Poem – “Just a Kiss will do” – Romanticism – 12/3/2020

Under these heavy curtains
Of doubt,
There bleeds something beautiful,
The nuptiality that can recreate
The truths in myself.
My sickened soul,

That once sung aloud
All the harmonies of love
In the dangers we visited.

My soul now twists,
Writhes,
In uncertainty,
In perplexity.

Living through you,
In the deepness,
In the mire of you,
Under the clouds of you,
For believing in you
Has become a pain.

Just a kiss will do
To settle the unceasing sickness
Of unfeeling.
Just a kiss from you
Rested upon my rotting lips,
Will stir me,
Will birth me
Brand new
In your arms.

Poem – “For You” – Romanticism – 12/2/2020

For you,
I would gladly burst myself
To share an ocean
Of depleted roses

To match
The emptiness in you.
To you,
I would stretch
Scarred arms,
Bleeding palms,

To sing songs of sickness
Out of you.

For you,
I would smile twice
In the same moment.
Next to you,
I would love with two hearts
To fulfill your own,
Defeated upon the earth.

Out of you
I would scrape the despair,
For places we do dare
To deny for ourselves,
We go there.

We go where Spring leeches colors
Out of Autumn’s remnants.

Becoming seated
Upon a park bench,
Beneath descending petals,
Beneath the frozen moon,

Among the hazy sun.

We can sway
In place, nervous to touch
The other,
Without falling for the burn,
The churn
Of stomachs that flutter
More than hearts.

Loving beauty
With much to match
For fulfillment’s sake,
Let us drink of our kisses,
Sleep in the wilderness
Where nothing more precious
May be of us,
Than us,
For you.

Poem – “Remind Me of the Pain” – Romanticism – 12/2/2020

Remind me of rushing waves
Sentenced like the criminal
To his Hell, down your cheeks.
Might I swim
At my own whim?

Remind me of barrels of poison,
Toxins for the drunkard.

Hold your hand to the storm,
Catching silver rain,
Mourning with stains.

Sing praise,
For why not
See the sun, when it glimpses you
In the rising ashes of dead stars?

You are broken,
Along with our world.
Just amusement from ignorance,
With disappointment from knowledge.

Lay your head back,
Let me kiss
The rain from your eyes,
While sweet scents of Spring
Shed solace upon your heart.

You collapse with arms wide open
To embrace the Heavens,
Away from me.

Poem – “I Lose you, in the Light” – Romanticism – 12/2/2020

Loving beneath
Your stars,
Counting raindrops,
Reminiscing
Over scars
That hold innumerable
Pages,
History never complex.

For I could read
What is born from you,
Losing teardrops,
As the puling infant.

Upon a fragile night,
With moon to storm a fever
Above me,
Pieces of you, came to me.

Taking memories
From your heart,
Folding pages in my sleeves
Of a timeworn shirt.
Lifting a veil
Will never come again,
To see the sun
Without blinking.

Beautiful,
With a halo of stars,
Loving galaxies
All depart.

My sun,
Your universe
Never met in the ash
With lightyears across.

Poem – “How I Chase, to Avoid” – Romanticism – 12/2/2020

Breathing
Each grace,
Stumbling over
Your expressionless
Face.
Bleeding and kneeling
Beneath the sun,
In the path of your startled
Gaze.

I move,
Running
Towards your world,
Apart from mine,
In the green oceans,
With the blue lands.

I lift
Boulder after boulder
From you,
While you were trapped
Under pebbles, so heavy,

Inside a coffin, so light.

I rain
Teardrops to you,
Singing grief
Under this blank curtain.

Can a glimpse of some other love
Touch you, to rise?
Can light be that which departs
The black from the white?

Stains of pure oceans,
Of sadness that will not give
Away its message,
Unless for earth to cross it out.

Short Prose – 350 Words – “Lost in your Arms” – Romance – 12/1/2020

A burial. You are my tomb. My place, in the world, is forsaken. Upon you, I will rot, decay and slumber. In your arms, I am lost. I do not heal, for I am lost.

