It's never quite as romantic as they make it out to be.
These trips to France
To the misty mountains of Iceland,
the wine-toasting grottos of Italy.
The romance comes about a half-hour before sun rise.
and losing count
of the stars you see in her eyes.
In those sincere sighs
that come after the heartfelt goodbyes
and the soft smiles in those happy hellos:
Those are the ones
that let you know.
Romance is not a place:
It's a person.
And when you find them,
hold them close
and never let go.
Or you'll be destined to dwell on the past
and to dream only of tomorrow.
With a head full of regret
and a heart full of sorrow.
Don't let it happen to you
like it happened to me.
Hold her close, for heaven's sake:
you will forever be.
it hurts the most when i see how happy you are. not because i don't want you to be; because i do. that is my only desire in the world. but it reminds me of how happy you once made me, and of the possibility that, maybe for a short time, i was your happiness too.
Started but unfinished.
Built up then diminished.
Transfixed by astral bodies
on their way to undetermined destinations.
Dilated. Validated. Consecrated and interred.
Discovered cavern never entered.
Nothing and always all at once.
Everything is everything.
Still dreaming after being woken up.
Anything as everything.
A beginning and an end.
The journey taken in-between;
that's the key:
My Worthiness is all my Doubt—
His Merit—all my fear—
Contrasting which, my quality
Lest I should insufficient prove
For His beloved Need—
The Chiefest Apprehension
Upon my thronging Mind—
’Tis true—that Deity to stoop
For nothing higher than Itself
Itself can rest upon—
So I—the undivine abode
Of His Elect Content—
Conform my Soul—as ’twere a Church,
Unto Her Sacrament—
sometimes i wish i was literate
so i could see the writing on the wall
they say ignorance is bliss, but
nasty surprises don't hold much awe
i may feel stronger than before
but that feeling promptly subsides
when familiar pain strikes again
and salty streams bore from my eyes
a short romance has met its demise
but these reservoirs won't be as deep
nor will the mourning be as drawn out
just another valuable lesson which i will solemnly reap
“The blood jet is poetry, and there is no stopping it,”
So the tragic Sylvia Plath muses.
As the heart pumps and beats,
It is the ever-faithful metronome,
The tempo of my life’s song;
My blood flows, pulsating passions
From my center to my extremities.
These passions are best set to words,
Hence the source and origin of
So, beat on, heart .
I have more words to share,
I have more passions to experience.