Best 8159 quotes in «poetry quotes» category

Watch me go. Watch me. Because you said i couldn't. Because you thought I wouldn't. Go on, cry now. Cry.

Watch out for love (unless it is true, and every part of you says yes including the toes) , it will wrap you up like a mummy, and your scream won't be heard and none of your running will end. Love? Be it man. Be it woman. It must be a wave you want to glide in on, give your body to it, give your laugh to it, give, when the gravelly sand takes you, your tears to the land. To love another is something like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.

Way Down South in Dixie (Break the heart of me) They hung my black young lover To a cross roads tree. Way Down South in Dixie (Bruised body high in air) I asked the white Lord Jesus What was the use of prayer. Way Down South in Dixie (Break the heart of me) Love is a naked shadow On a gnarled and naked tree.

Wawashkesh these apples are for you, red on the white snow, their cider tang will find you in the gray woods. There is a story how a snake offered an apple, so sweet, so cold, those bite was sorrow. --excerpt from Eric Gadzinski's poem "Wawashkeshgiwis" from The Way North

We aim to be men who’ll make our mothers proud, but we end up making them cry, and are only slightly better than our fathers, at best

We all have a god and a poet inside us. The poet, the human; the god, the divine. It is by the grace of our god that we can find the divine inspiration with which to wax poetic about our human experiences.

We all must face death and walk with it. But we also must love and live in it.

We all hit rock bottom; sometimes, you bounce up fast, sometimes you crawl until you can straighten up and sometimes you have to lay there for a long time until you learn how to rise again.

We all remember that moment in time. After that nothing was ever the same. We've been clinging one or the other yet all it causes is pain.

We all knew she needed help. But none of us knew how. And none of us could swallow our pride and just ask her what she needed. I don’t know why. Maybe we were too ashamed we didn’t know how to approach our own mother. So we let the years slip unhappily past us and hoped we would never inherit the misery embedded in her soul. But I did. And I didn’t know how to say it aloud. And I still don’t.

We all wear masks to veil the truth. Truth is nakedness. Truth is fear. Truth is the gardener making you sit on his lap asking you to light his cigarette. Truth is father— with a limp cigarette on his lips —telling you to never use his matches to light it for him. Truth is father yelling: "It is not nice for little girls to do so”. Truth is a curious girl wanting to ignite a match like a woman. Truth is the maid watching from the kitchen, knowing. But knowing isn’t truth. Truth is the maid calling: Come. Come. Truth is the gardener understanding. But understanding isn’t truth. Truth is the maid saying, "Stay away!" Truth is a girl thinking she is in control. That nothing happened, nothing bad. But the truest truth is a girl knowing, a girl understanding that on that day someone stole a little piece of her truth.

We always think that God's presence is always provided to fix our problems but what if God's presence is more about fixing your perspectives? So that you will have a new way to see your problems. If you didn't make your bed before leaving home this morning, no angel is going to make your bed for you, it is still going to be as you left it till you come back.

Wealth is futile; life is passive One obsessed with wealth equality has their priorities wrong For there are a million more worthy things on which to expend energy on

we always knew that good times came with termination contracts even if we weren't quite ready to sign it.

We all wear scars, find someone who makes yours feel beautiful.

We are a handful of dust in God’s image Before we return again to dusty grave Life isn’t a war, it’s a scrimmage A hyphen between two dates.

We are afflicted with a darkness of the soul and fall in love with our pain.

We are all a little broken, looking for something whole to hang on to. But sometimes, what seems whole is even more broken than we are.

We are all damaged, broken creatures, searching for love, acceptance, understanding, in a world that has no patience or tolerance for beautiful things.

We are all equal, in the need of feeling unique, in the need of love, and free to be as we are

WE ARE ALL HUMAN It should not matter - That we grew up On opposite banks, Opposite streets, The opposite Side of the tracks, Or opposite ends of The social ranks. It should not matter What your father did Or what was his blood, As long as you are good And full of love. It should not matter That you have more than me Or that I know more than you, Or what my job is, Or where I went to school For we are all equal -- And it's only our polarities that Make us each so unique, Individually resourceful, And every human useful. It should not matter That the media wants to Keep dividing us By reminding us that We are from different sects, With labeled and Typecasted Racial and stereotypical Defects, And that there are rules Set for every age, Religion, class and sex. "Sign over here. Put an X in the box, Then step to the left So I can see Whose next?" Nobody should ever feel Like just another statistic, And nobody Should ever feel Above or below the rest. Remember to Stand up for yourself Before you stand up to Rip the test. Stand up for all that's unfair And speak out for what's Always right and best. It should not matter If you are Chinese, Black, white or Cuban. If you seriously do realize That we are all just human. WE ARE ALL HUMAN by Suzy Kassem

We are all just humans trying to survive in this crazy world, in the spaces between birth and death.

We are all poets, really.

