Man )O( Woman

Is love the interpretation of an impression or the evening out of dents on a cherished surface?

Love conquers all, even itself.

Clarity and lust are not mutually exclusive.  The furnace of love requires focus to keep running.

Sometimes one woman can make you forget about all women.  Is women always redeemed by that one special woman?  Or is love too selfish for that sort of thing?

The art of love is overcoming desire without killing it.

The gift of falling in love easily is either a blessing or a curse, depending on whether you’re blessed to give or cursed only to receive.

Sometimes it’s the right time to be delicate with her, other times rough.  But it’s never the right time to be soft.

The products of desire are reflective of the strength of desire.  Is this then why he desires strong women?  So that his love may be productive?

It’s not so much that you have to be mean to win her over, as much as antagonism breeds affection and love is always looking to create beyond itself.

The effect of woman is being pulled down by a heavy feeling that only becomes light after a long struggle.  Our ascent is determined by the gravity of our love.

He wants to go where life is most alive so he chases after women.  That he could remain distant even in crossing and avoid spoiling the ideal that carries her sea of hope, even when this hope crashes against his ideal.  

She’s not cruel because she hides something under her fairness.  She’s cruel because dissimulation doesn’t make her seem any less fair.  Love is a masquerade ball where the best masks find each other no matter how cruel the dance may be.

He followed her so far down until he couldn’t even feel his way back, until the night swallowed every dream of the sun, until nowhere was everywhere and she finally allowed herself to be seen.  Love is falling in the dark until all you can feel is fate pulling you down and all you can see is the promise of destiny in a light made green.

Sometimes it seems like women experience life as coming at them at 100mph, eyes ablaze and wide open to the opportunities that life presents.  If women have a hard time making decisions, then it’s probably because it’s so hard to turn at high speeds.  Love isn’t about getting her to slow down but to catch up and turn into your arms.

All love is possession, attachment,and obsession.  That's it.

The idea that it is this sort of pervasive mysterious glamorous unique force is an annoying one. An annoying remnant from romanticism.

LaughingMan wrote:

All love is possession, attachment,and obsession.  That's it.

Not all love.

Quote :

The idea that it is this sort of pervasive mysterious glamorous unique force is an annoying one. An annoying remnant from romanticism.

Only that far back?  What was love before?

Woman has a quality of closeness to things that we can’t get close enough to, and her embrace is often too close for comfort.

Woman seduces to a place at the corner of life and death.  So watch out; her streets aren’t labeled and the one working street lamp is testy.  Love is a treasure map drawn under flickering light.

No matter the situation, sex always puts everything on the line and men often think they’re Napoleon crossing the Alps.  And woman is an avalanche waiting to happen.

Excessive contact with women can erode ambition, but excessive absence can erode the ambition of love.

The question of woman is a question of belonging and confidence.  You’re confident you belong but too confident to stay.  Love is a gracious host for those without answers.

Woman’s position in dreams is so strong she’s unmoved when man tires of her.

Love is a sinking need to subdue the predator desire so you can feast together on the light.

Desire eats away at you until all that’s left is a kernel of truth. Love is a very curious squirrel that lives off "nuts" and isn't afraid to steal a truth or two from the "birds."

Love is returning to a look that always manages to ruin your favorite book, those eyes that can only read the longing in your soul.

Woman sometimes treats a polite romantic gesture the same way she treats a small child when he’s done something worth praising, as if she’s always expecting the worst and is let down when he tries his best.  Is love always a deed too small or are woman just surprised when children obey the rules?  That love and man could be big enough to break away from her expectations and cease being the awkward child that breaks away from play.

Men don’t want women that are too kind or too crazy.  Love is only crazy for its own kind.

Woman will find a way to protest under any condition.  Man always finds a way to improve conditions.  Is woman never appeased or does love require better conditions?  Or is man conditioned to require woman?  Is the end of love to give birth to new conditions?  Are they both conditioned to use each other as a means to an ever disputed middle?  Love is the middle ground always out of reach.

Do man and woman see love the same way or does love blind them from accurately viewing each other?  Isn’t woman always so sure of what she sees and doesn’t man question every vision?  Love has a way of fooling men into thinking they’re the seeing-eye dog for the woman who only pretends to be blind.

Nature is a poor substitute for woman and either a cruel or gentle reminder for what we lack.  The details of nature are never “fine” enough for our eye and our vision of love is always focused on her tunnel, all victory that narrowly escapes.  Is woman a means to conquer nature and aren’t all mothers jealous of their daughters?  Those poor men caught in the middle that give love the richest quality of moderation and the finest victory.

Woman guarantees love with the certainty of every expiring season.

She runs away from herself. He runs away with her. The wise walk away with love.

A woman staying still is even more absurd than a man that thinks he can keep her in place.

Why are women so mean? Is it because they are so average? How taxing it must be to be at the crossroads of desire.

If you want to be woman’s white knight you better be dark enough for the cruel task ahead.

There’s a lot of talk of secret societies and “privileged” knowledge.  But all esotericism is hidden in plain view.  The true initiates are those who have responded well to her smile and initiated a new chain of open love, even if it remains the privilege of a few to see.

The fine line between self-preservation and love's draw is made even finer in her presence.

Love is the most dangerous kind of play on words.

Her gift is his cool down that she’s always too hot to see.

Women are so quick to interpret a compliment as a weakness that you have to be fast enough to translate an insult into a strength. Those poor souls mired in flattery that can’t keep pace with love.

Love: A million different ways to say the same elusive thing.  But you’re not even sure it’s the same thing.  Love is replacing the caged bird set free with new birds of your imagination.

Only when you go off script is she willing to bite on your line.

Woman wants romance but hates to be crowded by it.  Love is standing apart from the crowd so she might long for your undisturbed space.

Sometimes you become so wrapped up in the craziness of one woman you become nostalgic for the craziness of another, as if one storm was more tolerable than another.  But nostalgia is just the eye of love’s storm, and every woman has unavoidable dark clouds.

Love is the ability to be caught off guard while still having the reflexes to catch the magic of the moment.

Woman reminds us what we lack by just being herself, and harnessing her memory reveals our most just being. Love is never surrendering to the memory of woman.

What’s the difference between the lover and the warrior?  Nothing, if the warrior is willing to risk everything that he loves.

The church likes to think it houses love, so invite her into your heart and let her decide which provides more warmth.

With women, you’re either losing time or gaining an eternity.  Love is the mischievous prankster always telling us we’re winning.

The danger of fighting with women is forgetting about the importance of all other types of fights.  But it’s here that you remember the love that always follows a good fight.

Love is reaching the point whereby you feel protective of someone no matter what they do, even if they’re being a prick.  The thorn in every woman’s side.

A person in love has an aura of invincibility reinforced with the gentlest being.  You can’t enter into contest with such a person unless you’re willing to risk putting everything on the line of extreme contrasts.

Never give into her definitions of love unless you’re willing to be defined by her.  

The anticipation is killing me but what is it doing to her?  The eternal question for all lovers who fight off death without any answers.

The best lovers turn their life into poetry and turn her inside/out in the process.

