Writers
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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…
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Emotion. Aflame, with attempted designation to the rope. The rope, for it cannot be cut with a knife. It cannot, for it cannot hold its weight’s own will. Its weight, of a form that wishes for death. A death that would leave countless tears to rot at the feet of their rejecter. Love waits. It…
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To the future, the artist can tell where the present will go. For the present, the artist can see that the past shall shape his wisdom, so that the future holds clarity. For to what the artist can create, there is always a distance from Creation, to futurist scenery. Though, it cannot be that an…
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Can he wait? Can he satiate a thirst that continues to mark his lips with the dryness of salt? In that, he is holding onto the ocean. He is washing himself in her running suds. A love as glorious as the only-believed infinity of the universe, becoming finite just when we comprehend life cannot go…
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Only the heartCan cart you back to sunriseWhile the love is eclipsed,ShelteredBy the bones from a smelter,MeltedInto a white next to black. My canvas for this grief,Running like the pale oceanOut of my eyes.Sentences I conjureLeave winds to stir. Her eyes show the heartache,Manifesting on blue shallows.My place is designed in her,The flu, my cure,My…
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I blacken, with such sounds,The motions of my feeble arms,The blue awakening of my skies,To drown in your cloudsThe harrowing blue curves of your tears. You count the petalsSpring unleashesTo the scented winds,Breathing sweetTouches of longing. You hold out a handThat I may kiss.You take a standWhere I may catch you,Should you fall. Your eyes,…
Modern Romanticism 