Best 8159 quotes in «poetry quotes» category

It's easy to hide behind a smile, that's why it is so important to search instead inside the eyes.

It’s easier for me to make sense of it that way than it is for me to face the other way—reality. And yet, those evil spirits that were unleashed—be they fake entities from a stupid carnival ride, or cruel malevolencies from dark spiritual chasms of our universe—have stayed with me all these years

It seems only yesterday I used to believe there was nothing under my skin but light. If you cut me I could shine. But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life, I skin my knees. I bleed.

It seems as though the voice of man Will never sound in this place, But only wind from age of stone Is knocking on black gates. It seems to me that I alone Have kept good health under this sky, Because of this, that first I sought To drink the deadly wine. Parting, Evening and slanting, Downward goes my way. Yesterday in love still, "Don't forget" you prayed. Now there's only shepherds' Cry, and glancing winds, And the worried cedars Stand by clear springs.

It seems to me now that the plain state of being human is dramatic enough for anyone; you don't need to be a heroin addict or a performance poet to experience extremity. You just have to love someone.

It's Gods Eden, the fountain of youth, the water of Truth and yes it shall set thee free of this world-wide mental misery. It's a pleasure to me to introduce the God that sets you free, sets you high, air castles in the cosmos that make you fly. Make you cry cause you know your recognition of your unworthiness; God comforted me in my loneliness, it's redemption from rags to riches in Gods holiness. These riddles are self-explanatory, explaining the exploration of this planet from the beginning of His story. Open your eyes for God's the one that abides.

It's her black wings that make her beautiful.

It's in the spirit of male loneliness to imagine that someone has to suffer for it.

It's intelligence mixed with less than innocence, it's cruelty mixed with a sense of elegance. It's a trap set for seduction to those that are persuaded by speech.

It’s in the sky, light or dark, And in all the clouds and stars it holds; It’s in the wind and the raindrops, In the mountains and streams That ignore man’s partitions, In the seasons that forever unfold, one into the next. It echoes from the past, is amplified in the present, And waits for us in the future. It’s in our dreams; perhaps it is our dream. It is the very fiber of our hearts. Freedom.

It’s January and I’m kicking snow off the ground. I just threw out the flower you made me promise to water, handle with care, because I was too careless, you said. Careless with things and people, around me and behind and I remember being still for just a second or two, thinking that it’s so much easier to leave and start anew, than take care of what’s already here.

It’s just another stop on the curvy road the final encounter for the man who has lived death is the answer.

It's just me throwing myself at you, romance as usual, us times us, not lust but moxibustion, a substance burning close to the body as possible without risk of immolation.

It's ironic, isn't it? How hope keeps us breathing just to kill us in the end.

It’s my broken sore mending the unbreakable A deep shaken hollow from the unshakeable

It's made of poetry and art and lost hearts enhanced in magic It's the kingdom of love, where free spirits find their resilience It's the dream catcher of lost passion and deep silence It's the torso where rebel souls find their homeland It's the beginning of a dream and the end of another It's what keeps you up in the night, when you're breathing dreams It's that madness of artists caught in the wind It's the night on a full moon drown between chimeras It's you making love to me, under the blessings of Seine..." (fragment from "Paris", chapter Hope)

It’s neither an injury nor a wound but it can leave a scar. Some people do not have to break you to leave a strong mark; they are a lightning of miracle.

It's not about putting forth the questions, it's about accepting the answers we ask for.

it's not a death sentence anymore it's not death anymore it's more it's a sentence a sentence

It's not a dream That made the suspect scream. What did a mirror reveal? The incident is real.

It’s not easy to write a poem about a poem.

It’s not that we have to leave this life one day, it's how many things we have to leave all at once: holding hands, hotel rooms, wine, summertime, drunkenness, and the physics of falling leaves, clothing, myrrh, perfumed hair, flirting friends, two strangers' glance; the reflection of the moon, with words like, 'Soon' ... 'do you want me?' ... '...to lie enlaced' ... 'and sleep entwined' thinking ahead, with thoughts behind...?' Ô, Why! Why can’t we leave this life slowly?

It’s not that the old are wise But that we thirst for the wisdom we had at twenty when we understood everything when our brains bubbled with tingling insights percolating up from our brilliant genitals when our music rang like a global siege shooting down all the lies in the world oh then we knew the truth then we sparkled like mica in granite and now we stand on the shore of an ocean that rises and rises but is too salt to drink

...It's not that the worm forgives the plough; it gives it no mind. (Pain occurs, in passing.) (lines 37-39 in the poem 'Fantasia on a Theme from IKEA')

It's not pain. It's raw material.

