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My Romantic Convictions

You were once the blood in my veins;
the beat in my heart; the breath in my
lungs; the spring in my step; the oh so
sweet voice within my mind. But now,
only the emptiness of your departure
remains where you once bloomed,
and I shall forever go without what I
suspected to be love evermore,
because the absence of your soul is
worse than death itself, and I know
that reducing my wrists to bloody
ribbons will do not a thing to stem
the endless pain that will continue
onwards to haunt me, even in the
after life. So what cure could I dare
take to be rid of the agony that
cripples all that is left of a once
passionate human being, forced to
cry myself to sleep at night for
your image is no longer there to
bring comfort to the oceans of my
heart?

I was intoxicated, always, on the
inebriating fires of our passion; but
maybe love is just for poets, as to
have themselves a written word of
romance everlasting, but not for
me is such an emotion of the heart
so it would seem, albeit with a
fortune that be foul in its upbringing,
rather than pleasantly stupendous.
It would be a gross miscarriage of
romance though, to bid the
allowance of the woman who puts
the rising sun to shame, to be
removed from the custody of my
treasured soul, even though it be
theorized on many a moment before
that when someone is loved they
ought to be excused, and maybe it
is out of jealousy or greed, but
never in a million years could I
allow this occurrence, that be so
wrongful in its existence, to transpire
here today.

Relegated to a piece of dust in a
world of brightness exponential; a
mere shadow of dirtiness and grunge
that does not deserve the tolerance
or acknowledgment of your adoring
heart, I become an avatar for the
hardest of all emotions. My rain of
tears falls upon me, from my face
that be defaced with a sadness that
does not comply with any such
definition of the word. On this
final note, if you believe I do not
love you, then ask me to remove
myself, and like the legions of men
before me, whom have fallen upon
their swords in the name of love, I
will honor your wishes and gladly
take my life, if but at the conclusion
of my final breath, you believe the
honesty of my romantic convictions.

The Riddle of a Love Affair Unrequited

On the hour the passionate fires
of our relationship are destined
to be ignited, the bitter taste of
defeat is all that penetrates this
heart of mine and falls upon my
tongue.

In my eyes you are an angel,
gliding upon a river of solitude
light, that illuminates the
passageway to a happiness,
whose pleasure does not relent
throughout the longevity of a
relationship, touched by the
hand of gorgeousness.

But it would seem I was mistaken
to think that such a romance was
ever a predestined fate of mine,
as my heart stands before the jury
in my mind, convicted of a sinful
atrocity that shall never be
forgotten.

I endured a life thus far, believing
your heart could rest with mine.
But what hubris did blind the
foolish oaf of a romantic within my
soul? I should have known that a
woman whose brilliance could only
ever be described as Godly would
not look upon the direction where
I do stand, and though your
ignoring me proves ever painful, it
is a fate I am truly deserving for
being blinded selfishly by the riddle
of unrequited love.

A definition of thy word use

Sweet; a term coined by a young lady
who wished not to harm the hungry
heart of her admirer by letting him
down so gently, not realising that
the pain he felt from falling was still
as plentiful without the inclusion of
such a word, which is now a cliche
that brings more agony than it
dismisses.

To the Future of my Happiness

When there is no appreciation to be had
from the readership of the words
produced by an avid interloper, what is
there to be garnered? What wish did I
long to have granted to me as the eye
of this here storm within my heart
thunders like a Kraken, awoken with a
fury that is bestowed upon my already
bludgeoned frame. There is no
happiness to be exumed from the
corpse that was once my loving heart,
which perished without a sound not too
long ago, as the realisation that love is
non-existent in my unwritten future,
drowned with a stressful effigy that my
soul could take no more. Alas, I have
already lost the battle to remain
grounded in my romance, for what else
can be torn from the inner sanctum of
my heart that has not already gone
astray? If love was a race, I failed to
even arrive last, and as I look at all the
happy couples swooning under the light
of the moon, I realise why I fell for you;
never can you hurt me, or bring me
crashing down, because you are beyond
my reach, and never will a kiss come
between these lips, that is shattered
violently in the latter revelation that
love was but an illusion which never
even existed at all. But of the people I
have met over the previous few year’s,
you are the only one I will happily leap
towards; you are the only damsel in this
universe I shall sacrifice my faith for, and
if a genie was to be granted towards these
hands of mine, the only wish I will ever
make; the only wish I will ever need; is you.

