Writing
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Some argue that we can find use in love. Although, there’s utility acknowledged in love only through the basis of what’s received, not in what’s given. Social bonding creates complex societies. Evolution requires an environment, like an intricate society, to increase adaptation’s pace. One advancement follows through to the next, and the theme of “expectation”
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Warming eyeshave examined me.You’ve seen everythingI couldn’t believe,when drowned beneathdrenching sunlight.For wounds to berevealed when they bleed,I have been open,after being opened.It wasn’t enoughto know what to do.There wasn’t muchfor me to commit to.But you see what I don’t,dressed in your immaculate,snow-covered bandages.You’ve been to the bottom, when you exploredwhat few people find.You’ve come up,while
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A barren trailhas dragged behind,waiting for what Iwill unwind.A face, it pullsmy perception aheadto confront a constant,poignant pressurefrom a wound.A flickering,dismembered memoryis what I’ve chased,backwards on a path,retreating into thorns.I’ve been allowingoceans to combine,days to get longer,futures to climbup high,for a plunge.I must depart from it,with torn, twisted sailsguiding forth what Ihave left inside.I must
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I toss asidecountless grains,from the spaceyou reside.I’m hoping to forgetwhat you mean to me,bleeding underthin blankets.Tears are difficultto swallow,as they set aflamemy unwashed tongue.I’m soiledin what I speak,repeating a tragic talefull of silhouettes,translucent faces.I’m roilingin these thoughts,clouding all judgment,smothering honestyamong filtered scenery.If I can’t undo you,I’ll hope to hideamong scattered ash -the burned pagesof an
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I decrease detail,stomp out fragments,among a dried up,starving garden,for there’s what remainslike echoes in a hallway.There’s what’s fadingnot fast enough.It clings close,stuck into skinlike shards of glass.A mirror is all I broke,a heart is the gemI returned to its owner.It takes time,seconds I can’t waste,severing your length,your burning presenceon a sunlit shore.It takes years,a lifetime,
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Love is not an emotion. If love is said to “conquer all”, then if it were an emotion, such a saying would refer love to conquering itself. What love conquers is what’s momentary, fleeting, and bound up more within lust over what’s timeless. All emotions pass, as they are feelings, not states of being. In
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Soft sighs,delicate tonguedecides for mewhat to say,to unleashone word.Love is a ropearound my broken neck,as I fall up to the skyto see what Ileave behind.It’s for your sake,because I know that Iwon’t be myselfwhen it’s only youthat I get up to wear.Life is a swirlof lingering conflicts,each one a stonegetting colder.I’m not among them,when I’m
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I’ve been burnedfor believingthat this turn was mine,that around anotherspotted corner,I can come upbreathing softly.I cried another night,screaming in the silence,hearing my wordsfloat away.I’ve done somethingto deny what’s mine,living cautiouslyupon the tides.The world seems torotate in reverse,as I revisit old feelingsthat I never deservedwhile I’m alwaysdigging for meaning.It’s the fireI’ve abandoned,as it’s the coldI’ve capturedin
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I reminisce,I keep quietwhat little I’ve leftto lose under thesedark, falling pieces.Brittle boneshave lost their place,have been remindingthis mind, into tormentupon the rewindingaftermaths.Burning crowdslook upon me,as I release three wordsof desperate reunionover the possibilityof reentrance.I want what didn’t laston time’s uncertain flow.I want what I didn’t knowrecedes with cruel fate.It stayed,for the briefest second,just to
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I tell death totake my final fragmentas the final letterI’ve presented to an ocean.For too long I’ve lostwhat messages I provideto that solid colored,open vastness.For this one time,there will be no moremundane repetition.For this last time,I’ll be in the bottle,I’ll be at its bottom.I’ll sink, not floatfor another life span,merging with the voidkept in the
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Hell has invited mewhen I crawl towardsits vacancy.I’m no morein touch with a reasonthan the beautiful budwill find a wayto flower.I’m just againstthe noise that sticksto these walls that lift upa certain frequency.I’m crying for lessof those listening soulsto deter mefrom mourning me.They’re too oftenready to aid me,when all I wantis the low tone.I bring
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Folded handsmimic the creasesin timeworn clothing.I’m holding onto morethan what I thoughtI took from the occasion.Black figures,blood-shot eyes,tears bloomingfrom souls in mourning.There are endless waysto tell this story.This is only one wayto say how it ended.A petal fellfrom one who died,from one who rosewith the color redtearing through her lipsto greet me.She’d rewind meto the
Modern Romanticism 