IT'S NOT THE HONEY WHISKEY IN A FRIDAY NIGHT - IT'S THE MANIC SHOW OF POETRY TWEETS THAT TURNS ME ON.

It's obvious, I have a crush on you.

It’s not the word made flesh we want in writing, in poetry and fiction, but the flesh made word

It's not what you go through that makes you strong: it is how you handle the situation that gives you strength.

It’s okay if I don’t understand everything or have it all figured out. I’m not trying to save the world. I’m just trying not to drown in it

it's okay to put yourself first trust you heart to guide you back to where you belong

It's not what you did, but what you didn't do that spoke to me above the wind

It sometime takes a long time and a hard time to realize he just doesn’t deserve your you.

It’s ok to not look back. It’s ok to look forward to the future with a broken heart and a limp. Is there any other way to travel toward God this side of heaven?

It's plain to see for those who will to see from within and how common and strange things really seem to be when you start to change your planes of perception.As change in the mind persist, so shall change in thoughts, words, and deeds assist.

It's really ingenuity through ingenious simplicity of intuition from quintessence. Versatile in these versus, versifying my own originality. These wise words are like deep waters; wisdom flows from the wise like a bubbling brook. I was sin stained but now I'm blood washed. I went from sin to seer by becoming sincere; give ear for it's faith in the face of fear.

it's so easy to be a poet and so hard to be a man.

It's reassurance, yes it's sure to be, lick in between your legs, a mouth full of your femininity. I guess you know how my words are so persuasive, persuade you in a position foreign to your native. Hawaiian punch rose petals spread all over this marble floor, glasses of sparkling wine as you walk through the door. Deep with purpose, impress this on your subconscious, fatal, it's like having sex with your mental.

Its sweet bird's nest is full of pain in a distant place

It's scary, and downing, that I make my best music when I'm going through my depression... At that moment, all i can see is black, darkness and shadows, but in the bigger picture.. it's a blessing. When I look through all my work, my art, I wouldn't change or take away my depression and anxiety for ANYTHING.. because when i get those days of rainbows, and colors.. i know deep down, i'm only honest when i'm at the deepest of the oceans.. so it's like listening to a different side of my mind, that i never realize exists, until i get that little peek through the blinds, and finally see the sunlight.. THEN on those simple moments, even if they only last a few minutes, i know deep down... maybe i do have a talent. Maybe I have got something, a "gift", that some people call... So really, if it wasn't for my depression, i would never, truly believe I have anything worth giving. So I will NOT sit back and wish i wasn't clinically depressed, I will learn to embrace it, live with it, and talk my brain into believing, and fully knowing, I HAVE A GIFT. I AM WORTHY. I DO HAVE SOMETHING TO GIVE THE WORLD. I will not let my depression or anxiety control me. They can live here(in my mind), but they best know, I AM STILL, AND WILL ALWAYS BE IN CONTROL. .. BUT This is my home, and you're just living under it.

It's so diffuse being alive. Suddenly one is aware that nobody really gives a damn.

It’s sad that burnt marshmallows make me think of methamphetamine, when they should bring back childhood memories of s’mores

It's the knowledge I spit that's detrimental to those powerful. Mental elemental procedures to the mass of ignorance. It's an on-going, never-ending symbol of punishment for the suffering is due to its lack of acknowledgement. Masquerades, gimmicks, and monopoly games; giving your heart to this money instead of Almighty, so it's suffering and burning of flames, a burning of shame. Playing the game can never leave you the same so who is to blame? Complete conspiracy, committed theft of inherited immunity, live a life of misery and taxing our energy. A straw afloat on water of deceptive ingenuity. A false replica of me, an enemy with my name but non-resistant so I agree with my adversary.

It's the thrill of the game the lions preys before devouring says grace and amen.

It’s simply a joy to celebrate poetry together.

It’s the end of man and I can do whatever I want.

It starts between two suns Between dream and sleep Like a sigh after oblivion -The way you hold the night. It goes on in a kiss So many pains exchanged Like a song of compassion -The way you reveal my name. It ends In my body It ends In a shiver Where we remain only Two souls And, naturally, We recognize each other.

It still hurt her to see their poems before her, printed in the curving Yeged-dai script, using Yegedin forms and the images so beloved of the Yegedin: the single pebble, the grasshopper at twilight, the song of a heartbroken lark sitting in a bent tree.

Its snaky acids kiss. It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults That kill, that kill, that kill.

It's treachery when one becomes God-body, spiritually inclined to the mind of a God-mentality. The ability of divinity is at the peak of a snowy mountain. Give ear to my words as this liquid flows through a golden fountain.