How can I love thee,
if thou art my enemy?
How can I love thee,
if thou art my agony?

I fancy my love is futile
I's lost in thee in one blink of the eye
'Twas a dull day with a tempest worried and grey
No charm as splendid as the salubrious May
Vanished worlds are real to me today

How can I love thee,
whilst I shine but wither in despair?
How can I love thee,
when the mist replaces the air?

O, I can't see thy face, o no!
I'm trapped in this ghastly limbo
I look askance at the angered sky
My voice is coarse my heart's empty
My songs are shy my chest is dry

How can I love thee,
with this guileless but wondrous intimation!
Heavens are our first but final destination
where love is a gift and a token of affection

How ill I am!
Wronged by my own love and longing
Whilst the grass is green and
the stars are twinkling
This bitter cold is my weeping

O promises! Why did thou fail my soul?
Thy tongue does but smell of foul
Kneel by me, I entreat!
You little lie that could only cheat!

O resentment! How sleepy is thy mind!
Now I the master demand, awake!
Yet show thy patience, relieve me from behind
Forget me not, for the world's sake!

O laughter! In thy severe idiocy
Rise from thy unsmart repose!
Retrace thy steps, enslave thy feet!
Bid yourself go; and find but a better, brighter rose!

Slaughter yourself, o infatuation,
I thy master insist, decay!
Set my grim heart in awesome daylight
Send my frosted feet onto liberation!

Flowers of the devil, flowers of laudation.
I believe in praise and its own strange admiration.
Yet my roams are no longer of importance;
but heave my senses from assault,
kiss, kiss myself away!

Still, my heart tastes like ******,
in its misery and pangs of silenced desperation.
O words, hinder me from the joy of anger,
defeat my thirst for blinded and serene assassination!

The gentle cry, the loss of hope
rings all over but shields us in vain:
As pale as the yellow falling rain to
heal my wounds, cure my lonely pain
This mounds of hate should remain;
Until my stern heart melts to love again.

I have produced tons of intimate letters; none of them are real. They are true in just an uncertain sense; they don't lie in the hands of any liberty. The whole of them; the utter, entire thoroughness! Sad, I know. Most of them are of no interest to anyone but my heart. My only heart. That sings in horrid uncertainty and unloved freedom. My love, my darling, the second half of my being - is lost, and will forever lay out there, astray. The very own flower of my being. My sin, my soul. The dearest letter of my sacrifice, inner thoughts, depth, and pleasure. It is my mistake, I know; my fault as it has always been, to be unable to desist from my loving feelings. I can't resist the eagerness I feel whenever I am close to him; when I can hear his thoughts, when I listen to his distant heartbeat. How I am addicted to, and obsessed with the sensation - the ****** warmth, and vibration when I catch his agile sight in my vicinity, in the polished blandness of my greedy solitude. O, how I feverishly long for more, as always! I who can't hinder myself from moving about in peculiarity - just to cast a glance at him, as bizarre a loving curiosity as it might possibly be! I who but feel forlorn when he is not around, when his pulses are unseen, hideously invisible, encroached by silence and chaos of the day - vicious but all of these to my sight! How undear! How I am unbelievably hungry for which, so ravenous as I am, it becomes no longer a singular desire to me. I am afraid I shall be accustomed to this singularity; what a simultaneous treachery that shall be trampled upon, and grossly abashed - with acute meticulousness and strands of powerful lamentation. I am so greedy about my destiny - for I believe utterly that he is the sole bird, and butterfly of my life! My butterfly, o guileless butterfly, who is as frail as a stem of lavender, scented as it was by nature's comely quietness, sickly it may be, in facing the relapse of its wrong and evil doings. He is my swan, his beautiful wings never relent although deeply wounded; he flies away from tragedy and blends swiftly into harmony. Tragic but true! As I may never be worthy of his love, he is the manifestation of my princely dream; he lives in the dreamland, the haven in which his stately princess resides; he belongs to her, and only her that is deserving of his affection. Like a desiccated lake, from its long sleep now awake, I will be the thirsty snow when spring comes to life, and greets the bashful moon aloft! I am the weeping window to all this solitude, I care for no life beneath; I dwell on the tedious edges of my prince's marriage. Frames of beauty, paints of greenness, and all those gracious perks of womanliness; all belong to his wife, and carved under her name. Not my name; awfully not, and shan't ever be. The stars sneer at it; the skies none but spurn it for its undesired but designated misfortune. Hurtful as it is but I pray that Heaven watch my steps! As to this I am but cursed and shied away from his love, o, in this drear I am like a lifeless tree when the roots are old and severed. My branches are tired and longing to embrace death; call for it so that it can come to lull them soon, from amongst the hills! I am one of its deadly shadows that makes fate even more haunting to myself! My remains afterwards are not missed by the angry earth - they are sullied so it despises my leaves, thorns, and bushes; thus my fruits will wither without proper notice; I am praising myself, with these words, to no avail! Defying my fate is indeed of no advantage! I will yell but at nothingness, I am dull and unspoken, my unfortunate thoughts are boldly sounded in the murky state of no astonishment. I am a haunting melody to a giddy song! I am not for anyone's possession, pathetic as I am; my soul can't help falling in someone's grace, in this wondrous breaths of hesitation! O but I detest it! This desire, this flame, and all their demonic flutes - those soulless songs! I can't help passionately and tenderly loving him; and his ecstatic features that nature has been so proud of! I who love him with all the might of my joy, as awkward as it might be, I long but for the rainbow in his eyes - the rainbow that duly reminds me, of how warm the sun used to be! O I love thee, I dearly love thee, my sweet, the prince of my soul! I love thee so gently, I love thee bluntly, frankly, and unconditionally. My love for thee is vivid, mortal, and pretty; I love thee graciously, I love thee gratefully, and so childishly! I love thee selfishly, but it is just because of my faith in thee, my generous, loyal faith! As I have professed utterly - I love a man but only thee, thee who rules my soul, whom I so awfully adore, needst, and care about. My kingst is thee, this I admit with all the power of constitution; strengths and weaknesses; and sincerity of my comeliest gratitude. Thou art the sole lad, master, and conquerer of my soul! The solidity of my being, poems of my tongue, and joyful veins of my blood; thou feedst my life, mind, and sanity! I love thee as how a woman loves a man; I love thee not as my guidance, no more! Therefore I shall choose thee, only thee, and as irrevocable as this love is to be, no matter how strong I restrain; I'd only love thee once again.

