Writer
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“The fool who desires leadership in the sense for which it speaks, only exists to yearn for deceit. It is only ever a lie that is the most comforting aspect of speech. As truth will shock, lies will convince, making deception the one thing that can soothe insecurity. For security’s sake, we are loyal to
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“Science has no purpose, other than the benefit for the flawed form. Yet, to make the form perfect, is to also make the mind imperfect. We are insane, when we realize not our own limitations.” – Modern Romanticism Mind and body, where the former is perfect, as the latter is not. No science comprehends the
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Why ever do rightness unto another, when distrust is gathered upon you, blanketed by those I once did love? It is you I love, yet it is they I am forced to resent. It is you I am forced to say is the most important essence. That, to go back to a former time, would
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“Why should art be a thing of chaos, when it is a thing of order? Is it not a creation, revealing order, opposite from a causation that reveals chaos and disorder? This would mean that all art, of emotions, so disorderly, can only become order when they are confined to their place.” – Modern Romanticism
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A memory. A moment. Like one cruel awakening with Alzheimer’s Disease. Something gone from the mind, then the heart, then the soul. I blow my wind against the interior of this window. As I do it, I recall the definition to sameness. I recall what is left of it, as the words within a book.
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A: How much to ever feel anger for? B: Nothing and everything. A: Do you love her? B: Like nothing could be loved. A: Do you trust her? B: Like everything could be trusted. A: Where does your anger originate? B: My love for her, though it may pass mountains as mostly fair clouds, there
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I have lifted. I have always cried. Of stones that were carried in my arms, while tears fell from them, soon as they were squeezed. I was expected. To release truth, I was expected. Like love was something I could fall through, beating my heart, burning in my skull. I released. I let go myself,
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My love, where you sing your cries on an empire of your Hellish loneliness. How can the churches believe you? How can your smile ever be parted, from you? I will bleed along with you, my love. Treasure yourself, for the funeral cannot be far off. I will kiss your hand, for as long as
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How often does a memory last, wrapped in the thorny shrub of one’s heart? I’ve often twisted myself on the realization that love is something that can be forgotten. Though, for how was my youth, it was only naivety that swung me in that direction. Love is never a rope traded, for a heart on
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A: You must comprehend where his hatred originated, his anger originated, for it was not something he ever welcomed with open arms. B: How then, did it occur in his heart, when before, he was loving? A: To imagine a man, who once had a heart full of love. To understand him, to have paid
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To be the victim, or to create victims, in a world where tears cannot let go without running far. I held her hand to still her pace from the shore. I held her waist, to continue on the dance through life. I twisted my face, so that pain would be mimicked. I bled my mind
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“A lie is imagination, burning an image into sight only ever convincing. The truth, however, is something that wallops you so hard, you will find it shocking.” – Modern Romanticism How far can a writer take creativity, when it comes to a fact? To comprehend creativity, itself, as unlimited in the human imagination, will make
Modern Romanticism 