Not Even Philosophy or Literature Can Cure The Lonely Heart.

I can't continue so stagnantly.

I want to feel the difference between night and day. Taste the bitterness of an absence that its presence is even sweeter. I want to be completely iced over so fire can ignite this lonely heart.

I can't live this life, a facade of cynicism, without Love.

The Comparison That Makes Me Cringe.

How I feared this comparison. How I was stifling and muffling a matured distaste for you. We don't think alike, I'd like to snap, but I see its complimentary nature, to some degree. Academically, we're one the same road; philosophically, I seek Truth and Love. And you don't. Self preservation, how basic of you. Your Id, overdeveloped, and yet I supported it. My idea of Love held me true to you, is this not something we can agree on? If not, then why? I was only as devout as my soul could allow, and my soul was weak, and it allowed for complete potential. Our philosophies, or rather mine and your lack thereof, differ too much: it's in the words you speak. Yet, how do we compare? How are we so alike? How do we inhabit the same world, but different societies? Our intellect, for the most part humanistic in nature, is all that we can share, am I right? I mean, look at the way we function in a world full of mediocrity! I rise above, you fall in love. I cringe at this comparison, and I thought to let you know.

Antitheses

Your memory is compelling:

caramel dreams of happiness,

so sweet, so intoxicating

days of fickle planning,

by your part at least.

of secret kisses in the car,

only to be replaced moments later.

nights of passion and love combined,

you passion - me love.

of eternally stimulating conversations,

my lectures.

3 months of an addictive love,

a relative term.

of emotional and social turmoil,

directly caused by your "indirect" decisions.

Your memory is compelling,

just enough to make me sick.

My Only One

Beauty: on the tips of my fingers and tongue.

These phrases, connected, somewhat seamlessly,

all of them, unfortunately for you.

This confession, my only one, derives from sin:

sin of unmeasured passion,

sin of free emotions,

sin of infinite love

for someone other than me.

All acts committed in your name

come naturally-

have reason-

are rational-

are beautiful,

even this romanticizing confession.

Why dispel you completely? -

you and I birth these

beautiful-

sometimes incoherent-

true

combinations, contradictions, and confessions.

Reading Cheap Novels

Ojos verdes

manos de escultor -

cuantas haz manipulado?

Leo tus expresiones arbitrarias:

Perdon, mi amor, no soy ingenua.

Nunca lo vas a figurar.

Pelo negro

boca de actor -

tu fachada ya me lo se.

La obra que crees arte

es me guia:

dejalo que vive en su imaginacion.

No caigas en lo mismo de las otras

Piel de caramelo,

mente de Escorpion -

finges dulzura, pero te conozco:

Mentiroso, Peverso, Manipulador.

Nada como tu cara indica

Varying Currencies

Promises: words.

The only thing you ever gave me,

besides Grief.

What better than to repay you in the same Currency.

But my words are the Euro

And yours the gravel in the road.

My words have meaning,

you're not worthy of this Load.

Sick Family Trees

Once, a plethora of emotion:
Now, a simple shadow-
Love, you I shun.

Pain, a rejected inheritence:
what heresy to treat it
with amorous patience.

Epiphany!

Father, Love
Child, Pain.

Holding no part will I
in such incestuous ways.