I ask the stars, but they're weeping
I beg the moon, but he's sleeping
It's only me who's still writing
In my head my words are giggling

There are hundreds of beauty
But I'm only longing for thee
My heart yearns for him no longer
'Cos thou art my truest lover

If thou could be here for one night
Until the day is again bright
My innocent soul, mirth, and sky
As though there would be no more cry

If only thou'd be here with me
And dance 'till spring flash's into view
Lost in the prudent morning dew
And the holy song of the bee

If only there's a second chance
Where I could be more than thy friend
Let me dream in thy pristine charms
Let me be embraced in thy arms

At this very night I but pray
That thou would come to me one day
Perhaps in that summer of May
When bushes bloom and flowers stay

Thy gaze my festive solitude
Thy kiss blesses my dear prelude
Thy promises my windblown flute;
Thy love'th my Eolian lute.

I am the master of my own mind
I beset my tears, I conquer my sadness
I am devoted to this world
To this very world in which I dwell
and to which my soul is admitted
Sometimes I hear my words
Fly around and again
within t'ese violent shades
about my head: as I walk by curious moonlight,
sunbeams, in 'ose solitary moods and emblems
of t'is silent quiet of th' night.
How can I be so lonely-and bathed in distress-
in t'is lovely yet calamitous winter?
How can I be so destitute and untouchable-
unlovable-unaffectionate, indeed!-without my very own
admired thee?
My soul is dejected; condemned and cursed
by th' entirety of destiny-oh, how I am accustomed to
t'is pain, and its inflamed tongue, burning mercilessly
in t'ose succulent perambulations throughout
th' volatile streets-yes, upon and across th' bridge-
what a vile remembrance, where but t'is poem
is my only vivid 'muchness'-and consolation. If only a wren
could be deemed my messenger, let her but decoy t'is
dubious fate-and bring me to slip into her arms-
thin and steep but with a fond predilection for my desires-
with consideration for our feelings-and carry within her wings
a letter from these longings, beneath
the cradling hands of the moon-yes, t'at hectic,
vivacious moon-who is lurking behind me
like a moronic shadow. Its chaotic abode-aye,
chaotic as it once was, is now unamused-and plastered
into th' surly noon, it is despaired-utterly despaired,
and deprived of love-look at how t'at wealth of serene eyes
swim around thirst, in such unwonted lullabies, and its
famished shrine! What a dejected old
sanctuary it must be-infamous and credulous to oddity, but again
fuels my anger on, amidst th' moonbeam t'at is now gone.
But I still can't find thee, querida.

