#writing
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I couldn’t suffer for a second more. I couldn’t suffer. Breaking the promise, was to break my own heart. Shattered as the Earth, when tears rain as the meteor shower. Like stars, breaking my hemisphere. Breaking my divide, between needed diversion from insanity. For I had found my mind, straight into your own heart. Straight
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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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Lace your hair,Trace your fleshMarble by whiteness,Losing strainWith each of your twists,Dancing on floorsWhere your reflection mimics. Dance this way,Fall into my arms,Awaiting when you can smile,Far from the crowdsWith their hurried glances.By every love,By every fallen vow,I take you. Like droplets from your eyes,Becoming stars.Like beauty that never withers,From the frost of November,I can
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Reveal to meWhat can fall throughSilver clouds, and silver moon.Reveal to meAll I can catch for the timeless chordsChiming until the meadow’s end.For when you reveal to meYour eyes black as the night,I know you cannot reveal to meThe little things we both cried for. Reveal to meYour bosom for the consumptionOf Heavenly droplets of
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Why light,WhySo bright?What have I burnedOf the stilled tomorrow?Her hair radiates,Her skinEscalates, the tempest,Me,And the fuses at the endsOf herWorn fingers. BeautySmiles, one of heavinessTo myAching body.Her ownEclipses what I see of light,So bright,With giants to every step,Every encroaching hourTo my feeble sight. Lead on,My womanWhose arms crawl,Whose legs drag,Though still remains beautifulTo even the
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I cannot tellWhich part of the night with starsLeads me to Heaven,Or withers me to Hell.I dream of drinks,Of chalices full of tears,Full of another’s blood.There, to the winds that carryThe scent of a funeral’s pyre,I effort myself to loathe,Never to love. Dreams can tell apart,Day from night.And I,With hollowness to every scar,Stare into the
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“I cannot help but to love what I have found. A heart. Hers. It would remain isolated, without a branded kiss. I leech my own, through the vessels that remain upon my discovery. I am the sailor who throws himself overboard. I cannot love myself, not for a moment. I sacrifice myself, to see her
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No one told a manTo dust off his skin, in the corner.No one scolded the manWhose eyes blazed a stream to the future.No one could hold a manWho would cry in that cornerOver the faint photograph of a faceThat would never grow faint in his mind. He had told himselfThat his words are the loneliness.He
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When will you walkWithout the hard strokeOf your aching feet?You impatientWoman, with too many blocksTo wields in arms, meant toCarry something far more soft.You stumbleOn iron.You dream of empiresYou cannot even kiss. Why do you implore overDisaster?Why do you wish for meTo step aside,That you might constructAnother Hell? I love all waking momentsOf your eyesAgainst
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How may I seeThrough the lens of a broken cameraShe is to beViewed from each sideWith admiration,Upon adoration.My eyesSurface to the edgeCounting falling dropletsFrom ducts that never erasedMemories from the lakes. Why despiseWhat I can love,Forever-more?Her beauty is captured in stillness,Too still. Death leaks overboardMy arms that held upon quivering movement.I let her dropFrom my
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I gave from withinThe merriment of a certain whim,Gifted from a heart, made of solidified embers.Of the sparks that dance sideways with the twisting breezes,I was the angel without a voice, who gave unto the distantMy heart, with itself in drenched pale hues. She, a woman with deepening hurts,Deepening sorrows.I could not let her see
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Hell is a patient sort,Willing to wait for itself to coverWhat we will name to be human. What is it to be merciful?To have said this, is to meanThat there are deeper things, than Hell. For I believe,That even Hell can be burned from our life.Its fires are meager. Hell is still a patient sort,Willing
Modern Romanticism 