Just how jealous of male friendship is woman?  So much so that she can tear apart the best friends and call it love with unanimous consent.   Love is a deceptive alliance for precious time.

The right time to die is always right around her corner.

The most dangerous kinds of women are those with an aggressive personality whose sweetness always comes as a most welcome reward.  Submission is so foreign to her so that when she lets her guard down you feel like those crafty Greeks that have just snuck past the gates of Troy.  But the victory of love is never without the sour that makes all danger sweet so you should take heed to never grovel at her heel.

Love is becoming a character that only speaks on a stage of your own making and not everyone is going to love your performance.

She sends mixed messages but should be careful because his heart is a blender. Love is assisting digestion with razor sharp teeth.

The fallout from a doomed relationship isn’t without some radioactive gossip.

Love is having so much dirt on another person you have no choice but to plant a future together.

Love is the beauty that requires no admiration.  The eternal youth that burns through beauty with a temperature too cold to touch and a ripeness that is always out of reach.

Some men think there is some divine transference in touching a beautiful thing.  But restraint is the most divine thing, the bridge beautiful enough to transfer love.

Love is filling in the spaces left open with new kinds of silence.  The hollowed out chambers that can accommodate any kind ammunition, but secretly desire those words that can pierce the soul.

Love is questioning every inspiration and returning to a revelation that is never quite revealing enough.  Love is the honesty that renders all truth-tellers inert with a vicious circle of lies.

Love is knowing when to cut ties while tying the knot even tighter.

The two most tempting things are war and woman, so the best men learn to seduce with their own war and woman.

He saw through her mystery and she was still waiting on the other side.  Love is an incorrigible need for transformation.

Every woman thinks the poet is talking to her, and every poet thinks he’s talking to his god.  Everyone is listening to love for instructions to build a bridge for foreign ears.

Man’s pride says to never do a thing just to impress woman, but her joy never ceases to bring him pleasure.  Her absence is always the most painful test of pride, and love is the pain endured out of the most impressive joy.

She is the moving target for all straight shooters and arrows with arc.

Love is the quality too light to compromise itself on the common tables of justice where everything buckles under the heavy weight of a dark hypocrisy.  Love is tipping the scales in its favor with all the weight of a feather that doesn’t even know where it’s going to land.

What is love but the production of great men and the endless fight between genders for better factory conditions?  And doesn’t every factory have a dreaded foreman who makes sure the myths keep flowing?  Is love then the dread of the man behind the curtain or the mystery that relieves us of all dread?  Love is working out questions with a joy that only myth can provide.

Do you write these spontaneously?

Good stuff.

Love is opening yourself to attack and closing wounds with eloquence.

Love is a way of making light of things that can win over the most serious and heavy hearts.

Woman has a way of putting man at ease so he might forget how difficult she can be.  And love is always easing us back into the fight.

Nowadays, men are all too eager to hear her side, as if love took sides and isn’t always turning its back on peace.

Man is so showered with images of woman now he can no longer see the image of love that can only come with her dry spell.  Love is planting itself in those imaginations moderate enough to thrive in her lack, where the magic of her downfall is always nourishing you back.

Love is being pulled back to a place that requires no explanation, pushed forward to passionately explain all future places, and always arriving somewhere in-between.

The terrible difference between the sexes is not made any less terrible with empathy, only more beautiful.  And the more terrible the distance, the more beautiful the prospect of crossing becomes.

If she is nervous around him, it’s because her image is always in jeopardy.  Love is eternally searching for the man that knows how to sacrifice one mask for another without jeopardizing the play.  Love is an image sabotaged out of the necessity for transformation and so she loves the man that needs to transform her, if only so she can feel her image worthy of sabotage.

Love is keeping yourself in reserve for those moments that draw from the deepest well in your heart.

Love is a word carelessly thrown around until it finds hands careful enough to catch its significance and responsible enough to carry all the repercussions that come along with every chance throw.

If woman is insatiable, then it so you don’t become bored with the truth and the fertile ground of possibilities.  Love is playing with an inexhaustible flame until you become insatiable for a sun that is strong enough to break her ground.  Love is growing between the cracks that only open up when the truth is direct.

How calm and gentle her seas become when his pride swells.  Why then does his pride insist on pursuing the monster that lurks beneath her smooth surface?  But is the monster also an illusion?  Is love insisting on the illusion that brings us closer to death and out of our depth?  And isn’t our pride always on the hunt for a good illusion?  Yet, doesn’t killing every good illusion bring us closer to life?   But for an illusion to be good, it needs to have depth and so every good hunter must take pride in everything light… and in this way, love can have life, rescued to new depths that have finally learned to enjoy her gentle surface and unlearn death.

What does a woman in love even look like?  Her face is never quite revealing enough.  Is love then never confident enough to completely reveal itself, or is everything hidden too confident to show itself?  Woman is a window cracked open just enough to hear the confident song of the birds that are always searching for curious ears.  Love is passing through our imagination with glimpses of uncertain possibilities beautiful and revealing enough to let in those rare breezes that keep our midday love cool so we don't crack too soon, so our song might be enchanting enough to fly past even the birds and settle into the sunset we can only see through her window, where she finally looks back at us with a love that reveals our light.

Love is Feminine, Woman:

Destructive, and for Man, it is a medium to create anew.
Subversion, and for Man, it is inactivity.
Insensible, and for Man, it is sensibility.
Unreasonable, and for Man, it is an obsession to stand to reason with.
Superficial, and for Man, it is elusive.
Chaos, and for Man, it is ostensible Order.
Reassurance, and for Man, it is mental and emotional instabilities.
Occupation, and for Man, it is deemed Honor and Flattery by any on behalf of Woman.
Ideal, and for Man, it has Real consequences.
Boredom, and for Man, it is that which is lacking.
Unsatisfied, and for Man, it is that which isn't satisfactory.
Depression, and for Man, it is something less than it can offer.
Naive motivation, and for Man, it is unenergetic.
Fear, and for Man, it is unknown.
Possession, and for Man, it is loss.

Meaningless, and for Man, it is unfulfilled.

Unattainable, and for Man, it is attained.
Exaggerated, and for Man, it is subtle.
Inexplicable, and for Man, it is explanatory.
Conditional, and for Man, it is is unconditioned.
Burdensome, and for Man, it is shouldered.

Women want your time and attention.  If you can keep your distance you can give them an eternity and the attention of the gods.

Love starts so early we sometimes forget how alive we felt in our initial impression, when we didn’t take remembering so seriously.  But love is the most serious memory and it requires a necessary amount of forgetting to remind us of how playful life can be, so our all our impressions may be lasting, no matter how late they come.

Is every passing woman an opportunity to seize the moment?  Or is the opportunity seized once she has passed?  Where does love find its moment?  The eternal questions for all of love’s opportunists who can’t let the moment be.  Love is found in the transition to those questions that keep us from passing away from all doubt, where the innocence of woman is becoming regained so our time doesn’t remain lost.

