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Tiana Aug 26
satin black robe, maroon nails,
my cold palms on a colder marble balustrade,
the moon soaked rose garden,
and crying angels of that medieval fountain;

Beethoven creeping in the background
but still my heart didn't strung a sound;

All I did to find inspiration
still I'm going blank for years
words won't splendidly fill my unfinished fiction;

But still I'm here
grasping onto the midnight smoke
trying to give colours to my drunk imaginations;

My tired sighs now wished
that it'd be easy
to come up with words,
a missing lover
or a ballroom ******
or a heartbroken maiden
with empty goblets filling her scars;
anything would do now;

As long as this melancholic sonata goes on,
And before this cooing midnight
disappears into a blinding dawn,
You would find my impassive face
and desperate gaze
capturing floating words
to give a meaning to this new found romanticism;
heavily inspired by Beethoven's moonlight sonata first movemnt
A leech ***** blood,
As much parasites see…
Left carcass mud,
Rising my soul to be…
Jealousy round,
They know I’m a has been…
Places I’ve found,
Only I know happened...
Let them all talk,
Their bite marks in my skin...
I’m bored, they’re chalk,
Let lessons all begin…
**** me away,
Phallus to stay…
If people use you or let you down… tell them to  Keep Suckin’ On…
Nihilated from naivety, only you
could prove despair isn’t the only truth,
and remedy everything that cheapened me.

Every empty fill of vacuous desire
ebbed away sentimentality
until idealism was an affliction,
a coerced condition.

Stripped of venom as armour
reposed in your words,
romanticism is no longer an abject territory.

You’re the memory
I silently ached to make;
the expectation too unrealistic to hold
until your arms became the sanctuary
I could deconstruct my defences for.
B Jan 1
When you're out on the water
and the sun becomes sea
two planes of reality
begging to meet.
There is no horizon
no end to my sight
only the certainty of knowing
at least, in nothingness,
things will be alright.
Nickolas J McKee Jan 2022
Do you love the grit of my teeth,
True caressing sweet nature,
Slowly engulfing you…
Love‘s venom taking over us,
Never to let you go free,
Nor leave a simple clue…
Symphonies of dreams distorted,
No one to crave you but thee,
Savings for catacombs…
Who to find you of buried love,
Your skin melting of ***** wealth,
Reeking of ****** pomes…
Shake alive your casket of limbs…
Of ground the crying violins…
Ileana Amara Oct 2021
get me a bottle of romanticism;
perhaps it's the only drink
that i'd like to get drunk of
for it is tougher to be sober
in this world that seems
to be running out of love.

11.01.21.| what are the consequences if i choose to see everything & everyone only in the lens of love? could i conquer it all like they say love conquers all?

romanticism feels like a life support to my soul lately. these are just indeed, some random scribbles of my restless mind.
Norman Crane Aug 2021
Lithuania! My homeland! You are like vigour.
How invaluable you are, only he can figure,
Who has lost you. Today your beauty wholly I view
And seeing, describe it, because I long after you.

Holy ******, who guards Luminous Czestochowa
And shines in the Gate of Dawn! You, who watches over
Strongheld Novogrudok and its faithful populace!
As once you healed me, a child, so miraculous
(When into your care from my despondent mother bid
I lifted my already departed eyelid,
And soon could make my way on foot to your temple's door,
Having gone to offer thanks to God for a life restored),
So too you shall restore us to our homeland's womb.
Meanwhile, may you convey my soul from its longing's gloom
To those aforrested hills, those evergreen meadows,
Stretched wide across the space where the azure Neman flows;
To those vast fields, painted in varicoloured grain-dye,
A landscape gilded with wheat, silver-plated with rye,
Where the runch is amber, and the buckwheat white as snow,
Where like a maiden's blush the red clover overgrows,
And all's interwoven, as if by a ribbon, green
balk, within which a wild pear tree can sometimes be seen.
Here's my attempt at translating the Invocation from Adam Mickiewicz's Pan Tadeusz from Polish into English.
Farah Taskin Jul 2021
He was staring at her
She was nervously blushing

Her face was turning crimson
His face was turning golden

His naughty eyes were glinting
Her virginal lips were timidly trembling
She was hearing
her heartbeats

He was drinking in her crimson countenance .
Nowadays a face without a mask can be,don't be so's injurious to health!
Nickolas J McKee Mar 2021
Let me die in your arms,
As I take my last breath.
So jovial of charms,
Like the first day we met.
True of time I missed you,
Nights crying of you gone.
My lost heart to you grew,
While angels cry a song.
Least not you forget me,
Your eyes knowing mine dark.
Feared above not to see,
Flying high a sad lark.
...Death close to your dear chest,
I will take my last breath...
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