#romantics
Hooks hurt
ask the fish
Attract me
Pulls are nice
ask lovers
Dec 18, 2025
Dec 18, 2025 at 9:30 AM UTC
Black is all I see ,
For the world is made up of other colours,
Red , yellow, blue and green
But yet
All I see
Is the darkest shade of noir.
No matter how much I beleive
The world will always be black
Jun 10, 2025
Jun 10, 2025 at 12:42 PM UTC
Often times I wonder
as I sit in my little car
in my little town
with my little friends
if the world is bigger than I?
Then I realize this life is too short to squander
and the past is now too far
to keep yesterdays frown
for life never truly ends
And I smile secretly at the sky
They tell me that the romantics
had a curious way about
the way they loved and hated
and the things of which they wrote
Their love is better best forgotten now
Still they amazed me with their antics
their scandals the world still loves to shout
the way they so simply and wordily stated
like the world's chaos was their little note
So in their image, do I dare to grow?
Nov 6, 2024
Nov 6, 2024 at 7:36 PM UTC
the romantics
after meeting you
will idealize love
the poets
after loving you
will romanticize loss
Apr 9, 2022
Apr 9, 2022 at 4:32 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
A Lust-Crazed Darwinian
Isaiah 11:6-9
Outside the window I see in the autumn oak
A face-off between a squirrel and a cat
Small cat. Large squirrel. Insults given and received
They would **** each other, just like humans
The Romantic wants to see them at play
The Darwinian wants to see who wins
And if the squirrel would eat the brains of the cat
Just as the cat would eat the brains of the squirrel
And leave little headless corpses on my porch
Which is why I am a hopeful Romantic
Nov 23, 2020
Nov 23, 2020 at 8:59 AM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
The Unfashion of the Romantics
…the romance of intellectual adventure.
-Daisy Hay, preface to Young Romantics
Thesis:
The Romantics are simply demode, my dear
Those structured paleo-colonialists
Who rattle on about flowers and love
And craft blank verse about walks in the wood
Antithesis:
Oh, but note, if you will, young lovers who
Thoughtlessly put their sunlit heads together
Over an open Keats, reading to each other
Among the unwritten leaves of their youth
And now note, if you will, young thinkers who
Thoughtfully put their sunlit words together
Over an open Byron, arguing for freedom
Among and for the peoples of the earth
Synthesis:
The young are lines of iambic pentameter
New lines, new lives, discovered in each other
Oct 18, 2020
Oct 18, 2020 at 9:42 AM UTC
A hand on your face
Lips wet to the touch
Smudging you with kisses
I love you so much..
Nov 11, 2019
Nov 11, 2019 at 10:59 PM UTC
Outcast and outlaw and wild Romantic
May I rest my heart in thine gentle hands
Let it beat naked, open, and frantic
Will you pluck its strings, kiss these shiv’ring strands?
I pray, will thee guide my wandering pen
Across the page, through the spectral divide
Help find the words that evade me again
Trying to make sense of the mess inside
A desperate plea from a kindred soul
Seeking anyone who can understand
To find the words that make me feel whole
And sink teeth into the life I had planned
Find me, my lost flame and distant lover
Together, what worlds can we uncover?
Oct 22, 2019
Oct 22, 2019 at 5:02 AM UTC
The melodies I hear are filling the void
And the golden stardust is slipping in my veins
What secrets you hold, Oh mighty being?
Your valleys are green and the air serene
So i listen more
The cluster of trees is whispering to me
Fly, fly you jester
Your hour is near now wake up
Go no more into the wheels and machines
Let alone the heels and soar through the winds.
