Poems Quotes - Page 10

I breathe in... The sights and smells Of this city I’ve come to know... So well I gaze... Across the turquoise ocean Where the waves Liberate my spirit... From its shell I breathe in... The brilliant sky line Where the birds Emerge shyly From the dappled sunshine I breathe in... The gently... Blowing winds That soothe me Like a mother, around her child I breathe in... The sounds of laughter Pure and pretty Like the golden-green butterfly I’m always after I breathe in... The closeness, I have always shared With people, Who almost knew me, Almost cared I breathe in... The comfort Of my home, The safe walls, The scents of childhood On the pillows I breathe in...the silence Of my own heart Aching with tenderness... With memories.. Of home I breathe... in... The fragrance Of love, and moist sand The one... His roses left... On both my hands And I just keep on breathing Every moment As much as I can Preserving it, in my body For the day It can’t So I breathe in.. Once again.. Feeling life's energy Fizzing through my cells Never knowing What awaits me Or what's going to happen to me.. Next I breathe in This moment... Knowing it's either life Or it's death I close my eyes, And breathe in Just believing in myself.

There are anonymous poems and poets without poems.

Sometimes my helpless blood runs numb and, if only for a second, I forget how frail bones can be.

Break my heart and you will find yourself inside. 

In fiction, the characters have their own lives. They may start as a gloss on the author’s life, but they move on from there. In poetry, especially confessional poetry but in other poetry as well, the poet is not writing characters so much as emotional truth wrapped in metaphor. Bam! Pow! A shot to the gut.

Fantasy like thought that no man could rainJust let her reignRun wild with her unafraidOf any rain stormsThey only wash the mud away and make wayFor double rainbows and sunny days

Ah! What have you done to yourself my love, asked he.Don't dare to ask! For its your absence that resulted in such despair, said she.Is there any way, I can end this pain and anguish, asked he.Yes, my dear! Seal my lips with no delay, said she with quivering voice.So as you please, my love, followed he.

What have we here, laddie? Mysterious scribblings? A secret code? Oh, poems, no less! Poems, everybody!

Sad that there is books that are based on bad events that has happened. But there is books that has been based on really good events. I like to read the ones that are based on both.

She was everything real in a world of make-believe. 

The seed of our love will always cube within the wonder of infinite.

It was Halloween eve, And I was yearning alone waiting for my soul mate Ethan, He was expected by now for the celebrations in our bedroom, We planned for this, many months back, and now I was getting restless, My dick was erect and making a pole in my boxer - tough to handle 9 inches long of yearning all alone.

I started to think about the abyss that separates the poet from the reader and the next thing I knew I was deeply depressed.

What a strange world. We trade our days for things.

So, the world happens twice--once what we see it as;second it legends itselfdeep, the way it is.

I love not man the less, but nature more

We left dents on each other. Mine was in her heart, and hers was on my car.

You ask how it is possible to be your own father and son. You should seek answers, although it is better to anticipate some, to be the light and dream.

I hear my mom pray every night about how she misses meI want nothing to happen to my little brother the way it happened to meI tell my mom, Keep your head up and stay strong, because I am getting good care in heavenI worry about nothing because Jesus has my backI cry and Jesus comes and wipes my tears from my faceI try to make it to the NBA in heavenI hope everyone is not worried about meI am Brandon in heaven, having fun.

You and I will be lost and found a thousand times along this cobbled road of us.

I hide myself behind, a cloud of smoke; the smoke screen varies, dependent on the variable. The variable consists of: stress, anguish, boredom, madness, anger, depression, apathy, negativity, sex, violence & a little chunk of chaos.

Then you are a poet?' she asked, fingering the flyer in her pocket.'No not at all,' he waved his hand. 'I am merely a character in a poem.

savorwith methe lushnessof a lingering sleep...and last night’sdream.

I want topeel away all the labelsI had once given to othersand place themupon the fabricof my own identity.They have reflected back to me,everything that I refuseto See in myself.

I aspire to be an old man with an old wife laughing at old jokes from a wild youth.

I really don't like art with a message, unless the message is crystal clear.If you have a message that really needs to be said, just fuckin' say it! Don't hide it in indecipherable lyrics... a sculpture, it's a play, the subtext... just fuckin' say it, 'cause the people who need to hear messages are dumb as shit--the masses of humanity are dumb as shit, and you're really just pandering to your friends. Say what the fuck you mean, just say it! Title the song 'eat more leafy greens'. 'Give a hoot, don't pollute' is as much message and art combined, 'cause I get that, it's a poem but I'm pretty sure you're saying 'don't pollute'. But if you have something... 'ooh, I have the cure for cancer...and I've hidden it in this Rubix cube!!' -- just fuckin' say it! - Before Turning the Gun on Himself [2012]

Once in a while i am struckall over again... by just how blue the sky appears .. on wind-played autumn mornings, blue enoughto bruise a heart.