Getting into a screaming match with a woman is like throwing a stone into the pond.  She is always going to match the size of your stone with waves of proportional size.  Love is having the courage and strength to pick up heavier stones to throw while having the lightness and grace to interpret her ripple effect.  Love is the disturbance and the calm, the screams that reverberate in every silent truth, and the violent surface that comes alive in your gentle depth.

Our path is paved with a light that reveals how much lighter we can become, the subtle task of understanding the light that touches our longing, the women that dance on the landscape of our thoughts, and the men that continue to dream of new worlds to play in.  Love is dreaming of new suns to expose a lack of clarity in the day.

Woman attracts with an image that is blowing up in your mind with a fury that never seems to be completely sexual or idealistic.  And love is a mad craving for those images and ideals that renew the mystery of sexual attraction.

Is she afraid his gentlest being could turn violent or that his violence is continually turning gentle, leaving her glaring aggression without a flashy home?  Love is giving style to violence with all the “gentleness” in her eyes, the glances that carry away our aggression and rescue her flare ups to harder to reach destinations.

How is it that she can be in the light and the shade at the same time?  How long do our questions remain in the shade before they can see the light?  Love is rescuing a time to shine that we can only see after we’ve wrestled with the question of her shade.  And love’s brightest questions are always fading back to a place where the only answer is a little shade.

Only a razor sharp spirit can cut through love’s beautiful images.

It’s because woman is so curt that you shouldn’t drag out the meaning of her absence.  She’s always returning to those words that swiftly capture her presence.

She needs to see the commitment in your eyes before she’ll promise you the puzzle in hers.

Her tears form a river of longing that always leads to a damming up of his strength.

Is the only way to find our best by assuming her worst?  But doesn’t her endless need for our best keep our fire from going out?  And in this way her worst is becoming our best.  Love is a fire at the mercy of the night, where even the darkest assumptions are burnt for light.

Her need to give birth is always a cruel reminder of life’s grinder, and love is always grinding out new images born from her cruelty.  But is the cruelest tragedy one where she doesn’t become pregnant with his love?

With woman, everything is a back and forth until victory is coming forward and she has your back.

In order to anticipate her every move, you need to move past your need to anticipate.  And in this way, you’re always ahead of her, the circle that has finally learned how to swallow its own predictions.  And now she anticipates a rare chance meeting with a moment unpredictable enough to love, that carries more future possibilities than she could ever anticipate.  Love is carrying her across the uneven terrain she hates and loves, the confidence gained with every uncertain step, and the clock pregnant with her unpredictable schedule that’s always showing her the right time to rise and rest.  Love is arriving in a future she always knew to be true, the places where time is conquered to make just enough room in the moment for two, where truth is shared by covetous difference, and irreducible time is reduced by laughter.  Love is cycling through her heavy pain until she can bear the light of his eternity and the tragedy that always follows from flirting with time.  Love is so tragic it’s comedic and her laugh is always the beginning of his rise and fall.

Woman’s intelligence betrays itself with a body that never completely understands itself.  And man often betrays his intelligence for a woman’s body.  Ideas live and die in a woman depending on how seriously we take her body.  And the most fruitful ideas are playing with her body no matter how serious and unconcerned her posture is.  

Her eyes hint at a child that's already arrived and yet to come.

She’s so violent he has to have it.  So love burns.

He takes pride in the small things so she doesn't become too big.  

She's so accommodating of his worst inclinations that he's inclined to do his best.

Love is tearing down boundaries with an unlimited passion that is always leaving behind new limits.

Are we winning over her love or her love for our type of winning?

In love, what must be expressed and said is soon lost in what can’t be expressed and said.  But this is no reason to lose yourself in what can’t be said.  Love is finding expression in those words that lend themselves to silence even if they are lost on the many.

The best women invite back with a presence too meaningful and pressing to pass up or forget.  So the best truths invite you to give her meaning until her presence is pressed into your memory and you can pass through the fire of truth.  And is the man that so easily forgets her presence meant for the truth?  And is it true that love is always meant for two?

Does man want to appear strong before woman or strong before his image of woman?  That his image could always reflect strength no matter her appearance.  And doesn’t love start by questioning our reflection in those eyes that are destined to give us strength?

Their aggression brought them closer and further apart until, like stars in the night sky that seem so close, they burned forever at unimaginable distances for everyone to see.

Every peak is preceded by an acute feeling of her indifference that cuts right through everything we’ve prided ourselves on.  Does her need always seem too heavy to handle or is everything heavy becoming light around her?  Our pride is always asserting the latter with new weightlifting wisdom, so she remains light enough to carry to new peaks.  She’s always losing just enough weight for his ascent.  And how indifferent every mountain is to man’s love for climbing.  And how she loves to fall with his love

Are women so keen to recognize us at our peak that we have learned to love solitude?  We always want to share our heights and she always wants to share her fall.  Love is an unequal exchange of gifts.  But is love ever shared for solitude?  Love is recognizing the right company to rise and fall with.

Sometimes a woman becomes so infatuated with a man she becomes his little helper, eager for the playful tasks he sets.  But she tires of this soon enough, and he realizes the problem of work in her need.  She only wants to be reminded of how playful life can be and never how much work she needs.  And how much work is required to generate those moments where love is free to play.

She’s so in-tune with herself but can she sing his song?

Women become bored with love at different rates than men.  So he should be cautious of rating his love based on her excitement.

Women don’t know how to be indifferent to themselves like men.  And how much wisdom must be in this.  She is an open secret unlocked with different keys.

No matter how disruptive she is we can’t think without her.  And she’s always insisting that we not think for her.  But is love an independent thought, and does sharing it always lead to disruption?

She has to be careful not to be too nice or he’ll get the wrong impression.  Only woman could make joy a burden.  And only man could care to lift her burden with the right impression.

Is the world always one good love story away from major change, or is life a ceaseless continuation of cliffhangers?  Love is creating a story that sends you over the edge.

Does desire make her seem better than she is, or do we always desire to see her in the best light?  That our desire could be seamless so we might learn to trust the night.

She doesn’t want to be abused or put on a pedestal.  She only wants to be put in a place where she saves face.  And now she can smile back.  But how many sad places does love need to go first?

We live an age where love makes men uneasy and makes things too easy for women.

He’s so fair to her that he never reminds her how unfair she can be.  She’s so fair she can’t even handle the truth.  She’s most favorable when he doesn’t need to tip the scales in his favor with the truth.  And love isn’t about giving lessons in good manners.

Woman won’t be confined to metaphor, but she’s not fast enough for his ideal.  She’s always running with his ideal but never finishing ahead of him.  He’s always finding new limits for her body that never reach the finish.  Is love then the pain of her pace, or his pride for a race where she is free run without worrying about finishing ahead of him?

She laments that he can’t be more of a man.  But he never laments that she can’t be more of a woman.  In fact, less is more.

Is it true that his creative act is always more of an act than hers, or is she just a very convincing actress?  Or maybe she prefers to act in his creation.  That love could be creative enough to question even the pregnant director.

He followed her heat to hell until he was cool enough to be a flame.

Do we write best when it’s cloudy or sunny?  That our words could push aside the clouds for the sun.

He floated through life until he found the woman that gave him ground.

Her indecision draws out his most playful and serious states.