May 17, 2019
May 17, 2019 at 1:08 PM UTC
When you ask or beg saying "please never leave"
Let it not be out of fear or weakness
But out of a desire to have no such other eternity
Feb 21, 2019
Feb 21, 2019 at 9:35 PM UTC
Fading sunlight in the horizon
Falling leaves in breezy autumn
While nature paves way for hope
I wish this self to be lost and forgotten
Similar to tides, uncontrolled and heightened
A lone wolf yowling at her sight
Adjoined by the constant urge to be isolated
Fervent to cut loose the rope of gloom
Like a lost traveler in search of dwelling
A barren land thirsty for rain
Tired of this skin and mind
To devastation this heart is intertwined
What is lost darkens my soul
Your voice and memories cut deep through
Your brown hair blowing in wind
Hazel eyes sparkling in the sun
Echoes of your footsteps,
Deepness of your voice
Still surrounded by your existence
Harmed and scarred, I want to leave
Fragile lives and untamed hearts
Filled with fiery of desert storm
I want to run, away from your hue
Before I turn into an emotional massacre
Did I really deserve? Did you really want?
Let the leaves of our memory fall
And the blossoming florets wilt
Clinging to hope with intemperate self
Permit yourself to grow vines by own
Ashen and burnt, bury us in ground
Let youraelf grow either as roses or thorns
Amongst all this I realize what Rumi said
Nostalgia is a powerful witch indeed.
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 6:42 AM UTC
Revolution: Part Two.
William Blake saw a New World Order.
A revolution, a new way forward.
To feel is to exist and our feelings come before our thoughts;
But anarchy is illegal, you must follow the cardinal rules.
You need a God, to live your lives,
To make you believe, it will turn out alright;
To let you believe, what you think is right.
Well do what you must and release me from life.
Lay me down under the guillotine,
Then let me say goodbye to my wife.
I simply stare into the basket,
Before I float up to the light.
Sacrifice your life, to gain the freedom you should have;
Lay down your life, to make a stand.
Stand in front of the tanks, to stop the armies drones
And hurl the tyrant off of his throne.
Killed for free thinking, they say it's illegal;
Emotion will set you free, but were not allowed to feel.
So we must leave Paris and head for America,
The next big thing; the country of the future.
The beast at the door, must be stopped from entering,
The wolf at your tail will make you keep moving.
A time for a pilgrimage and an end to the Empire.
It's time to leave Europe and head to America.
Poetry is expression of thought,
So who are you to tell me I'm wrong?
Every man’s taste is different
And our tastes are not acquirable;
They’re our natural instincts, that are written in our souls.
The great romantics saw life as it should be.
A simpler place where we need not disagree.
Let man speak his mind; let his words become free.
Not silenced under dictatorship; it's not a cardinal sin.
Free thinkers, will lead to your destruction.
They simply won’t follow your every instruction.
The Parisians revolt, because the power has gone to your head;
So they burn down your world and leave you for dead.
Leave France behind, but don't dwell on the past.
Will you sell out? Or think for yourself?
Write what is in your soul, don't be a cog in the system.
In America they will not sentence you to life in prison,
For writing your thoughts and going against the grain.
The revolution must begin; it is time for a change.
The stench of dead French filled the streets with blood.
Don't let their deaths be worthless; only we can free us.
You imprison yourself by accepting the norm:
The Guillotine, The Executioner, The orders from above.
The French revolution gave writers a voice.
Gave us freedom of speech; gave us freedom of choice.
Gave us freedom of expression and impressionist art.
To revolt is to begin again; to make a new start.
El Liberte, a statue of such a scale.
The light house in the distance; the direction in which to sail.
At last we are free; at last we are home.
Freedom of speech must become the norm.
For you to simply say, Wordsworth is worthless,
Is to simply admit your own ignorance.
To say the encyclopedia is down-right blasphemous,
Is to simply admit your own incompetence.
To execute a writer for saying what he thinks.
To condemn him to death, to execute him;
Is to show how wrong you are
And that a new leader is needed.
The revolutionaries knew the price,
It would take to get our freedom.
But Wordsworth’s 'Mariner' has stood the test of time
And even today, it's still a favorite of mine.
(C)2013 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 7:31 AM UTC
As for my only issue with poetry,
it encourages people to join the
next generation of romantics. Loving the beauty of love and all those sighs.
Never
to
experience
love
with
their toiling hands, rubbing the poetic flesh
of their lover. During the exchanges of poetry.
