I have seen your darkest nights and brightest days and I want you to know that I will be here forever loving you in dusk.
But dear, don’t be afraid of love it’s only magic.
She was not for everyone but she was for me.Â
Thinking of you is a poison I drink often.Â
Time is all we have and don’t.Â
What a strange world. We trade our days for things.
Our songs live longer than our kingdoms.
Love her but leave her wildÂ
There is no Space or Time Only intensity, And tame things Have no immensity
She was another broken doll dreaming of a boy with glue.Â
Poetry is prose bewitched, a music made of visual thoughts, the sound of an idea.
TO what purpose, April, do you return again? Beauty is not enough. You can no longer quiet me with the redness Of little leaves opening stickily. I know what I know. The sun is hot on my neck as I observe The spikes of the crocus. The smell of the earth is good. It is apparent that there is no death. But what does that signify? Not only under ground are the brains of men Eaten by maggots. Life in itself Is nothing, An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, April Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.
Don't ask her to be a rock for you to lean upon instead, build her wings and point her to the sky and she will teach you both to fly.
How to be a Poet (to remind myself) i Make a place to sit down. Sit down. Be quiet. You must depend upon affection, reading, knowledge, skill—more of each than you have—inspiration work, growing older, patience, for patience joins time to eternity… ii Breathe with unconditional breath the unconditioned air. Shun electric wire. Communicate slowly. Live a three-dimensional life; stay away from screens. Stay away from anything that obscures the place it is in. There are no unsacred places; there are only sacred places and desecrated places. iii Accept what comes from silence. Make the best you can of it. Of the little words that come out of the silence, like prayers prayed back to the one who prays, make a poem that does not disturb the silence from which it came.
She wore the moonlight like lingerie.Â
there are some poems that we leave behind some that leave us behind while some just live silently in the heart crumble, sometimes dwindle disappear die and are reborn when you smile again.
The prettiest girls shine brightest in the dark.Â
It is strange how a scrap of poetry works in the mind and makes the legs move in time to it along the road.
One clear moment, one of trance One missed step, one perfect dance One missed shot, one and only chance Life is all...but one fleeting glance.
LIFE IS A JOURNEY TO FIND THE PEOPLE WEIRD LIKE YOU. —ATTICUS