She loves to disappear so he might find the magic to make love reappear.  But all he has are those stupid doves.

In order to speak accurately of women you need to first aim straight through your own heart.

Image queen meets her image king.

He doesn’t like it when she acts like a man.  He only likes it when she acts without acting.  But is this acting like a woman?

She can’t help but laugh when he mocks her.  Love encourages joy in the most puzzling ways.

If politics is about the expansion and contraction of the male-female dynamic, then the greatest politics is fluid enough so clear heads can rule no matter how contradictory she is or how expansive his ambition becomes.

Love is a red flag planted in every conquering heart.

She’s suspicious of all false love and mystery.  And when she finally believes, we become suspicious.  Passion makes cautious so love mysteriously turns.

Love encourages wonder in the most brutal and delicate ways.

Women say they are let down by love.  Is this why men have mastered the art of letting her down easy?

She says his jealousy is unjustified but how can life be justified without suspicion?

All talk of love seems too leisurely, and all action seems incomplete without proper description.

She doesn’t love him because his words are believable but because his words always seem to lead back to her.  But does this mean she loves herself?  She continues to read him hoping the truth will spill out.  Love is turning into a spring that leaves her question in doubt.

Love is like one of those beloved old street lamps at night providing for just enough light and darkness for her to slip in and out of your dream scene.

Is Love about the sacrifice to be with her or the sacrifice so she doesn’t die?  Is love about feeling sacrifice is inevitable or that no sacrifice is sufficient?  If the most abysmal thought is one without her, then isn’t love about sacrificing everything to cross the abyss?  And aren’t we willing to cross even life to be with her?  And isn’t it inevitable that we find her when we’ve finally sacrificed our attachment to life and death, when our love is sufficiently beyond the limits of heaven and hell?

She needs to know that you can weather her storm before she can let you enjoy her finer weather.

He saw into the void.  He brushes it off, “It was nothing.”  Brushing off love, now that’s something.

In place of love is hope.  And when love is in place we hope for nothing.

So hard to leave the skin that tears me from my place, too soft to touch, all misery follows from her feel for the sun.

Nothing you can say will keep her in place, but she might stay still for a moment when your words are chaste.

Is he becoming too light?  Her concern is always a heavy one.

To paint a picture of her requires you steal all the colors of her nature.

Through the best myths we find the clearest light.

Is life finding a voice to speak of love without weakness, and are we emptying our life of excess to hear it?  Love is a voice only heard when life is full and finding a voice to speak with excess strength.

Is beauty so important to her that her glance is a gift?  Is our inspiration a small thing to her?  That our beauty could inspire her to open her eyes, even for a moment.  Love becomes large enough to see when the smallest moment is inspiring.

Is his sensitivity a front?  Is she sensitive enough to tell?  He’s sensitive enough to keep her concerns in the back of his mind no matter what her love tell hers.

Is love becoming strong so she’ll return or so you have the strength to return her?  She seems only to return when we have the strength for her question.

Love is the vitality that shines through the most necessary caricature.

Why is it so hard to decide whether or not to call her back?  Even from a known location far away, her voice makes him question the meaning of their distance and his place on the line.  Love is an unanswered call where the thought of her voice is always ringing with possibilities.

Love is the urgency becoming calm without losing its edge, the graciousness that doesn’t shy away from a fight.

Woman doesn’t easily admit that man is better at seduction than her.  So why then is she so easily seduced?  Does this offer her the best way to admit her love?  She wants to be found out so he’ll keep trying to find a way in.  And does the price of admission keep us from being free?

When a man hasn’t been with a woman in a while, does he need to get the demons out or put them back in?  Does he run the risk of becoming too angelic by spending too much time away?  Is he descending to her, or is she ascending to him?  Love is learning to fly in hell once you’ve cut your angel wings.

We love to fight when our music agrees with our cause.  But love is having the strength to fight even when silence drowns out your favorite cause while staying cautious to the sound of even your most favorite music.  Love is maintaining a necessary degree of disagreeableness so that even the most beautiful music and cause doesn’t become ugly.

Does his pride swell most when she is near or far?  Or is pride about bringing her closer no matter how distant she is?  And now does she love him even when he's far?  And isn’t love the storm that keeps the necessary distance between the light and the ship?  And doesn’t the sailor have the hardest time deciding if he loves his ship more than the light that offers safety in times of great danger?  Love is the pride for building ships that brings us closer to the question of her critical passage.  And now her love swells for him when he becomes dangerous enough for the distant light.

Only eternal life will due for the girl whose yes’s and no’s always confuse.

At what point does her aggression become a transgression?  Is balance restored by the difference in his aggression?  Her silence is never a submission and her voice always seems to arouse his resistance.  Does she get mad because she’s jealous of his fight?  She always feels left out, but is this why she’s always so hard to ignore?  And when he gets mad, is she too much in his fight?  Or is his anger the climax of her concern?  Is calm ever an answer, or is she finding new calm in his anger?  Love is leaving us with new boundaries to fight over and new loves for transgression, the caring that goes with cutting your opponent to new heights.

Christ was loved most, but Nietzsche will be loved best.

Like-minded individuals can sometimes exhaust each other when similarities prevent needed conflict and questions come to a halt.  But the answer to rejuvenation never comes with an insult.  Love is taking time away so you can re-engage with the delicacy required for all worthwhile conflict.

Is love at bottom a need to see what can’t be felt?  And is this why love is such a tragic surface?  Love is feeling its way to the surface so she doesn’t remain in the depth and you don’t remain blind to the tragedy that can only be felt when you look forward to turning everything as above so below.

Is she blurring the lines between decency and curiosity, or is our curiosity becoming decent around her curves?  And isn’t love decent enough to keep her lines unmarked?

She has a way of absorbing things and everything rolls off her surface.  She is made to be an eternity to bear his short time.  Is this why she’s so short tempered?  Love is learning to tumble with her anger so your time can sink in.

Is she so wild that we need to tame our perception of her? Love is letting her run wild in your imagination until she can’t imagine being without your control.

Is love about putting things in a more presentable way or reconfiguring a timeless present?

We don’t ask to see her and so she is there.  Why then would you ask for her attention?  Love is giving attention to those who see without looking.

She’s the type of girl you go to war for.  But love is only becoming victorious when you turn over new suns in her seas.

If woman is unforgiving then doesn’t this offer him the means to push out the most unforgiving ideas?  And if she forgives him was his idea of her incorrect?  And isn’t love pulling us down to a place where we find no mistakes so we might be able to stand up with our toughest corrections?  But does he want to correct her or lead with corrections that always return to love’s unmistakable face?

Is her ideal of him ever comparable to his ideal of her?  That they could be idealistic enough to build their love in contrast.

Why does she guard her image, and is her intelligence at odds with his image of her?  And why are so many men eager to be guard dogs?  She’ll concede a smile when his image of her is fair.  But how much of the wolf is still in her concession and how much cunning is in a look?  Love is hunting for those intelligences that need to play the most unfavorable odds.

Her golden tan is for nothing unless lions roam her surface.

