Best 8159 quotes in «poetry quotes» category

technology murdered childhood.

Tea is just an excuse. i am drinking this sunset, this evening. and you.

Te amo sin saber cómo, ni cuándo, ni de dónde, te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo: así te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera, sino así de este modo en que no soy ni eres, tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mía, tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueño.

Ted: A fucking good poem is a weapon. It's-- and not like a-- a popgun or something. - It's a bomb. It's like a bloody big bomb. Sylvia: That’s why they make children learn them in school. They don't want them messing about with them on their own. I mean, just imagine if a sonnet went off accidentally. Boom.

Tear me apart for your view. Open the window of my wounds. To catch one glimpse of you is worth a thousand cures.

tears swell in the wells of my eyes. love is a constant side effect of mine.

Tears upon the dry sponge of heart do not prove I am Promethean.

Tein valintani kyllä - lähtekäämme matkaan! Kuultavan kultaisena kesäyö sarastaa kotilaakson yllä. Joki kiskoo kiiltäen kuin teräs päin ulappaa. Sinä, joka itse olet laulu ja jolla on laulun mahti, ota oman itsesi tahti! Sainko sinut vihdoin satuuni vangiksi vai pakenetko jälleen luotani? Sinä, joka itse olet laulu! Kas, tässä käteni! Pitkin jokea, joka huuhtoo kotirantaa, käy tieni päin ulappaa ja päin merta - merten taa. Jos tiedän että seuraat, on minullekin maailmassa vielä aamunmaa.

Tell all the truth but tell it slant.

Tell me it was for the hunger & nothing less. For hunger is to give the body what it knows it cannot keep. That this amber light whittled down by another war is all that pins my hand to your chest.

tell me of something fiercer than the love with which i gaze upon you of something softer than the tenderness with which i hold you.

Tell the truth, but tell it slant.

Tell her I was young once and star-bright Who am now invisible . . .

Tell me not in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem.

Tell me..how do you stand there? filling the doorway....of my life.

Tempestuous plains tell the tale, Windswept wastes do bewail, Haunting Spirit of the land, Seeks the living, seeks the damned. Horizoned edge sheared with grass, Dark Storm Rising in the pass, Ageless Spirit seeks the path, To torment souls to the last. Brooding Spirit upon the plain, Thunderhead gathers for the rain. Light grows dim then bolts with pain, On dry Earth her sin is stained. (Frightened creatures do stampede, Into night, they do recede). Ungodded hand on seasoned blade, Reaps the harvest of the Age. Released from her eternal din, Spirit of the Age rises again. Seeking to plunder and consume, Those who were proud, those who presumed. Spirits rage while storm draws nigh, Upon burning plain and emblazoned sky. It is said giants grapple in the Earth so deep, To contend for souls that they might keep. The Storm spirit now searches the high and the low, To seek her manchild victim in the fields below. Leaves bad wasteland to claim but a fallen man, Denying it Heaven, crowning it, ‘Son of the Damned.’ Treacherous Spirit of the far lost night, Tramples souls down denying them light. Storm seethes with furious hiss, Leads men on to bottomless pit. This most ancient of foes has come from her den, To seek the living, to make ready those dead. A living sacrifice is her soul desire, To snatch the soul for black funeral pyre. A double-damned devil, that is she, This one who lies, who claims to make free. A lying spirit, that is her domain, A storm-wracked Fury of self-proclaim. Onward she seeks, this bleak Northern wind, Searching for naught but for a soul akin. Amidst the howling and the rage, To murder again, that is her trade. As this spirit of graves left the plain, She left a wake of dead in shrouded train. Now down from the plain Storm did come, Unto those cities wherein was no sun. There with whirlwind she did rip and scour, For those souls of whom she could tear and devour. She comes to seek the living and the dead, Those who were frightened, those with no dread. Thus upon those she did acclaim, “I am the Mistress of the living and the slain.” O’ haunting Spirit of this land, Taker of life, maker of the damned. --On Villainess Storm, Ch. One Valley of the Damned

terrible are the wounds of a murdered dream

Tensurrealism creates actual and non-compromised reality, jamboree, fervor, fascination, poetics of an active enthusiasm, interludium, lyrical practice, active happiness.

Tener opiniones es estar vendido a uno mismo. No tener opiniones es existir. Tener todas las opiniones es ser poeta.

Tenho uma confissão a fazer: do que escrevo 90% é invenção, só 10% é mentira.

Thank God #EVEN# #THOUGH# in bad times not only in your good; this is a graduated form of gratitude.

Testifying against my abuser is not about a trial or about revenge This is a woman learning that to wear the burden of hurt but to deprive herself of the blessing that is healing is its own injustice.

Thank You for letting me live for a little as one of the sane; thank You for letting me know what this is like. Thank You for letting me look at your frightening blue sky without fear, and your terrible world without terror, and your loveless psychotic and hopelessly lost with this love

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap, forlorn! From thy dead lips a clearer note is born Than ever Triton blew from wreathèd horn! While on mine ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:— Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll! Leave thy low-vaulted past! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life’s unresting sea!

