Writing
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For you,I would gladly burst myselfTo share an oceanOf depleted rosesTo matchThe emptiness in you.To you,I would stretchScarred arms,Bleeding palms,To sing songs of sicknessOut of you. For you,I would smile twiceIn the same moment.Next to you,I would love with two heartsTo fulfill your own,Defeated upon the earth.Out of youI would scrape the despair,For places we…
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Remind me of rushing wavesSentenced like the criminalTo his Hell, down your cheeks.Might I swimAt 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 notSee the sun, when it glimpses youIn the rising ashes of dead stars? You are broken,Along…
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Loving beneathYour stars,Counting raindrops,ReminiscingOver scarsThat hold innumerablePages,History never complex. For I could readWhat is born from you,Losing teardrops,As the puling infant. Upon a fragile night,With moon to storm a feverAbove me,Pieces of you, came to me. Taking memoriesFrom your heart,Folding pages in my sleevesOf a timeworn shirt.Lifting a veilWill never come again,To see the sunWithout…
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BreathingEach grace,Stumbling overYour expressionlessFace.Bleeding and kneelingBeneath the sun,In the path of your startledGaze. I move,RunningTowards your world,Apart from mine,In the green oceans,With the blue lands. I liftBoulder after boulderFrom you,While you were trappedUnder pebbles, so heavy,Inside a coffin, so light. I rainTeardrops to you,Singing griefUnder this blank curtain. Can a glimpse of some other loveTouch…
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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…
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“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…
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DelicateAs virgin snow,As budsTo bloom frozen watersFrom discolored veins.You have of your eyesUnseen history,To place in trusted hands.Living under silent boughs,Losing watersFrom storms, in yourClosed stare. I offer the kissTo make you breatheWith the come of Spring.Too many offeringsHave been madeTo your church,As you never flourished your secretsFor sorrows to enter tomorrow.A grand steepleRaised to…
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Looser than decay,My limbs do strayTo the curtain of you,Draped with delicacy.There can be no more moonsLeft for my howls. Can they hear my cries?The winds carry them,Just as they lash my back. I never knew but a broken-offPetal,Could follow my trail. I am here to condone you,The subtlest shift in the windTo carve the…
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How I hold your handsClose to my lips,Feverish, they areBy the sudden stormAbove your head.How the waves touchYour barren skin,How the ripples never dieTo the calmest stillness. LovingWith wires left to untangleOf your matted hair,Where my eyes, buried in tearsBleed, for all to be aware. Your eyesForm the oceansFor my collapse,A silence never staysEnough for…
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“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…
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It is not your faultThe ruins around meResulted from my own hands.Blood has been spilledTo temper these walls.My own. Structures still so resilient,By the outlying current.Sadness recedesMe, back to where ISay I can denyAll the love I cannot feel. Upon your eyesA certain coldness resides,That I cannot seem to hideFrom bleakest reality. For you burn…
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Sprout thee,Delicate majesty.Your face is sculpted for meTo see. The storm you wash meIn bedeviled tranquility,Has me wander,Has me breatheThe whisking fantasiesBeneath moonlit ecstasies. Can this love be pure,Upon your frail form?Can you see the tides we createOn winter’s life, swept?Like white curtains atopYour barren, black eyes,A bleak sunsetShrouded by frost. I have come to…
Modern Romanticism 