Its dark and I’m reading my scars because our moments remind me of where I should be.

I bleed to un-break you,un-mending me.I fall to save you...now who will save me.

There will alwaysa glimmer in thosewho have been through the dark.

Morning and eveningMaids heard the goblins cry:'Come buy our orchard fruits,Come buy, come buy

Poems are invisible flowers on my skin.

I just need you and some sunsets. 

let me diefrom having being drunk onindigo skies, my liver...overflowing with stars.

The streets are silent / The playgrounds are still /The noise has moved elsewhere / Into our homes / Into our hearts / It’s been too long /Children are not where they belong /The streets, the playgrounds and the song /Have been waiting for too long…

I put my faith in something unknown, beyond the moon, sun, and stars, one day I will own. I put my faith in something, renew. Beyond the rivers, deserts, mountains and valleys.One day it shall become new. I cannot renounce the struggle But yes, it’s what this destiny holds The pain is worst. My heart is whole and will not burst.I live on sweet nothing.I am tired of hope, when this dream is not in the scope. I told the pope, he told me to hold on to life and use the rope.I put my faith in you, this is too good to be true.

Poetry was not meant to be a workhorse; it was not designed to paint pretty moral pictures of life; it was not brought into being to confuse us with cryptograms, or high platitudes, or pompous pretensions. The poet was meant to be a seer; he was designed to run toward the intensities and magnificences of life, to bathe his hands in reality. But where the mystic ran toward Reality in silence and lost himself in it, the poet as soon as he had experienced it, ran back toward humanity crying the good news and putting it into shimmering webs of words.

I touched curiosity,I kissed sin, I felt regret,And I was forgiven.But life won't let me forget.

i am awake and aliveand swollen and heavywith love.

The WeaverMy life is but a weavingbetween my Lord and me;I cannot choose the colorsHe worketh steadily.Oft times He weaveth sorrowAnd I, in foolish pride,Forget He sees the upper,And I the underside.Not til the loom is silentAnd the shuttles cease to fly,Shall God unroll the canvasAnd explain the reason why.The dark threads are as needfulIn the Weaver's skillful hand,As the threads of gold and silverIn the pattern He has planned.

Every interaction is an opportunity to learn, Only if we are interested in improving rather than proving.

You are the poemthat sticks in my throatteaching me to whisperwith the voice of my heart.

Nostalgia dies in the pit of my throat from lack of exercise and I buried the word six feet under the pronunciation of hopeful tomorrows.

I could take a walk with my wife and try to explain the ghosts I can't stop speaking to. Or I could read all those books piling upabout the beginning of the end of understanding...Meanwhile, it's such a beautiful morning,the changing colors, the hypnotic light.I could sit by the window watching the leaves,which seem to know exactly how to fallfrom one moment to the next. Or I could loseeverything and have to begin over again.

some poems frothand foam and rise...out of my morning cup ofmist-sweetened coffee.

In a myriad of ways you tell one truth.

The kind of poetry to avoid in the pretty-pretty kind that pleased our grandmothers, the kind that Longfellow and Tennyson, good poets at their best, wrote at their worst.

i wanted to destroy you.you are mine to ruin.something so beautifulshould only exist for me.

No body is a looser either he is a Winner or a Learner

She was resilientA brave soldier when life tested herIt didn't matter that she did strange thingslike stand tall under the rainletting the drops kiss her skinthinking the storm was romanticIt was hard to quiet hernot that you would want towhen she spoke, it was captivatingHer heart was like a candlewarm and delicatejust what you needed during darknessSometimes, she'd go off and explore the worldtest her limitslaugh too muchcry when humans were cruelIt wasn't hard to see why people envied herYou'd come to realize she was a lionand she could not be tamed.

I exaggerateThere is a lie in my truthLook! My soul is blue

If you had told me, though, when I was twenty-four that I would write about Skokie, Illinois, where I grew up, I would have said, ‘You’re out of your mind. Why would I have Skokie in a poem?’ But you become resigned. Your job is to write about the life you actually have.

She wrote love with her smile and magic with her eyes.

Names sound nice because no one peeks behind the cover to see the sad face of a poem crying for meaning, while the name of the creator proudly smiles from the title.

I was just an option.Blown easily to piecesand offered to the skyby the sweet laced painupon your lips.

Roses are red Violets are blueI don't go on this accountSo go away SHOO!

The burning off and the gathering together are one.

She walkedthrough her lifeheavyfrom themighty wingsupon her back.

Even if a poem is beautiful and memorable, it’s not like an advertising jingle or propaganda, which attempt to convince and control. Poems seek to confuse, disabuse, enlarge understanding, and make people ask questions and think for themselves.

How happy is the little stoneThat rambles in the road alone,And doesn't care about careers,And exigencies never fears;Whose coat of elemental brownA passing universe put on;And independent as the sun,Associates or glows alone,Fulfilling absolute decreeIn casual simplicity.