That as he climbs out of the trench with the rest of the lads he feels lifted up as if by angels.

That fire in your heart Growing into an inferno? Set it free Consume me Leave nothing of me that the wind can't scatter.

That a dream is not reason to evacuate.

thank you, thank you for having me, please have me please, have me, again.

That day and night, the bleeding and the screaming, had knocked something askew for Esme, like a picture swinging crooked on a wall. She loved the life she lived with her mother. It was beautiful. It was, she sometimes thought, a sweet emulation of the fairy tales they cherished in their lovely, gold-edged books. They sewed their own clothes from bolts of velvet and silk, ate all their meals as picnics, indoors or out, and danced on the rooftop, cutting passageways through the fog with their bodies. They embroidered tapestries of their own design, wove endless melodies on their violins, charted the course of the moon each month, and went to the theater and the ballet as often as they liked--every night last week to see Swan Lake again and again. Esme herself could dance like a faerie, climb trees like a squirrel, and sit so still in the park that birds would come to perch on her. Her mother had taught her all that, and for years it had been enough. But she wasn't a little girl anymore, and she had begun to catch hints and glints of another world outside her pretty little life, one filled with spice and poetry and strangers.

That dead feeling, but you're still breathing.

That everything you want to happen, will happen, if you decide you want it enough. That every time you think a sad thought, you can think a happy one instead. That you control that completely. That the people who make you laugh are more beautiful than beautiful people. That you laugh more than you cry. That crying is good for you. That the people you hate wish you would stop and you do too. That your friends are reflections of the best parts of you. That you are more than the sum total of the things you know and how you react to them. That dancing is sometimes more important than listening to the music. That the most embarrassing, awkward moments of your life are only remembered by you and no one else

That is why they have poets—to classify all the degrees of love. It is for scientists to classify the maladies arising from the want of it.

That men, who might have tower'd in the van Of all the congregated world, to fan And winnow from the coming step of time All chaff of custom, wipe away all slime Left by men-slugs and human serpentry, Have been content to let occasion die, Whilst they did sleep in love's Elysium.

That life is simply a collection of little lives, each lived one day at a time. That each day should be spent finding beauty in flowers and poetry and talking to animals. That a day spent with dreaming and sunsets and refreshing breezes cannot be bettered. But most of all, I learned that life is about sitting on benches next to ancient creeks with my hand on her knee and sometimes, on good days, for falling in love.

That is what you meant to me: a light that shone through the darkness.” (Your smile, p. 56)

That love can be a band: tears if you pull it too hard, but also flexible enough to stretch around the most chaotic mass

That is the thing about love, it never leaves even when it goes.

That is what all poets do: they talk to themselves out loud; and the world overhears them

That last bit of hope always lingered as a stubborn thread. Every time I would try to cut it I would feel it... a pulse. My pulse. My blood is hope.

That loss is common would not make My own less bitter, rather more: Too common! Never morning wore To evening, but some heart did break. Verse VI

That man would be completely happy whose desires aroused the appropriate thoughts and activities, and whose activities attained their end in gratification,—between whose desires and experience there was perfect correspondence.

That night I said, “I love you” There was no Plan B, Only us and forever

That night, stargazing on the deck with Dad, eyes on the sky, he pointed out Orion, Betelgeuse. "It's an art to read the stars, baby." I never wanted to leave his side-my sure song for so long. Now? His eyes are stone changed. Just looking at them hurts my heart.

That night when you kissed me, I left a poem in your mouth, and you can hear some of the lines every time you breathe out.

That out of sight, out of mind philosophy comes off so true but back at it like a flood gate of thoughts. Enchanting the minds of those that forgot about the god. I can paint a vivid picture of the game like color of office. CEO illumination of supreme bosses,no strike out or taking any loses, a take over of hostages through these dry land mirages but I have the living water that quenches. It's the penal gland like a third eye view, a Promised Land flowing through for the chosen few.

That night I didn’t say anything. I just watched you leave and in the end, I just stayed sleeping awake. Somewhere between a sweet dream and a beautiful nightmare, hoping one day you’d return to rid me of the demons you left behind.

That old man over there Is selling trinkets made of stones That old woman the entire world In a map without any hole!

That night, when the creature sleeps, when he sleeps, the mother escapes into her daughters’ room. She tells her daughter that the creature’s afraid of her having too much love, too much heart. She takes a tube of lipstick and drags it across her finger like a knife, marking it across her daughter’s cheeks, red, blood, war paint.

That society must to listen,the real truth;for that,nature has her sequel shifts,thus she makes her sensible experiments around the earth—with her enduring laws to obey while she moves.

That’s the thing about love It can take you up to the mountaintop and can drop you And the impact will either kill you or make you a new person