Poetry Quotes

Of so much moon were your hips to me, of all the sun your deep mouth and its delight, of so much burning light like honey in the shade

I paint the darkness and the silence, You see them as stars and poetry.

You hid in my ink and guided my hand. You stained the pages with your silence as God wrote the words, "Be still." Yet, my heart's blindness could only write in loud hues of red, "I love you.

I have always been a fire, and everyone I loved walked away as ashes, until I met a phoenix who was born to love flames.

There’s a pressure at all hours of the day only a poem can assuage.

I write to forget the days that broke me into a million nights.

how is it thathe's alwaysin my thoughts. even when i am not thinking.

i am eithera stormor a drought.in-betweenshave neverbeen my thing.

i am infinitely yearningbrimmingand overflowingin wordsi discoverit’s another wayfor meto be in tears.

kisses... areand always will be the only language that I will have ever truly known.

All I ever really wanted to do was arouse souls through my writing and enjoy my journey to becoming one with myself and with the world.

I do not blame himfor not knowing the gentleness of my soul.When I only showed him, how violently I loved.

Big Love and More Light!XxMwaaahhhhXx

I am lover of words... I am wickedly drunk with the magic of words... the poetic nature whispers through and to my very heart and soul.

Beautiful feelings soar freely, while true care roots deeply. Real love can only bedefined by them both.

At times, love is silent because of too much hurt or too much care. At all times, love is the strongest voice you can always rely on.

Although steady and slow are the trail to love, there is no path to see through without the engine of passionate and true. (Soar)

sometimes even the worst dreams are better than this reality

You are the dreamBut I’ve had wake up calls

Ah youth, youth! That's what happens when you go steeping your soul into Shakespeare

A Coy Aversion...a fluttertoo shyto be seen...

Superior poets say what they really feel. Mediocre poets say what they decide to feel. Inferior poets say what they think they should feel.

When flying dreams hit the soil of reality, all that remains are the imprints of experience.

Reality is not made of dreams, until you make them real.

. . . I suppose one starts out, as a child, being romantic and dreaming of adventure. Poetic. Then reality comes along, and with it, a whole lot of prose.

If you have a strong stomachread on.

You think it’s a game?Unintelligible? Ha!Envision no spoons.This is serious.It is a matter of joyversus emptiness.

Love frees us of all pain, or of any restraint. Once a circle that ever widens without end. Various colors it shines in our lives to paintExcelsis, glorious manifestation to befriend.

Poetry is Life. We experience poetry from the time we awake each morning and inhale that fresh breath of air. You are living poetry. Poetry is not defined by the laws of man. Inspiration is the key.

Such is true joy’s absolute certainty, Its slow lit fuse that burns holesIn the shabby shroud of death forever.

how can i everbreathe normally againafter having been cradledby the kind of sorrowso silent, that it nourishesafter having been sweptby the kind of joyso absolute, that it wounds.

The Inner Self...What makes us who we areshould be glorifiedpersonifiedand sung unto the stars!

... ancient days of sorrowancient days of pain-heartaches of the pastslowly began to wane ...(from gleaning granules)

Lollypop...the passion contained merely kissesplaced upon lips, neck and cheekthese young lovers of the castleof which our fairytale speaks...

Every new dayOur children's joy is as fresh as roses, Even the birds chatter at dawn.

For every moment of suffering, Others will arriveThat will instead pierce you with joy.

Life has sadness, joy, beauty, like poetry.So be passionate and write a great story.

Good poetry reveals the beauty of joy and tragedy.

Every pain, addiction, anguish, longing, depression, anger or fearis an orphaned part of usseeking joy, some disowned shadow wanting to returnto the lightand homeof ourselves.

I will not stop singingthe Muses who set me dancing.

But tears are an indulgence. Memory sings.

A writer will divine a metaphor from a pattern on a dress, or a gesture, because sunsets have been done before.

Give me a moment I am preparing to drawback to screamLouder than a train overhead below a railroad bridge

What you are trying to let go of...is already gone.

We too can repair our cracks with goldAnd glow again.Crazed by life, More beautiful than ever before.

Everyday can be extraordinaryAnd ripe, Like a flower burst, If the will is there.

Once spun, The silken thread of all our aspirationsRemains intact, It can never be broken.

Nothing that truly mattersCan ever evaporate, Be excised, Burnt out of your soul.

Be as audaciousAs you wish.By all means look to the heavens.

A permanent pathThat, once illuminated, Goes ever onward – a way home…