After experiencing something powerfully beautiful, we become dead set on incorporating the experience into our reality, as if the very meaning of our life was at stake.  Love isn’t about raking up beautiful experiences, but being powerful enough to drive the stake through the most beautiful image, if only for her sake.  And in this way beauty never dies, and she never becomes just another experience.

A muse is a woman who manages to fan the flames in your heart with a flame of her own.

Is she reluctant to see two rival lovers fight each other over her because she’ll lose something if they fight or because they’ll gain something she doesn’t want them to see?  Does she know she can never be won over, or does she prefer they not see the blood that all love costs?  Love is fighting over the wisdom in blood and the cost of violence in her eyes.

Does she need to be pushed back to see her vanity is a front?

He finds her at dusk when his light is turned green by a desire that pulls at him to discover all the secrets hidden between the day and night.  Love is learning to grow in the near dark with a light that brings you closer to your dream.

She’s good at reading his seriousness but even better at comprehending his laughter.

The secret of life is between the girl you make laugh and the girl who looks on with envy and mockery.

The only way to scale her meaning is to keep painting her scales different colors.  But this is a never-ending task, so sometimes you have to scale her down to size.

A man’s work is only as good as the woman he’s ready to throw it away for at any given moment.  Once he is ready to toss away everything he thinks is into her river, a bridge readies itself for the crossing of the man he will become and the work that never leaves her undone.  Now the moment gives back, and his work is never taking his love.

Woman’s difficult position: she doesn’t want to betray his sensitivity, but she knows how much she can handle.  And isn’t love being sensitive enough to handle the difficulty she faces?  And aren’t we easy on the eyes when our look tells her we’re ready to handle any position she decides to play in?

In love, when is the right time to be serious and when is the right time to laugh?  Always before we laugh away its significance and become too serious for our own good.  Love is the tension between moods that’s exciting enough to brood.  And now her smile bends back our own good will.

Love is opening up a space to attack those ideals that claw at your soul.

The harder she tries the more he expects of himself.

She put her image on the line so he could dry in the wind.  Or is it the other way around?  It’s hard to say which way the wind will blow.  But all images fade to the color of the sun.

Desire is neither directionless nor narrowly focused.  Nor does it seek to accommodate as much as possible for the sake of accommodation.  Desire is taking on as much as it can to accommodate a place where intuition blows us north with her returning winds.  And now her wild eyes have focus between his, and love finds its best accommodation as they meet in a Mediterranean of their own making.

Is it fortunate that her eyes are so intelligent to see the flaws of passion, or is it our misfortune to be so passionate for her eyes?  Do better questions lead to better vision or more unfortunate answers?  And are all questions so flawed that we passionately seek answers in her eyes?  Love is seeing the passion in her eyes when she looks the other way and finding fortune in all that blinds.

Love is beauty and violence harmonizing on her surface, the scene that aches with her presence.

He is turning her impression of him into a dream she needs to stay awake for.

Is love on the run and does she love all passersby?

Only the hero is free to unchain the fire in his heart and rescue the knowledge that burns in the dark.

How can you trust another person’s heart unless you’ve felt their beat?

Love is speaking what is close to your heart without surrendering the beat that is your own.

Love isn’t letting your own richness prevent you from risking your wealth. We’re rich enough to be poor and wealthy enough to be rich.

Love is the pain that synchronizes for the sake of life, the pride profound enough to pull from the covetous well without twisting longing in thirst.

You can never move forward if you need to stay in the back of her mind.

She doesn’t want to compliment you she wants you to complement life.

Contact in life makes contact in dreams so much more poignant.

Love is never the poetry without teeth that lulls your dreams to sleep.

She knows where she places among other women but never sure where she sits in his heart.

He's polite enough to be rude with ideas that interrupt her most self-satisfied mood.

To not have to talk to her when she presents herself so close.  This is the stuff legends talk about far away.

She was his best inspiration, and now she can rest knowing life was bested.

The shame became insurmountable until love offered him a moment high enough to fight for.

The inquisitive woman cuts herself on her own curiosity and finds this all the more curious.

Love must be that rare chance meeting when two minds meet at their peak.

He’s as good as the last word that leaves him forever in the immediacy of her mind.  And if it’s hard to part with the ones we love, then it’s because it’s so hard to outlive the moment that gives us all the life we need.

Is her loyalty tested and reassured in the midst of multiple men?  Or is she just loyal to this idea?  Even they couldn’t imagine the heart that is loyal to life’s core.

She says with a grin he is too much, and he can never get enough of this.

Can you love an intelligence, or do you love the body that gives to its rise?  Love is finding the conditions where the flowers of our most loved body can thrive.

Friendship: the shared joy in conquering the world with a love that leaves tigers feeling like kittens.

Love is a prison of silence where everyone wants to break out the words you keep to yourself.

He thinks of deleting all of his messages so she can save his memory with only a memory.  We imprint ourselves without her knowing it.

She’s too sweet to taste and never sour enough to stop trying.  Love is the longing always on the tip of the tongue.

It’s not enough to test yourself by not wanting to see her.  It’s that seeing her is never enough for her even though you’re always finding new ways to want with her image.  Is desire then only truly tested when your want is reflecting her need to protect the image that grows best dreams?

When things become “cute” the danger is great.

Love is tiring of itself when you lack the energy to keep her awake.

Love is taking turns with loneliness.

Women are always ready for beauty, but are we ready to become beautiful?

Woman tests the limits of desire in a voice that’s too incessant to let wolves become dogs.

We’re winning over a love we say we have the strength to go without, but her voice would soon haunt the halls of victory if her words didn’t factor into our attack.  The heaviest factor becomes light when her last word finds the man that responds in kind with a silence that reflects her might.  And now we have the weight for the Valkyrie’s flight, and love isn’t burdened with lifting weakness out of sight.

I didn’t mean to close you off, please refresh without incident, my love that lets me roam around your open stream.

She loves a good drama until the drama becomes too much to manage and then she loves it even more.  As if she could ever manage to put down the mirror.  And not when he makes the prospect of checking her reflection so appealing.

A good aphorism comes from a willingness to tear your body apart for a small space in time.  A certain vision for space that can only open up when every moment rejects what isn’t mine.  The stored memory of stars flashed in a few words on a surface too light for most to see.  And lastly, the eternal instance of the right word.

The girl who only reveals a little because she’s too hot to show more is often seen on his dance floor in the coolest style.

She’s a force that can’t be subordinated but finds all the missing pieces of her heart in his will.

No matter what you realize beforehand, being with a woman always alters your trajectory in unpredictable ways until your will is realizing the strength it always had in the fires that become your alter.  And now your paths cross.

Love anticipates the singularity it’s diverse enough to live without.

Love is keeping the promise you never make.

If violence is at the heart of all things then do you put your heart into violence?  And doesn’t this require so much nervous energy?

You always want to steal one more smile from the girl who knows how to save her heart.

No matter her nature she’s inevitably pushed to a place unbearable if it weren’t for the gentle pull of beauty.  Her secret Apollonian love.

Love is the sun that reveals itself in good time to those that spin with her eternal clock. And don’t we wish we could stop time to kiss the sun? But doesn't the sun prefer to kiss her surface?