The Troglodyte of Unrequited Love

Darkness crawls in from the corners,
pulling the shades down over me
until I am drenched in the pitch of a
sadness that sees no end in sight. If
this is the punishment for falling in
love with an unattainable damsel,
then I happily relinquish my
feelings if it means I may be spared
such repercussions, even though I
realise an even darker doom awaits
me at the conclusion of this
transaction.

Like all love that is unrequited, I
inevitably wanted more, and when
my feelings reached an intensity
from which an explosion of internal
madness was the only eventual end,
with much folly I announced to this
here universe how I loved thee with
all my heart and soul, to be recieved
only by a nothingness that blighted
me with an ocean of unrelenting
tears.

Much like the break-up I never did
see coming, I found myself
corrupted by a contagion of the
heart, where the only antidote was
what remained consistently
unavailable. Did I ask too much?
Should I have asked at all? I
wanted you to like my words, and
the man I have grown to become,
but never did such a feeling
consume you in its entirety, and
never will it do so.

I gain the most happiness I have
received in days however by
scraping a blade I hold so tentatively
across my skin, shedding my
exterior as red water weeps upon
the floor. I profusely pulverise my
external frame, obliterating that
which tethers my aching heart to
this ever hateful world, as my final
goodbye is written in the cadaver I
leave behind, which produces the
only ounce of happiness felt by all
who have had the displeasure of
knowing my foolhardy heart.

From the beginning, in my eyes you
were a gem that just appeared on
the horizon, illuminating the
portions of my charred existence
with an angelic light like none that
has ever shone before. This effigy
of gorgeousness may have become
corroded with the truthful touch
of barbaric honesty, but because I
am a hypocrite, I will happily
denounce my sadness in exchange
for a moment with your smile.

Of Razors, Wires and Veins

I am a puddle of misery and
misunderstanding, cloaked in
the freckles of fiendish ideology
that spans the universe of my
mind. Black dots of angry
lucidity plague the senses and
demean the good that once
existed, which has been melted
down to exact revenge upon the
happiness that used to devour
my once beating heart, now
unoccupied by potential
paramours for the ravenous
nature of my inner rage, burns this
sarcophagus of tyranny to the
ground. There is no good within
me; just a plague of unearthed
anguish, cursed to bitterly
dominate the turmoil locked
inside a battle to be freed.
The forgotten dead of memories
that were once relaxing, now
tarnish the landscape of my soul,
but none are deserving of being
mourned, for if my happiness was
a powerhouse of paramount emotion,
would not love, instead of anger,
passion, instead of hate, be in
control of this here fleshy avatar?

Head, Heart, Hope

I embarrassed and humiliated
a young woman today by
having published words that ought
never to have been written
months ago, regardless of
their accuracy or notions
of romantic endearment.
My infatuation is only ever
capable of deceiving my
inner self and distracting
the young lady they are
written for with ridiculous
delusions of grand emotion,
that are unable to be
orchestrated by these hands
of mine, no matter how
furiously I hope or pray.

I try so often to think with
the head rather than the
heart, for logic is unavailable
in the depths of decisions
that throb within my beating
chest. The passionate throes
that drift on an ocean rich
with unconditional desire
do not ever present my
future self with potential aid.
But I cannot dare let my
head take full control, for then
I would be a man fueled
by nothing more than zealous
intellect, for it is the heart
that love struck fools such as
I, spend their eternities hoping with.