I have always burned a trail for my feet to carry me. I have executed innocents, for the sake of my path. I did not look over my shoulders, to see their shoulders. To see the weights pressed upon them, I did not look. I did not wish for, in my time of pain, to see theirs. On my path, I went straight to your arms. In them, I last little more then a petal without its parent corolla. Though, I will die, treated by your last kisses.

I contemplate over my endless end. It is just a second more, though it is infinite. A pallid reckoning that sweeps me, as you do, gently to its reverse, in force. The love of you, attempts to bandage me. I cannot be bandaged, as I cannot be healed. Look at me, like an infant, aborted. Release me, as though you never loved me. Leak me out of you, like something to forget.

Draw me in the sand, though let the winds sweep the dust away. Place a curtain atop my demise, to then set a fire upon it. Let me not be known to you.

Diseased, as I am, living in times so natural to me. Loving you, as you love the dead.

You are weeping. Tears exit your eyes like dewdrops hanging from the ends of grass-blades. How many dreams must imagine themselves, for you to set your own path? Could you lose yourself on another mile, upon another extensive cloud?

Cross yourself as ivory in the dirt. Make yourself the purity that becomes known, to the world among its filth. Lift yourself. Send yourself, and do not look over your slender shoulder to see me, wasted in the wreckage.

You are the pathless angel, who must discover a course with your wings. Find utmost certainty away from me. Help the devils, driving empathy into them as a nail.

Philosophy – “Why an Artist should not Explain their Work” – 12/1/2020

“Meaning. As a word, it should explain itself.”

– Modern Romanticism

Art has meaning. It has meaning within meaning. It has layers of its own meaning. Each layer descends atop the previous one, just as clothing for a woman might be removed to reveal the beautiful and vulnerable sculpture beneath.

Peel back the layers, and one sees truth. Yet, it should be done, immediately. Why must an artist need to explain meaning? Upon when a viewer becomes confused to the “message” behind a work, why should someone else, even the artist, explain it, to remedy the confusion? If such becomes the case, then the artist has failed is their attempt to make meaning universal. They’ve become among the arrogant of this world, believing their meaning to be “specific” to them, rather than creating art that can connect. For it is only the narcissist who sees their reflection in its specific shape, not ever daring to see another’s.

Art is never narcissistic, never egotistical, never selective upon who is considered to matter, when it connects through what has depth. Of depth, there is meaning. Among everything meaningful, we are each meant to see ourselves, as humans, as all vulnerable, as all bared to the reflection that might be the painted canvas, before us.

Though, if the artist too much sought to make specifics, and did not implement enough meaning so universal, they will indeed attempt to explain their work. Though, such an explanation will only arrive upon a viewer’s noticeable confusion, to the art.

It can only be that this confusion results, or originates, from the innate function of a human brain that is actually questioning the art for why it is not universal. For it must be that, in their confusion, to see the art as not being “universal”, is the same to say the work is not human. As in, to connect, for connection could only ever be artistic and universal.

Why else would a viewer to art question it, if the very act of being confused is not for segregation’s sake? One can easily imagine the artist pulling the confused viewer to a quiet room, to privately explain the work, in greater detail. Though, why couldn’t the art, itself, do the explaining?

To imagine if a Comedian told a terrible joke, to the reacted confusion of their viewers for what was said, might result in further explanation for clarity’s sake. By then, the humor has dried up, and the Comedian has met failure.

“Connection” would be the implement of a Comedian to make their entire audience laugh. If there are those who did not find the Comedian’s jokes to be humorous, to then begin scorning them, it could only be that such listeners are searching for specifics by way of humor. The “specifics” aspect of this, is all to know the difference between a representation of something certain, to a representation of something universal.

Poem – “Kisses to make you Breathe” – Romanticism – 11/30/2020

Delicate
As virgin snow,
As buds

To bloom frozen waters
From discolored veins.
You have of your eyes
Unseen history,
To place in trusted hands.

Living under silent boughs,
Losing waters
From storms, in your
Closed stare.

I offer the kiss
To make you breathe
With the come of Spring.

Too many offerings
Have been made
To your church,
As you never flourished your secrets
For sorrows to enter tomorrow.