She loves the anger that trembles her being that comes in the cloth gentle enough to wear her vibrations.

Love is a moment sealed with a kiss and broken with a promise, unlocking those words that keep your lips close without touching the truth.

Do we have so much pride in what we can become because it will necessarily benefit those we care for? Or do we have pride for a sun that has enough care to consume?

The sun on your skin helps reveal the dreams that evaporate in your glow, the glimpses of a kingdom I become light enough to show.

Love is never withdrawing from roughness while questioning the rough approach. We never forget the roughness that brought us about.

Is the prospect of her being gone forever so unbearable that life was created?

Light becomes vision between her sensual thighs, and he sees through the sun with new green in his eyes.

Do we fool ourselves thinking she’s always ready to embrace a fine victory? Is she foolish enough to embrace our victory, or does her embrace keep us foolish? Love is walking a tight line over the most conquering and conquered feelings, while being strong enough to embrace everything foolish enough to slip with a smile that’s always fading into its own misfortune and balancing act.

Is love knowing the most beautiful moment shared together can’t be realized with continued contact while desiring nothing more? Is the ugliest thing dragging out a beautiful moment for the sake of need? Love is never realizing the truth of beauty and contact while knowing how necessary they are to contact the wisdom of life.

She’s wants him until she’s back into herself and wants only for the brush of power. And to take her out of herself requires the most graceful brushstroke and powerful choice of colors. But doesn’t she love to brush off the most beautiful painting and wander into another man’s canvas, back into the stream where her colors are free to be found? And isn’t love putting back the best fish so you can learn to paint the ocean?

She can love and even idealize the man that insults and treats her badly, provided he show the right amount of passion, especially in her time of need. But the loudest men are too quiet for insults, and she can’t help but listen with nature when the departing wind drops what isn’t needed and carries away the leaves full of orange and red lust. Love is an ideal tall enough for change that plants its roots in the pain that nourishes and branches out with a longing to discover the limits of all strong gusts.

Love bleeds green when she remains to be seen, the flower that flourishes when we learn to water the night.

We heal ourselves with a momentum that doesn’t forget the woman who moves us when we’re still.

Our wings wave goodbye to good fortune on a return flight of chance.

Somewhere between wanting and being wanted is a man who stands his ground.

Her fear is always that it was a bad play and life won’t be stronger.

We revel in the light until our mood darkens us for the better.

What are his intentions and motivations she likes to ask herself as he looks forwards. Does he intend me for that place he looks? Does his stillness speak to my movement? And how much movement is in those eyes that have no fixed place that seem to laugh at her love for the chase? And doesn’t she always intend to find out with more movement? She wants to know how much fight he has overcome and how much stronger this has made him for future fights. Is he motivated by greed or is he flexible enough for the twisted path that leads to her eternal treasure? And what does he intend to do with her riches? Is his nature golden enough to stay poor and never sell-out her hurt? She always wants to know that his eyes can accommodate the unplanned pregnancy and guarantee a future secure enough for birth. And all pregnancy is bursting at the seams that she covers with a perpetual movement, the voluptuous dance that raises the temperature of his blood and tests the capacity of his heart to chamber the hottest impressions while pumping out a stream of cool images that seem to conceal the most ideal place for birth. And doesn’t she bank on her image in hopes of finding a man that can provide her with the best conditions? But is her love ever so conditional to lose the passion for all beauty that binds and blinds? And isn’t she always bound up in her love for the child so beautiful she can hardly see? Love is a heart that beats fast enough to dance in order to aid the focus that brings about the coolest style, so we might step into the river without losing our step in her rapid movement. Does the child arrive at her banks in a style unseen, and don’t we often forget the necessary winding rough waters that bring untimely birth? And how much indecision yet remains in her adopted style and tempting movement? Love is the fire that flashes before her decision is made, burning at its own distance with a pregnancy close enough to win her trust, the stillness she feels drawn to touch with a movement that escapes every man’s clutch.

Our words are bathed in a blood that comes to the surface of her uncracked skin, a history of deep wounds that can only sink into her heart when our love is light enough to blush. Love is the unseen blood spilled for the right word, the battle worn sayings she wears on her surface, and the chain reaction that begins on the skin and unfolds in the heart until not even a question of appearance can keep them apart.

My eternity that admits no mistake except its peak love for you, the summer day whose place is highest in my heart, the memory that holds my greatest health so close to the heat that burns at youth, the moment where beauty is seen with a light heavy with responsibility, and the will that carries you into the darkest possibilities with a vision that cuts with all the sharpness of a blade of grass.

The stars that bathe in her milky skin that leave me pale enough for the nourishing moonlight, a wandering night, where living dreams shadow wishful longing and stillness howls at the coming comet. There they stand, imaginations reposed, destined to stumble upon a creative moment and share this moving space, as love passes between barely pursed lips and up through a vibrant light reaching its path in a million blades of grass, the sea of green on which all desire sails away.

A lass drove me to cigarettes and a Lady drove me away from them.

Not even loneliness can haunt the man whose love scares away ghosts.

She wonders why he doesn’t ask him more questions. She’s so ready to give him the answer he doesn’t want to hear that leaves a thousand new questions ringing in his ear.

His head turns as she passes, and her head turns as he speaks. Love is twisting to find the words that can pass through the most promising horizon.

It’s incorrect to say woman is averse to contest. She contests nature as she struts her stuff. And nature is conquered when we learn to march with the wild horses of love without trampling on the order that mocks all excessively lustful movements.

The sea that he stole on the ship that he left is recovered in the depth of his heart where the promise of sunken treasure glitters on the water’s surface, and every treasure hunter sails away with the jewel of another man’s shipwrecked love.

Strong enough to flirt with chance and recover from the most deadly glance, so life bends at the edge of love for one more courageous look into the gaze that heals the ambition of all hesitant cliff jumpers.

She lives on the edge of a dream, the scenes that cut to the heart of creation and split open the most vital contents of your imagination until the sun is bursting in flames with barely a touch and a history of longing is twisting up and around a moment with a speed too quick to grasp. We desire to live in a moment always catching fire with unexpected glances, a memory ignited in passing that leaves a trail of fading and fighting flames back to some new eternal spark, and with enough fuel leftover for the bodies burning in the distance. Love is pacing yourself for the drawn out explosion while keeping the coil in your heart hot, the greedy vine and greedier flower, and life’s suffocating hold revealed by the slow choke.

He stole the color from her skin to navigate the cosmos on a band of dreams that kept him bound to life, across the space where love is free to cross, through the stars that admit no loss, and back into the heart that penetrates the ground where the best light grows with water drawn from the night sky, the words that take a chance with the tears she soon forgets in a heavenly smile.

She ran away with his love and left him stranded in the dark until he learned to plant his longing without leaving a mark. And now she springs back to life through illuminated soil and he finds the flower too quiet to touch. But even a clenched fist won’t crush the flower of your love if you’re planted firmly in the moment.

