Quotes Tagged "poetry"

In the moment between sleep and wake I kiss my blanket Kissing you goodbye

Why do we write? A chorus erupts. Because we cannot simply live.

Come with me And you will find What's been trapped Inside my mind...

they say they only want flowers to grow from my mouth, so i will look them dead in the eye as i shove soft petals past my lips, chew with my jaw completely unhinged, & spit them down at their feet -i will never be your expectations of me

People start to lie more once they start to care less.

I never have time to write anymore. And when I do I only write about how I never have time. It's work and it's money and I've written more lists than songs lately. I stay up all night to do all these things I need to do, be all these things I want to be, playing with shadows in the darkness that shouldn't be able to exist. Empty bottles and cigarettes while watching the sunrise, why do I complain? I have it all, everything I ever asked for.

The Pressure- Maybe one day, after centuries, we can become brilliant gems in crystal caves and we will be immortal after all.

Lovers meander in prose and rhyme, trying to say- for the thousandth time- what's easier done than said.

The books [poetry collections] may not sell, but neither are they given away or thrown away. They tend, more than other books, to fall apart in their owners’ hands. Not I suppose good news in a culture and economy built on obsolescence. But for a book to be loved this way and turned to this way for consolation and intense renewable excitement seems to me a marvel.

Humans have the ability to rewrite history. Within a few decades it is not even questioned. Stories of the past become as real as the world you walk through today. Wars are waged over false history. Sins are denied. All for mankind to move forward and feel comfortable about its past. Your true history is written in the stars. Look up, breathe in, and be humbled by the ones who came before you. The ones who have suffered, who have endured, who have overcome. Their blood is alive in you. Their spirits roam freely in the heavens above.

Who I am remains to be seen— and I alone intend to be the one to see it.

You bear a sword and shield, remind me of her labor, her stoning gaze. What beast will your blade free next? What call will you loose from another woman's throat?

I hate forcing myself to go to bed to avoid committing suicide.

The poem in the head is always perfect. Resistance starts when you try to convert it into language. Language itself is a kind of resistance to the pure flow of self.

She had a habit of walking around in white cotton panties and writing poetry on the back of crumpled envelopes.

Look at her, touching his cheek to make a truce, her fingers cool with spring rain; in thin grass, bursts of purple crocus— even here, even at the beginning of love, her hand leaving his face makes an image of departure and they think they are free to overlook this sadness.

The Throes of Poetry - Hymns formed from groans of acquaintance, its rhythm weaving between tranquility, compassions, and peril - like bare feet stomping on broken glass - bleeds, recoils, then steps again.

It was her laughter that made me love her. Her shy inappropriate madness is what made her beautiful.

a man was found floating dead in the San Francisco bay. a note in his pocket read: I won't jump if someone smiles at me today.

along with the rest of our helpless world; and, O, if you could, you would, where lovers walked, sell off trees and not give a flying fuck for the muted mausoleums of the bees.