A grand steeple
Raised to make your neck,
A precipice, that is your head
With lips for a burial.

I offer no sadness,
Continued or rebirthed
In your arms
Like to carry buckets
Full of your tears.

I offer love
Fresh upon a stem,
Stretched for a kiss
To make you matter,
To give you breath.

You are not for desertion’s flight,
With wings that spread decay.
You are here to stay
To find that the future might

Give you a way.

Poem – “Monsters are Sensitive” – Romanticism – 11/30/2020

Looser than decay,
My limbs do stray
To the curtain of you,
Draped with delicacy.
There can be no more moons
Left for my howls.

Can they hear my cries?
The winds carry them,
Just as they lash my back.

I never knew but a broken-off
Petal,
Could follow my trail.

I am here to condone you,
The subtlest shift in the wind
To carve the sands,
Aimed for my direction,
While the beast I never knew
Joins me in dedication.

Love sighs
As the gusts through stems
Of roses before a grave.
I will depart
With a leaf in your hands,
Taken from Autumnal tree,
Blessed with ivory’s curse,
The moon to be
The torment of me,
From the curtain of you.

Poem – “To Drown, in your Place” – Romanticism – 11/29/2020

How I hold your hands
Close to my lips,
Feverish, they are
By the sudden storm
Above your head.
How the waves touch
Your barren skin,
How the ripples never die
To the calmest stillness.

Loving
With wires left to untangle
Of your matted hair,
Where my eyes, buried in tears
Bleed, for all to be aware.

Your eyes
Form the oceans
For my collapse,
A silence never stays
Enough for me to pray.

To drown,
To crown
Myself, the fallen King,
Yourself, the risen Queen,

Pulls oceans apart
For your passing.

What a sickness
Upon you!
What a love
I call the doves to,
That you might wash ashore
To hold hands with the sand,
Speaking of happiness
Where you clean yourself.

Philosophy – “Why Diversity cannot be Forced” – 11/29/2020

“The importance of diversity is in its expression, of language. Yet, can art be forced, without the burnout of the soul? Must extreme measures be taken for the person of their language to force truth forward? Forcing diversity seems to be what makes the torturous interrogator.”

– Modern Romanticism

Forcing truth, to the surface of one’s own esophagus, is to eject diversity without its naturalism.

We are not intimate with ourselves, with what we express, with what we feel, when another means to place us “on the spot”. For those who force diversity are also people who mean to humiliate. They are the psychopaths, the extractors, and those who wish for truth to be regurgitated.

Examples of truth, of all diversity, is to the ideas of it, spoken next for speech’s sake, then made tangible and physical.

We love truth, for we trust it. We cannot love God, for we cannot care for Him. Yet, we can love God’s words, as we are silent in our attentiveness. Though, to Creation so natural as a spawned life from a womb, we cannot force without resorting to a philosophy that pertains to the inhuman. Whether inhuman or psychopathic, the “interrogator mentality” is the abomination meant to be purged without diversity for what kills.

It takes no special instrument to slay, though to extract truth? That requires genius.

Yet, it requires an equal amount of genius, not of the evil and malicious intent, to create truth. It is of example, of Creation, that truth is made. For we do not force it, when it is made, anymore than a mother must force her child out of her, during labor. Anymore than a husband rapes his wife, out of force, to impregnate her, would make the diversity; because, it will not.

Diversity is always a creation, born as an example unto it. Artists do not force it out, anymore than creativity can be turned on like a faucet.

Poem – “It’s not Her Fault” – Romanticism – 11/29/2020

It is not your fault
The ruins around me
Resulted from my own hands.

Blood has been spilled
To temper these walls.
My own.

Structures still so resilient,
By the outlying current.
Sadness recedes

Me, back to where I
Say I can deny

All the love I cannot feel.

Upon your eyes
A certain coldness resides,
That I cannot seem to hide
From bleakest reality.

For you burn through me
The words,
That I despise myself,
That I shatter these arms,
These legs,
With my silence.

Upon your form,
Of flesh melting in the sun,
I allow denial to my hurts,
For you.

My pain never mattered,
Yet I cannot release
You, to the wind.