The lights at night produce an orange mist that glows with mysterious familiarity, the incubating passion in the atmosphere’s cool moist heart that calls on a dream to rescue the loneliest road with imposing roadblocks of light, cutting off the worst longing for her company and pave a new path of gold to the most impossible midnight and devoted diffused desire.

The late night coffee black as the wet pavement that excites a midnight cruise to the stars, the night sky dizzy with destiny, slowly drifting past the well placed street lamps where the green plant of consciousness grows under dedicated light. Love is traveling at a speed that doesn’t stir the stillness of dreams where lightning sleeps in veiny leaves and hearts charge in the humid space where she conducts her dance.

How can you share the spoils of your heart with eyes too poetic for words? Love is learning to hide your treasure in silence until gold reflects in a glance.

perpetualburn wrote:

The sea that he stole on the ship that he left is recovered in the depth of his heart where the promise of sunken treasure glitters on the water’s surface, and every treasure hunter sails away with the jewel of another man’s shipwrecked love.

Theseus - Ariadne - Dionysos...


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Question is,

Was Ariadne *meant for Dionysos?... or only a matter of perspective where one can appear meant for the other...

Do you believe in predestination?


Under the Corona Borealis...

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Quote :

Nietzsche is like Abraham but far beyond Abraham.  God commands Abraham.  Nietzsche commands himself.  God stands good for Abraham’s deliverance.  Only another mortal can stand good for Nietzsche’s deliverance as the play of will to power  who resounds the event as will to power. Thus, all gods die as superfluous, in the passion of two human hearts – and the overhuman is not lost, but promised in greater possibility!

As Bataille said: “Can the gift a man makes of his madness for his peers be accepted by them without it being returned with interest?  And if it is not the derision of he who receives the madness of another like a royal bequest, what could possibly be the response in kind?”  Ariadne has been seduced and challenged.

Quote :

Nietzsche poses a riddle with his self-hanging, but it is a riddle of the terrible abyss.  Only terrible ones, birds of prey, will be able, not to redeem him (erlösen), but to unravel him (lösen); to take the thread, to unravel the plot of his self-hanging, self-knowing and lead him out of the cave into the strong glowing noon-day sun.  To truly know the self is to hang the self.  Nietzsche chooses the mantle of ‘madness’ as his self-annihilation.  He will look deformed, contorted, weary, no longer the godless hermit.  Most will flee from him, pity and defame the deformed shell he has become, or worse, deify the ‘broken’ one; only birds of prey who can laugh maliciously and deliciously, and so tenderly, at the spectacle of a ‘mad’ Nietzsche will see anything further here than collapse, betrayal, negation of the great affirmer.  If the birds of prey are to ‘resolve’ the question-mark that Nietzsche is, the riddle that he poses, they must do it out of the riddles of their own abysses and preying upon abysses.

-[To Nietzsche: Dionysus, I Love You! Ariadne]

Are we meant to ask why to hungry eyes that live only to pry?  Love is preying on the questions that open up new feeding frenzies and rifts of meaning, the glances that glow in the darkest abyss and fly circles around re-animated corpses.

She’s made of the sea but can’t even swim to him, the pearl that can only float to the surface when it’s made to laugh at the value it acquires on land.  And now she can swim with a smile to the man who sacrifices his love to the refining process of waves, the dark sunken heart made all the more curious by the laughter that reflects on her surface.  And now even treading water is interesting.

The reality in her eyes can only dream of the tears in his.  And only he can see the heart that cries for more life.  We plant ourselves in a glance that reveals our roots, and love is finding water for our favorite desert rose.

Can you change the heart that only really starts beating in your presence, the pounding of history back to its beginning?  Only if you train your heart to never finish beating for her no matter how alarming your heart rate gets so you can pass through the hottest moment and hammer out a future that can change with her presence.  Love is beating fast enough for the unpredictable moment, the reality that never skips a beat as she steps into the change that lets her keep dancing even if history is second guessing its origin.

She asks, “What does he even want from me?”  He responds, “Everything and more.”  The hollow questions that demand a push to open love’s hallowed door.

The rage in his heart grows like a flower to be plucked by careless hands.

To know how to flirt well is to know how to die well, and to tempt ruination with the colors that run down her hips.  Love is a canvas that lives off the colors we spill on her surface.

Some people want to gift themselves as beautiful without first growing in the shadows of more beautiful plants.  Love is burning the leaves of all hasty attempts to showcase color without the patience for proper root development and the heedful caution for overwatering.  And how many more beautiful branches full of plentiful green grow around the need to be beautiful.

Love isn’t so much described as inscribed, and there’s nothing ambiguous about the writing carved into his heart even if her words should fall on cracked lips.

She trips on her white dress as desire keeps hunting for its wedding down an aisle on fire.

Affirmed by chance to steal another kiss from the twinkle in her eye, and draw more moisture into the river that longs to run down the hair that’s silkier than even the sky.

How do I know your mood so good?  I’ve been there a thousand times when the summer enabled me to court your daytime heat so we might explore the pleasant night.

The warrior and the whore are bound to ravage life in the fires that keep all good marriages together.

They have a passion for passion and the mirror that’s hot to the touch.

Can you steal a kiss when she’s not looking?  And if love is blind, then what’s there to lose?  Love isn’t so much about risking sight but gambling on those eyes that are speechless when your vision is brazen.

She says with a seductive grin, “He destroyed me.”  Correcting her playfully he interjects, “It’s not true, she’s still there…I think.”  And how much further destruction is needed to find the truth so she might laugh again at her “death.”

Back into the earth where a new sun sleeps so it can one day wrestle with the plant that shelters all his dreams.   Between the earth and the sun, only love pulls most selfishly at his growth.

The devastated core of life that heals all crooked paths with curious tectonic shifts and tests man’s resolve to rage against the balance of nature.

Show me your love or leave me stranded on pink sands to pick up seashells alone and whisper secrets to a sinking sun.

The garden of my love freezes over when you’re in distress, so help heal my heart by biting my chest.  Love is growing in the teeth marks that bite back.

She lets the betrayal marinate until she can’t even turn away without seeing him in the most heated decision.  Love cooks on the loneliest rock in the desert and not even vultures can carry away his flesh without revealing his light.

She keeps disappearing into the night that keeps all his love until he can reap all the secrets from the dark sun.  And now midnight flows through his veins, and he can exercise the poetry in his heart.

He doesn’t so much filter her world as she enjoys trying on different sunglasses and all the while the light laughs at this spectacle.

perpetualburn wrote:

Can you change the heart that only really starts beating in your presence, the pounding of history back to its beginning?  Only if you train your heart to never finish beating for her no matter how alarming your heart rate gets so you can pass through the hottest moment and hammer out a future that can change with her presence.  Love is beating fast enough for the unpredictable moment, the reality that never skips a beat as she steps into the change that lets her keep dancing even if history is second guessing its origin.

She asks, “What does he even want from me?”  He responds, “Everything and more.”  The hollow questions that demand a push to open love’s hallowed door.

The rage in his heart grows like a flower to be plucked by careless hands.

To know how to flirt well is to know how to die well, and to tempt ruination with the colors that run down her hips.  Love is a canvas that lives off the colors we spill on her surface.