We are all running towards a destination which doesn't exist. On our way, dogs of life keep barking at us where we respond to some and some we throw stones at. Every dog teaches a lesson we are better off without. Every knife stabs a little deeper than we deserve. Every bruise stays a lot longer than it is meant to. Encumbered by forceful lessons of life we fight for the air of elation from the breaths we take to covert them into the moments of our real existence. Everything starts with life's tyrannical dominance and ends with our impelled submissiveness. We are the puppets of external circumstances and still we believe it's all on the inside. We should be laughing at our plight, someone has framed it with such sublimity. But all we do is ache at every shred of it because that's what keeps it alive.

We are all too fixed on wrecking ourselves rather than bettering ourselves.

We are all wolves, howling to the same moon.

We are all of life who stepped from the sea trading weightless journeys of the currents We are all of life who build and tear down and build again to find gold and silver to find scars that weep and bleed to step from the sea to stay with the sea

We are all planted in God's vineyard and our lives are filled with potentials and purpose and we have all been given the hopes to anchor our lives even in the most disappointed times. So God is waiting to see what you and I will make out of the raw materials that He has given to us. He is waiting to see what we will make out of the discouragement and disappointment. I believe that in those deepest places of disappointment that the greatest grace will manifest.

We are a puzzle meant to be arranged

We are a pair of dice joined together in the game of fate, We never get along although we've rolled together for hundreds of years. Millions of people share this tiny light, The world belongs to you, The world belongs to me, The world belongs to nobody.

we are burning like a chicken wing left on the grill of an outdoor barbecue we are unwanted and burning we are burning and unwanted we are an unwanted burning as we sizzle and fry to the bone the coals of Dante's 'Inferno' spit and sputter beneath us and above the sky is an open hand and the words of wise men are useless it's not a nice world, a nice world it's not ...

We are co-creating either a Heaven or a Hell in each moment. This is determined by the object energy released, our level of conscious awareness and our interaction with what we have created.

we are born into this world on the tailcoats of a scream. born into gritted teeth and a shock of red across the pristine. born into a solemn hush. are you evil? you, who tore into this world on a steed of crimson… are you a monster? we are born as angels, toothless, a mouth a gurgling brook. and as we grow, so do our wings, until we are high enough to see that our church is no more than a small forest and the altar a tree. are you a monster, angel with fangs? all teeth, thick with teeth, you can’t even close your mouth anymore. it rains and it’s like drowning. corn husk skin and we’re born again. into a time of being tied down, to a person, to a bed. a time of clipped wings. of holy cries out to a void. your wildness a convenience store in the desert, pale pink, dusty, arid. your wildness staring longingly at the screaming horizon and flicking another cigarette butt into the dirt, a lone oscillating fan its only company. we’re born into this concrete world, where sanctuary is to be alone or to pretend to like it. this world of broken bottles instead of leaf crunch. roadside motels proclaiming vacancies. inside and out. that pluck your heartstrings. a new church, a fresh sin. the altar now a white railing against a muted matte pink wall. you lean against it, hips jutted to the side. some of the eighties still lingers. you see a man in a leather jacket kissing a girl’s neck purple. he looks up. teeth are everywhere. hundreds of glistening teeth. you turn away. your wings shush against an old telephone booth, door forced closed. you’re calling your mother to say you’re sorry for hurting her, but when she answers you hang up.

We are in love; I saw my face in yours.

We are each what never leaves us, what we never see the back of is the self. But what loves us is at the back, as Eurydice was escorting him out without his knowing.

We are, in the main, 'word-blind' to Pre-Raphaelite and Decadent verse. This blindness results from a major change in habits of sensibility. Our contemporary sense of the poetic, our often unexamined presumptions about valid or spurious uses of figurative speech have developed from a conscious negation of fin de siécle ideals.

We are merely ghost flowers under the shade of the moon Many shades of secret sorrows blanket our eyes We spend our lives and our souls Searching- Longing- Waiting- For a little light to shine and heal our broken halo’s

We are most ourselves, the most human, when we unabashedly immerse ourselves in the world with love and hope, gratitude and kindness.

We are never alone We are all wolves Howling to the same moon.

We are not from here, my dear. So: Let the flames take over our bodies, ‘cause I wanna merely burn with you. And we can dance until we become ashes, but don’t you dare leave me when we become pointless dust. Because this is when we can finally blow away with the wind, back to that place where love was once real...

We are only allowed to live due to some colossal misunderstanding.

...we are reluctant to admit that the poetic imagination sets the bounds for human thought. At the heart of philosophy's quarrel with poetry is the fear that the imagination goes all the way down—that there is nothing we talk about that we might not have talked of differently.

We are simple creatures seeking love who triumph in the dark and wilt against the light.

We are snowflakes, melting on the tongue of the universe.

We are slaves to the dictates of free will.

We are things of dry hours and the involuntary plan, Grayed in, and gray.

We are the reflections for the stars to gaze upon, upon a sea of glass.

We are the blood of the witches you thought were dead. We carry witchcraft in our bones whilst magic still sings inside out heads. When the witch hunters imprisoned out ancestors when they tried to burn the magic away. Someone should have warned them that magic cannot be tamed. Because you cannot burn away what has always been aflame.

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

We—are we not formed, as notes of music are, For one another, though dissimilar; Such difference without discord, as can make Those sweetest sounds, in which all spirits shake As trembling leaves in a continuous air?