Poetry Quotes - Page 50

Tweets are not diseased rings of glitchy minds. They’re epigrams, aphorisms, maxims, dictums, taglines, captions, slogans, and adages. Some are art, some are commercial; these are forms with integrity.

i want to love you with simple,like a bare singular matchstick.onestroketo ignitewith no words spokenby the heated flames of the timber of crimsoned scarlet fire.as it crackleswith closeseparationentangled with the intimacy of firefly asheschoosing to enchantingly dance around in abundantjoy.hazily whistling into the glorified heavensmaking the ebony soot dissolve into the cool crisp air.yearning to be the explosion whoburnsthrough your bonesas you visualize red ecstasy of aprovoked kindle.

Against Self-PityIt gets you nowhere but deeper intoyour own shit--pure misery a luxuryone never learns to enjoy.

Thinking of you is a poison I drink often. 

And so beneath the weight lay IAnd suffered death, but could not die.

In pride, in reasoning pride, our error lies;All quit their sphere and rush into the skies.Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes, Men would be angels, angels would be gods. Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell, Aspiring to be angels, men rebel.

Remind your bones that that dance inside something worthy

She was poetry written in pen, scribbled and scrawled again and again. Ink splattered across the page. And within those scratched words, those small, sharp incisions, an image can be seen and you're left to wonder what, in the end, this all could mean.

Till Human voices wake us, and we drown.

Be there a picnic for the devil,an orgy for the satyr,and a wedding for the bride.

This poem inspired me to write my eBook.The Miller's Daughter by Alfred Lord TennysonAnd I would be the necklace, And all day long to fall and rise Upon her balmy bosom, With her laughter or her sighs; And I would lie so light, so light, I scarce should be unclasp’d at night.

She who is a dancer can only sway the silk of her hair like the summer breeze.

Realized dreams often turn into nightmares.

Then all the charm Is broken--all that phantom-world so fair Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread, And each mis-shape the other.

I want to gossip about forever / against the part of your back that / is mine.

One day when I ventured into the garden to regard its bloom,My eyes beheld on a bower a withered rose.When I inquired what had caused the blight,"My lips for a moment opened in a smile in this garden," it replied.

God wants to use you right where you are with what you have not what you do not have.

My battered heart will always be where the ocean meets the sand, I will break over and overEvery day. That is the best andworst part of me.

She's an array of undiscovered words, of feeling beyond my threshold. I'm just a man, trying to hold himself together in her wake.

I - will have poetry in my life. And adventure. And love. Love above all.

Medicinal Spirit, Inside MirrorTherapy becomes a harmony, and that harmony is built on levels,No one knows how to upscale another, for it has to come from the inside grails,Striking inflicts at the mirror and hatred to the being of creator,Causes hate in mirror too and abused flesh to the author,Changes come from its prudence and rationalism liberation,Not its pardon,A mirror is but a substance of a conscious,But identity says "let me fly" when journeying from the subconscious to the conscious.

A wounded dear leaps the highest

There is freedom waiting for you,On the breezes of the sky,And you ask "What if I fall?"Oh but my darling,What if you fly?

You are judged many times more by what you give assent to others doing than what you do yourself.

A wounded heart that loves even more is immortal, it only survives and blooms time after time. If you happen to live in it, there's no safer place in the world than its beating.

Life provides the substance for poetry we just have to put it to paper

You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;tThey called me the hyacinth girl.'t —Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,t Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could nott Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neithert Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,t Looking into the heart of light, the silence.t Od' und leer das Meer.

I fought for you, I fought for usI fought for the memories and the laughter that came upon us,Now here we are, we have become unknown people to each other,Worlds apart in an instant, for what once was is now goneSo tell me what your secret is to letting go like you did.