Hope sustains the future, and the
longevity of love, but can it
truly ever sustain that which
was never there at all? A
feeling, like that which compels
me forward towards my
wishful journey’s end is not
anything that ought to be relied
upon to conclude happily. It
will instead tear me asunder
when the realisation that I am
living under the assumption of
ideas that cannot be promulgated
hits me with all of its tyrannical
force. I cannot dispute that love
is real, but it is just as terribly
painful unto myself to behold.

Upon the Moment of Love’s Tender Touch

‘I’ll go out with you for dinner’
said the woman who had attracted
my attention span, but never
would she really like me; want me;
love me, so it be pointless to accept
her invitation, unless she is capable
of proving her affections to me.
I never asked her to go to bed
with me; just to prove her love
was true, and since such a concept
is obviously far too difficult
for her to comprehend, it is obvious
that I am not to be blessed paramour
of a future yet to see the sun
of a new day; I am simply a stand-in,
until the moment she meets
the man she can truly love,
and once again I will find myself
essentially alone upon this tragedy
coming to fruition, and my shadow
is all I shall have for company;
and that is the worst fate any romantic
could possibly ever endure.

The Light Beyond Dark Dreams

What are dreams? What is the point
to viewing the screen within my mind?
Is it the truth I see – of the future
or the past, that makes me long to shine?
I hear you say I’m sexy; I’m a spunk;
that you are very interested, is this at all true?
Call it my desperate want to know.
But never do you remain in one location,
and you are impossible to find, and all I want
to say is how I love you; I have since
the moment your image was reflected
in my eyes.  If I cannot be with you,
then what is the reason behind my feelings;
behind all of these dreams? If the fates
want something to be known to me,
I say they call all be damned;
why cannot they emphasise the truth
with words? I know I have a time constraint
before the woman I love leaves,
and if the answer is available, please tell me,
(I am a grown man after all) so that I may
pursue the beauty who has captivated
my heart so. If not, then leave me
in silence, for I cannot stand been toyed with
when I feel this way. Grant me happiness
or give me sadness, just do not provide
to me false hope, for the last thing I need
this night is the belief that the  woman
I love so dear has but a single romantic
notion of me flickering within her mind.
Tonight, please, may I dream
of the answer that I seek, or may I dream
no more of this forever, to spare myself
the pain. I may deeply love this woman,
but I cannot ever love someone
who feels not anything for me.

Unaccepted by Destiny

When I was young; when
I was a novice of the
written word, I asked
an adept manufacturer
of creation how it was
that she could articulate
a poem; and she said to
me, in happiness, ‘just
write what it is you feel.’
But what if I have no
feelings? What if no one
wants to know the feelings
in my heart? What if the
woman I am attempting
to woo with much
affection cares not for
my avid love, for that
right there, that four
letter word, is what I feel
right now; but how to
get the beating heart of
my wishful paramour to
arrange a time to hear
me out this day? I cannot,
that is the answer, and I
never will, the irony of
this occasion being
blinding to the senses. I
became a poet to express
that which I could not
any other way, and even
then after so much time
had passed and I had
tried my hardest to
succeed, I was a failure
in my maiden’s eyes of
cruelty. She could not
feel a thing for me, and
never was there an
attempt to spare my
heart which beat for her
so eagerly every time I
breathed, and without
her in my life this night,
what more is there to
say? How can I express
my sadness to an
audience not within my
proximity; an audience
who shall never hear my
voice or even know my
name? I have my words
to give to you, but shall
they ever be enough,
for never could they
captivate the darling I
was hoping to ensnare.
You may also have my
tears as they dribble
forth from my eyes
before being plucked
by the parchment I am
using as the conveyance
for my thoughts. But
never shall anyone again
have my heart, for that
desolate muscle of
passionate throes is
now officially obsolete; it
has crumbled into
nothingness and left me
bereft with an eternally
empty wound that
shall never heal; for if
my destined lover
could not accept me,
I do believe it is obvious
that no one ever will.