,Until they both scramble to embrace the other,Acting with arteries as limbs,And blood as something to taste. I am in love with a womanWithout so much as a hue
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“A memory is much alike the waves of an ocean, in recession. And, when they recede from your feet, they’ll return, to throw tiny droplets as high as your nostrils, so you’ll breathe in whatever scent they have always come to you across. Whether they are sweet or bitter, you cannot forget.” – Modern Romanticism
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I’d be compassionate and merciful enough, to hold back a woman from such a diseased realm, as the “political world”. It is never a “restriction from rights”, in my mind, as a woman can do all she wishes. Though, if something like a man’s compassion, or his way with mercy, or his way with empathy,
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We’ve grieved a number of times, Enough to starve ourselves of woes and goodbyes, Enough so that we’ll yearn to stay in arms and sighs, With faces marred by tears and excessive pleas Upon that which humanity has come to see, A love of our own, open and wide. I am in love with a
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Oh, realm of the wicked, where dreams drop from hands like droppings from the bottom of a bird; there is much admiration to stick upon beauty to admire; why withhold what should be offered? Love will lift it, beyond the realm of Men, where flesh is torn and raped. Faces are many that stare with
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I picture thee, open and empty,With palms facing your knees,And eyes upon the surest sign,Of life with broken wings. Kisses are gentle when they are spokenAs well as simply given. Kisses are harsh when they bite,And retract with a mouthful of flesh. I am sure to love you,As much as you’ll allow the loveTo flood
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Your eyes sparkle youth into being, But, what strength, And, what weakness, I behold, in this feeling! Without description, all that remains Is pure and undeserved pain, Stemming from life that built itself, Upon immoral and unneeded strife. I name all pleasure as our fortune, No home could be ever-more welcoming As your heart. The
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“Love is nowhere to be found, if it is denied to be helpful.”
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“Men are each wound on Christ’s form, and each droplet is the renewing of any heart having bled enough to either love or commit a murder; in both forgiveness and committed atrocity, that is what Christ reveals. The pain it requires to love and the resentment it requires to slay.” Woman is a creature of
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I turn around to repeat,In careless repetition,All vows and emotions, upon a plate of fate,You deny what was offered,From a dying God,From a man with all the might to his fight,His eyes were upon you,And faced the enormous creation,Of a statue in what he’d not undo,A love from all broken strings,Upon one delicate harp,Upon one
Modern Romanticism 