Some people want to gift themselves as beautiful without first growing in the shadows of more beautiful plants.  Love is burning the leaves of all hasty attempts to showcase color without the patience for proper root development and the heedful caution for overwatering.  And how many more beautiful branches full of plentiful green grow around the need to be beautiful.

Love isn’t so much described as inscribed, and there’s nothing ambiguous about the writing carved into his heart even if her words should fall on cracked lips.

She trips on her white dress as desire keeps hunting for its wedding down an aisle on fire.

Affirmed by chance to steal another kiss from the twinkle in her eye, and draw more moisture into the river that longs to run down the hair that’s silkier than even the sky.

How do I know your mood so good?  I’ve been there a thousand times when the summer enabled me to court your daytime heat so we might explore the pleasant night.

The warrior and the whore are bound to ravage life in the fires that keep all good marriages together.

They have a passion for passion and the mirror that’s hot to the touch.

Can you steal a kiss when she’s not looking?  And if love is blind, then what’s there to lose?  Love isn’t so much about risking sight but gambling on those eyes that are speechless when your vision is brazen.

She says with a seductive grin, “He destroyed me.”  Correcting her playfully he interjects, “It’s not true, she’s still there…I think.”  And how much further destruction is needed to find the truth so she might laugh again at her “death.”

Back into the earth where a new sun sleeps so it can one day wrestle with the plant that shelters all his dreams.   Between the earth and the sun, only love pulls most selfishly at his growth.

The devastated core of life that heals all crooked paths with curious tectonic shifts and tests man’s resolve to rage against the balance of nature.

Show me your love or leave me stranded on pink sands to pick up seashells alone and whisper secrets to a sinking sun.

The garden of my love freezes over when you’re in distress, so help heal my heart by biting my chest.  Love is growing in the teeth marks that bite back.

She lets the betrayal marinate until she can’t even turn away without seeing him in the most heated decision.  Love cooks on the loneliest rock in the desert and not even vultures can carry away his flesh without revealing his light.

She keeps disappearing into the night that keeps all his love until he can reap all the secrets from the dark sun.  And now midnight flows through his veins, and he can exercise the poetry in his heart.

He doesn’t so much filter her world as she enjoys trying on different sunglasses and all the while the light laughs at this spectacle.

Not bad, Perpetualburn. Where do you derive your inspiration from?

Quote :

Not bad, Perpetualburn. Where do you derive your inspiration from?

The fire in their eyes.


The uncomfortable morning chill and dew that we could never appreciate until our time was too late for the morning.  But you can turn back time when you find the fog in your heart that never lets the mystery of the morning evaporate, the girl who remembers all your dreams without losing her position.  And now the sun can break without disturbing our rest as the first light of morning becomes indistinguishable from the light that scatters in the prism where she sleeps, the dream that wakes up to itself to continue empathizing with the sun and a world illuminated by seamless longing, ready for the red dawn that never fades without a struggle and the clarity of day that never loses its passion

Friendship: Just enough coolness to remain comfortable and enjoy the azure day when the hot and stifling attempts at pregnancy prove unsuccessful.

The longing pressed against his chest until his heart learned to collapse on itself.  And now not even a word can shake the tower of his love.

Are women so concerned with cleanliness because they know what a messy affair love is?  She spends hours in the mirror only so he can smear her makeup with a rough touch.  So why can’t she be rough with the mirror?  Love is eternally reflecting a need to return home, but home never wears makeup or smells of perfume.  And the mirror loses its shine when getting dirty depends on sticking to a scheduled time.

We affirm the light that attacks needless sleep with a dream that needs to be seen.  Love is waking up to a war with darkness.

The tears that reflect every place in the world only fall when you cry for a world that is your own.

Can you trust someone with nothing to lose?  The best trust rests on the shaky ground of those with more to give, so when the ground breaks she can trust her fall won’t be without some gain.  Love is trusting the seed to grow in the darkest chasm where light gives way.

How can he get to her if she doesn’t even know where she is?  Love is empathizing with the position desire puts us in without giving us an out.  And now she finds herself in the light that shines in every direction, and he gets to take her out.

The night grew stronger as dreams flashed before his eyes like black wings and he had no choice but to wake her from her deep slumber with a kiss usually reserved for the gods.  And now she rises with fire in her eyes and they step into the light.

Love is a castle built at twilight where the green dragon sleeps, and all her dreams leak fire that’s so hard to digest.  Love is devouring those hungry eyes and suspiciously soft boundaries between night and day until every space cracks open with the wisdom of her snappy temperament.  And now there’s nowhere for the light to escape without rattling the tight coil of life, and a window opens to the serpent’s rest and revitalizing venom.  Love is twisting for the vision that wraps a flame around the all-seeing heart and stings clarity into sight.

Can you push away the water with a suspicion of everything that’s cold, the secrets we try cut off her surface?  He chases her down to win back everything lost, and she defies gravity at every cost.  And even the sky assists her flight.  She’ll never be caught and now he finds himself transformed in the showers she has become, the light that pours in as spring rain falls down with the warm invigorating drops of victory.  Love is transitioning to those elements that renew the ground of our love.

You the water that leaves no question of identity until the sun dries me off again and all I can see is the empty ocean in your eyes. You speak with the assistance of light about the rains of renewal that only come when we stop searching for completion. And if you can’t help but run then it’s because the water never stops running, the identity that flows through every dream we chase. But I continue to grasp at my eternal heart with a vision of fire and light that fills the day with the spring you washed into sight. And now the ocean blinks with dreamy eyes at the coming of waves that have learned to connect with the water as they crash.

He stole her heart without her consent until she fell in love with the thief that leaves passion burning in the dark.

He doesn’t even look at them, too quick to turn.  He doesn’t even speak and now all speech is superfluous.  Does he even play?  They can’t even play with questions anymore without drifting away from the truth in his eyes.  Love halts time as the presence of statues cracks all attempts at empathy.

Do you know the worst thing in the world for a man is slowing down and that women secretly want to be destroyed?  And is love destroyed before we get to it or reborn in the knowledge that runs too fast for her secrets?  And how often do we stumble on a secret love after a perfect sprint?  Love is running in the dark forest where no light can finish with the man who begs to be seen.  Love is the night that longs to trail behind the day and the light that grabs her arm as she pleads with a wild audience of eyes glowing in the dark.

Stressed by the distinctions that keep them apart his symmetry unfolded like wings to carry her resisting heart.  Love is a body divorced by the sun until he finds the ring that marries her night run.

Love isn’t about figuring out what to say in the moment when you finally go to speak with her; it’s about knowing that no one else but you can read the figure that allows the moment to speak.

We rage against the moment that leaves us wanting more and the pain that keeps us eternal and right.

The secret in her eyes is unraveled by the flame that twists out of sight and into the cold night.

His eyes spell destruction with letters that capitalize on all first and last mistakes and cast nets into hungry seas with hooked glances.

He found her when the night grew heavy under singing stars and stole the voice of an angel so he could sing to the fire, burning a new path to midnight and the chorus of light.  Love is giving voice to the weight that touches us in a dream and the night that envelops the lightest message of our heart.