(knowledge variable)
Jun 8, 2018
Jun 8, 2018 at 8:24 PM UTC
in this pestilence and heartache,
i doth lie here without remembering
an instance where i shall not stay
in this quietly bleeding prison
my hands have groped the air
for a phantom amongst the breeze
but there is no longer a soul to spare
when i am brought back to my knees.
i feel my prayers are but thrown
fruitless pleadings to the sky
my truths to bear, are mine alone
never will they be your plight
you hold your head to my chest
and we dream away the time
this prison feels like a prison less
when your heart is calling to mine
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 11:09 PM UTC
I know I drink too much,
I know I speak of you everytime,
I know it was my fault,
I know you could have been mine,
I know I didn't say you things that should have been told,
I know that I wasn't too bold to face you,
because of the diffrences that we had,
Because you my lady were a scholar,
And I was a backseat lad.
Days didn't go by,
Years wasn't counted,
seeing you and the sun shine,
I don't how many layers of feelings have been mounted,
stay still girl...As your hair trembles down'
to lashes of your eyes,
your dimples on your cheeks,
the curvature of your smile,
they all are like the full litted moon,
on the backdrop of my night.
You see I drink too much,
And yes I do speak of you everytime,
And I love you too much ,
for you to have been mine
May 7, 2017
May 7, 2017 at 11:43 AM UTC
We are as unfinished
as the the limitless
night sky
We are as full of surprises
as the meteor shower
with sudden shooting stars
We are as explosive
as the big bang
births a new galaxy
We are as dangerous
as the burning sun rays
as they flair magically
We are as chemical
as two elements
shy from meeting
in a test tube
We are as messy
as a mental disorder
far from logic
yet so aware of it
We are as passionate
as wine with sunsets
as Shakespearean
romantics
We
simply
just
Are
but
Cannot
be
Nov 14, 2016
Nov 14, 2016 at 5:14 AM UTC
All hail the return of the romantics
New age sages that fight consumerism
Poets that ride the roads like Kerouac
Going home then farther back
To old poets who fathered that
Rich traditions of humanity
With deep thoughts and sweet abstractions
Before dull poets and their dumb factions
Demanded we stick to form
Then demanded formlessness
Casually pursued simplicity
For the lack of eloquence
Thought they had to write to lesser men
Not figuring that we are them
And by writing truth we
Keep them growing
By showing the full strength and beauty
Of this brutal language
We all evolve
Till we are romantics one and all
May 28, 2016
May 28, 2016 at 11:43 AM UTC
Time broke the heart of Van Gogh
Wrenched the soul of Edgar Allen Poe
As the ages spoke with words and paints
The romantics yielded up all of their pain
And put it on display in canvasses and pages
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 8:14 PM UTC
Are you a cat or bird,
devil or saint?
Villain and victim, dichotic romantic,
bruised and beaten, ostracised.
Bruised and beaten, demonised.
A willow bending against cruel fashion's wind.
A thousand storms of impotent hate,
jealousies and malignant complaints.
Rain like sonnets before the deaf!
As your gifts are pearl before swine.
And yet thy brow is regal still.
The profile of a demon prince -
no matter what shape taketh the face.
Be thou Quasimodo or Adonis by fate.
Whose smile has lit a thousand candles
in thankless, bitter hearts,
and fires in the hearths of freaks
who need but a spark to break the leash.
Or art thou Prince of Cats?
Yearning for the freedom to roam, to hunt.
Seeking pleasure, his mistresses pats.
The enemy of closed doors and cold paws.
Or could thou be a bird?
Clipped wings, a gilded cage,
whose song can only go so far.
If not let to glide into the night, to rise,
to greet the dawn with bleary, satisfied eyes.
Of one who has been given the chance to soar!
Or else to wilt, and yowl no more.
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 9:25 PM UTC
Look at the lovely Lord Byron
Sweet John Keats
And Percy Shelley
What an awesome group
Of poets
Bet they were really romantic
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 4:40 PM UTC