Poetry Quotes
No matter how many times I break...I will repair.No matter how many times I tear...I will sew." -From "Towards Peace in a More Natural Order
Poetry fights against the injustice of this world. Poetry's truths are ageless.
I wanted to explore more of us and lose myself, I wanted it to be you and no one else" AP
As a way of getting in touch with my originsevery night I set the alarm clockfor the time I was born so that waking upbecomes a historical reenactment and the first thing I do
Poetry listens to me when I am silent and understands me when no one else seems to be able to.
A rebel to what’s cool, I don't follow trends, maybe that’s why I don't have many friends, but I know my destination.
Be yourself. Trust me, you don’t want to be anyone else because they are not you and you are special.
If only I had wings, I would not hesitate to fly away from my mistakes.
The dictionary feeds me daily, thesaurus always adds the gravy, big words I bite, so very tasty.
Miracles happen, lyrical inhalation of poetry, you will not stop my words from breathing.
The poet drafts his work as a writer but edits it as a sculptor, with his pen as a chisel and his mind a hammer.
Some want to be writers when life permits it. There is no part-time in being a writer. It’s an all-in way of living your life through words and feelings scratched out with a pen.
Karibu, dada wangu. Hapa, wewe ni nyumbani. Welcome, my sister. Here, you are home. Home. And to this home, may you always return.
Springtimeand I wish I knew you
Those who eat porridge and those who drink gruel live and die.Even though the faces change, porridge eaters and gruel drinkers continue to manifest.
Failure has a hacksaw to my anklesand right now there is nothingI want more than to learnhow to walk on my hands.
I am a poem in progresswith no clear beginning or endingjust a middleuntended, unintended, unfinished, hanging therelike the breath before a question
The same things that make you unique in this world, make you a target for the archers consumed by fear and jealousy.
Digging deep inside you as a writer will damn near kill you at times. But in the end, your words will be true and undeniable for the reader, and that is all that ever really matters in writing.
Perfection, my dear being, is what you are.Let not your mindobscure your view.Be still and be aware, right where you are, you cannot miss it.
for all I can really do isstand herein September’s rainsavoring…soaking it all inslipping..and simplyholding on to poetryfor dear life.
The match I struck shall not run deadYou’re my first inhale, my last cigarette.
No man has the courage to approach her or initiate questions she herself rise, for all men fear a fascist and she can very well be a fascist’s wife.
How can I blame the cherry blossomsFor rejecting this floating world And drifting away as the wind calls them
I am going to hurt you.You are going to hurt me.But we will do it with practiced fingersand passionate mouthsand I swear to godit will be worth something.
At the end of the day all we ever need is something that helped pass the time and something that keeps time from passing.
Like a speeding trainI am passing by...I don’t knowwhere I’m headingwith whom or whyall I know is thatI will never, everpass from here againall I know is I’m skidding forwardon this track of life.
What differentiated us was our perception of our mutual reality, which made no difference.
Pray that the summer mornings are many when with such pleasure, with such joy you will enter ports seen for the first time
As a writer, a poet, you’re not alone in wanting to be alone. Your work is a friendship that never leaves you.
I was a poet. I had no expectations other than creating a world of art with words that would live on long after I was gone.
The gristle of the underneath stings in the air of responsibility.
They say, poetry is dead. I say, was there ever a time they had a clue of what the state of poetry is?
Poets, with no sponsors, no agenda, are the truest form of freedom today, bleeding out every drop of themselves for the world to either hate or devour.
Each morning the winds of the city moan and weep with lost souls clinging to hope of reliving the memories of yesterday.
leave me a smilejust warm enough...to spend a milliongolden afternoons in.
I want you to crave the crisp ocean breezeas much as I do.I want your soul to beas rain-swept as mine.
As the sky prepares to settle its tired, aching feetinto the night’s velvet slippersI settle, into my armchair, soaking the teabag, of my thoughts, into warm liquidy stars.