It's been awhile since I have heard from you,To me it felt like it was only yesterday that all we could do was talk to each otherTo me it felt like it was only yesterday that I'd fall asleep with you on my mind and be awakened with a smile from your morning messagesTo me it felt like it was only yesterday that you started to back away, when I was in a dark placeTo me it felt like it was only yesterday when you left my mind and heart in a million pieces

On such a night,’ I thought, ‘were ill and good,Bright and unlovely; precious, tawdry, All mingled into oneAnd pressed against my heart.

we are two like-minded creatures too well-matched, both equal halves of a whole not altogether wholesome

We are all the fools of time and terror: DaysSteal on us and steal from us; yet we live,Loathing our life, and dreading still to die.

poetry is the tombstone of experience,nothing i write is my own.~from "the damned

I fall asleepCall it deep while all is well be-Cause my life seems like a freestyle mean-While asleep on the couch I dream it's a written piece and nowThe symphony's soundingShouting out to these feet whose leaps feel foul but quite loudBut howI'm allowed to live my dreamsMy Chimeran team brings the Siberian breedRiding reality free 'til these tires they freezeIn mires in dire need of wires, fire and heat butI love a dark, hard cold heart in the wintery breeze

... the silenceHolds with its gloved handThe wild hawk of the mind.

O wayfarer! Yearn finds quench, not in meadows, seashores or altitude of mountain peaks; but when being becomes dance.

I am no longer in love with her, that's certain, but maybe I love her. Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Do not conceale thy heavenly voice,Which makes the hearts of Gods rejoyce,Least Musicke hearing no such thing,The Nightingale forget to sing.

We know The wheel of time moves on New bonds, new ties ignite Moments fleet, memories drift, shadows glide There is always a hope At the horizon we seek.

These hands are unlike any otherstrongbut gentlecaringlovingand understanding

Was not writing poetry a secret transaction, a voice answering a voice?

in the endit is wordspoetry. sunsetssomeone’s deep blue silk voice.mountain scents.someone’s smile.eyes. that we haveno defenses against.

After I was caught returning at dawn from one such late-night escapade, my worried mother thoroughly interrogated me regarding every drug teenagers take, never suspecting that the most intoxicating thing I’d experienced, by far, was the volume of romantic poetry she’d handed me the previous week. Books became my closest confidants, finely ground lenses providing new views of the world.

we always knewthat good times camewith termination contractseven if we weren't quite readyto sign it.

And me, standing under the splintered night, catching fractured glimpses into the black behind the black, hearing the prayers of stars, the angry whispers of the dark summer night.Its voice cracks,on your name.My eyes close,on your name.

This poem inspired me to write my eBook.The Miller's Daughter by Alfred Lord TennysonIt is the miller’s daughter, And she is grown so dear, so dear,That I would be the jewel That trembles in her ear; For hid in ringlets day and night I’d touch her neck so warm and white.

When you are here, God is near.

That's what I want, that kind of recklessness where the poem is even ahead of you. It's like riding a horse that's a little too wild for you, so there's this tension between what you can do and what the horse decides it's going to do.

Crossing the limit is not my styleMy footsteps meander less than a mileI travel the world perhaps in a minuteYet a dream, to me, is never infinite!

Pose your questions to people and you will get countless useless answers.

One difference between poetry and lyrics is that lyrics sort of fade into the background. They fade on the page and live on the stage when set to music.

I found an empty chairand sat on itto find myself even emptier.I found a broken glassand looked at itto see my dissolved facea little prettierI found a steep doorwayand enteredin order to close my exit.From the poem 'Blue Stanzas

Beyond all vanities, fights, and desires, omnipotent silence lies.

To SorrowI bade good morrow,And thought to leave her far away behind;But cheerly, cheerly,She loves me dearly;She is so constant to me, and so kind.

Rather a thousand times the county jail than to lie under this marble figure with wings and this granite pedestal bearing the words "pro patria." What do they mean anyway?

I sleep with thee, and wake with thee,And yet thou are not there;I fill my arms with thoughts of thee,And press the common air.

Stay away from the underground lake I implore,The Siren will see you are heard of no more.

A poem is about something the way a cat is about the house.

My scars show you I've been strong enough to endure the trauma of the world. My heart has no scars, my heart hangs in tatters only visible to those who see with more than their eyes. And my soul, well, my soul is comprised of pristine shatter, held together only because each individual piece is falling apart. They fall apart the right way though, that's why I still play this facade of being one and whole.

this heart yearns...for the salt of unsmelt airunswept thunderstorms...unknown adventures.