Tell me, then, how shalt I spend t'is azure night without thee?
Without thee, querida, my soul is but solemn and vain;
as though I've lost my brain-and my shell's 'bout to drain-
yes, 'tis t'at no delight, but worries-in me.
And no shield is to protect t'at,
as thou, my love, art in a dream, but far, far away.
I am only consoled by t'ese remnants, o, of my infatuation-
of t'is incarcerated, forbidden love-for thee!
My very thee, who should be curling up comfortably-
like a childish moist in my arms-
in my simpering abyss, and therefore sends it into
flickers, and doesth it die-hence, forces its dread, and stubbornness
to obey! O thee, th' fixated spirit to my wondrous imagination-
and th' anxious bits of my sublime inspiration-truthfully, indeed!
How in this quieted recluse
I long for but one piece of shine-yes, just
one piece of which-to be my guiding star,
and the torch of my robbed path.
My stolen state-and luminous gravity, as dim as the mocked
aspiration, is but never to shower again-
t'at earth with smiling rain-and th'  invigorating soil 'neath
my feet-upon which I trample in deadly haste.
But my hands are scanty-and my heart is dry; that is
but admiringly undeniable;
I am indulged by my own fear, abhorrence,
and dangerous imagination. I am but without my lover-
o, thee, o my solitary prince, doth thou heareth of my
wail? I scream and scream in t'is unforgiving agony,
but thou hath not been here, lost in th' middle of nowhere
like an unnamed being-but belonging to some other's
charms, I know! But still I crave for thee-just thy eyes,
yes-those dripping blackness whose temptation is like
a cave, an invitation to deep, deeper soliloquy down its
poisonous hole. How I am shrinking into this dream again-
a wild, wild dream of seclusion, which I look upon
in frustrated reproof; thou art the symbol of its daintiness-
and thorns of delicacy-but t'at someone else! Some other
dame whose heart dearly belongs to thee-and o, how enviable t'is
object of endurance might be. How deserving of my remorse-unwilling
as my being might be, to give it. Still , out of even the shallowest comprehension-
when the sun glows over me, I will long for but thee-over the morning dews
of the river, far from insanity, will I stand there anew,
and in freshness glint at thy stateliness
in unpardonable profusion.

On t'is very still do I sit, with t'at grumpy book in my lap-
words carved nearly are as picturesque as th' beautiful heaven.
I hope but thou could heareth me-thou whose voice is like a
hint of lavender-painted in th' ballads of my heart forever.
My song, my song! Undergone a faithful revision-
towards a masculine spring of reason,
and demands a sudden but mature completion.
How I still sing for thee!
Like a bee who chases a loveless but unbending sunflower,
sipping all its empowering delight-that is but how I shall wait for thee-
in t'is passion and strong conviction for truth-
that thou wilt embrace me, as thy own queen of ardour
beneath t'is forthcoming spring, o, my knight-
and all t'is love, and love indeed-as th' very endlessness
of thy splendor.

Let me kiss you until I die,
and be your lover once again.
So I could trust that you'd not lie,
and would not let go of my hand.

Let me hear your voice once more,
and sing your love with tenderness.
So you would not walk out the door,
and stay with me in happiness.

Let me be your mirth and your joy,
to cheer your day with my laughter.
Giggling like a girl and a boy,
just as we greet the morn weather.

Let me live our pictures once more,
so full of embrace and vigour.
To dream of caressing your skin,
and being wrapped beneath your veins.

Let me be the sun to your spring,
and the cure to your wounded wing.
Be lost in your charms and ardour,
be swept in your love and fervour.

Let me carry you to the sky,
to play with the the star and the moon.
Meet me when the wren starts to fly,
next to the trees of the lagoon.

A stone foot down
and there I was,
In the dust

soon I will be covered in flowers
they will grow from my scars
and bring infinite beauty
to all that is ugly about me
and I will live forever
in a skin of petals

My love is somewhere I can't find,
and I'm wand'ring here like a ghost.
My senses are from the cold blind,
and the bird's song's my only host.

I'm trapped here like the falling snow,
my darling where is no-one knows.
An adult game and a doll show
are my book as the sun goes low.

O my dearest but I need you
Come here so I know you'd be true
How can my Christmas be so blue
With no pine tree or mistletoe

O but amongst this sultry day
A holy love for which I pray
So I could hear one word you say,
that you'd still need me all the way.