Best 750 quotes in «poems quotes» category

Aku selalu larut pada keindahanmu, tidak cukup bagiku hanya menguntai kata perihal dirimu, pesonamu bak gemintang yang memberi kesejukan, gemulaimu bak rembulan yang selalu bersinar tatkala gelap bermunculan.

3 A.M. isn't a time for sleep when the silhouette of you is breathing next to me.

A crimson fire that vanquishes the stars;A pungent odor from the dusty sage;A sudden stirring of the huddled herds;A breaking of the distant table-landsThrough purple mists ascending, and the flareOf water ditches silver in the light;A swift, bright lance hurled low across the world;A sudden sickness for the hills of home.

A dessert to a deserter in the desert burst, "You trust your thirst. And you are too hot! You scream for ice cream. And believe it or not, I may not be your first. But I might be your lust! Give it a shot...

A few drinks and the world was hers— she wore her whiskey like a loaded gun.

a flower knows, when its butterfly will return, and if the moon walks out, the sky will understand; but now it hurts, to watch you leave so soon, when I don't know, if you will ever come back.

Aku harus pergi. Aku tak bisa terus-terusan berdiri disini. Hatiku sesak, pengap. Yang aku tahu aku harus pergi.

Aku selalu berhasil menulis semua keindahan yang ada, namun tidak dengan dirimu. Ujung penaku seakan tak mampu untuk menuliskan akhir dari sebuah cerita.

A little bump in the road is just a bump. There's more ahead until you reach your destination.

All I need to do is place my pen against paper and your love writes for me.

2a.m and a ceiling stained with question marks.

A book about books is like a poem about poetry: Books are knowledge, paid for, all. Readers - horses in a stall. Stallions should always run. Lest they stale become, in turn. Running waters are most clear. In some books, you disappear – lose yourself, and track of time. How I wish that one was mine... Mine, to have, to write, to read... Mine, just like a flying steed. Mine, forever, - to improve. Would I then, of me, approve? I would not, I can't... myself. I'm but dust, swept off a shelf. Fly, can I, just 'til I'm settled, down, beside my flower, petalled.

A book is a place where my reality, escapism, hope, despair, love and death lie.

A fleeting second on someone's news feed, No dearth of meanings for those who read, Not my stories but 'tis what I think, I say I don't write poems, I just write dreams.

A lie near to truth is always difficult to catch

all my life i have looked for poems to elope with.

all people start to come apart finally and there it is: just empty ashtrays in a room or wisps of hair on a comb in the dissolving moonlight.

All the things we blame on the heart. But love is not blind.

A lot of pain that we are dealing with are really only THOUGHTS.

Always follow your dreams with confidence and conviction, don’t fall for the trap of dream killers

all the words all the poems know my warm, soft spots.

Always write exactly what you’re feeling at the exact moment when writing something like poetry or an emotional novel. Put yourself, pour all emotions into your work…make yourself cry, feel joy if you are writing joyful things, feel lovey if it calls for it…just put your heart and soul into all that you do…then you will be a good writer when you can make whoever reads your work, feel." -Nina Jean Slack

Am dat cu trandafiri în oameni, Dar unii fiind de soare goi, Oprindu-și florile luminii Mi-au întors spinii înapoi.

Am I going to die and all I will have are these fucking poems

and everyone wants to read the poem we’re afraid to write.

And life goes on like this, an uncomplete poem.

And now, for something completely the same: Wasted time and wasted breath, 's what I'll make, until my death. Helping people 'd be as good, but I wouldn't, if I could. For the few that help deserve, have no need, or not the nerve, help from strangers to accept, plus from mine a few have wept. Wept from joy, or from despair, or just from my vengeful stare. Ways I have, to look at stupid, make them see I am not Cupid. Make them see they are in error, for of truth I am a bearer. Most decide I'm just a bear, mauling at them, - like I care.

...and I laugh and I spin and dance and frolic in ecstasy and I... I hurt no more, while you...you petrified little man, are left to wonder if it's you I speak of.

… and now and then we could look up and give each other a thought, because I think he could have beautiful thoughts, and we could just let each other be less lonely in our loneliness.

And the stars blinked as they watched her carefully jealous of the way she shone.

Apakah hidup ini akan menjadi membosankan, jika hanya melulu soal patah hati dan perasaan yang tak berbalas?

A novel is a hearty meal, but poems are the Belgian chocolates of the bookshelf. You can pick one and linger over it. Savour the aroma, the taste, the melting texture, the sweet craving it leaves behind! Or you can scoff down as many as you can eat. It’s up to you.

anyone who has no feelings for animals has a dead heart.

A Poet never denies creativity entrance.

A person with good heart is always happy. However its a myth because most of the time his heart is full of wounds as it except only good thing from others still he love the people who treat it right & pray for the ones who don't

A poem is its own name and cover.

A poem that is itself a name does not yearn for the name of its creator, but shines from its name alone.

APPLY WITHIN You once told me You wanted to find Yourself in the world - And I told you to First apply within, To discover the world within you. You once told me You wanted to save The world from all its wars - And I told you to First save yourself From the world, And all the wars You put yourself Through. APPLY WITHIN by Suzy Kassem

A sacred soul Thus, within the cosmic creation proceed Life is precious as gold Death will come In a better place, where there’s no earthly life Eternity exist...God..... Judgement falls upon us Nothing to minus and nothing to plus Only the truth In a better place where there’s no cuss They say tranquility exist here No fuss No sorrow A better place with great yarrow It will come in the morrow In present times Life is but a Dream

Artists hide their identities in the brushstrokes of their paintings, the verses in their cantos, and the sentences in their novels. The true face of an artist is never on his face and this is what he prefers. Others misunderstand this displaced melancholy with an absence of melancholy.

Art takes time— Monet grew his gardens before he painted them.

As he took her hand he gave her all she had been waiting for-- a shiver down her spine.

A single poem is worth a hundred cozy winter nights kind words and healed wounds.

A short poem from my book: Perspective Of course there is a hell she said and it has an observation deck; so I may stand and wave to all those kind souls below who warned me I would go there.

A short poem from my new book, The Lost Journal of my Second Trip to Pergatory, Thorny Crowns Of course the gold one was for special occasions, weddings, etc, silver for family reunions, office-casual type affairs. Bronze was a everyday choice; during yard work its burnished surface shone in sunlight. There were various colors and holiday appropriate ones. I could never find the hatboxes they were stored in. But the wooden one was reserved for the long suffering caused by family. Stevie’s funeral, my hospital trips and sister’s rebellion rated real wood. One tip filed extra sharp produced a fine and dramatic line of blood droplets on her brow.

A sky full of stars and he was staring at her. —ATTICUS

As long as we have MEMORIES, yesterday REMAINS and as long as we have HOPE, tomorrow AWAITS...

a silent night. - the most eloquent poem i have ever read.

As long as music survives, poetry will never die.

As water given sugar sweetens, given salt grows salty, we become our choices.