Poetry Quotes
Searching my heart for its true sorrow, This is the thing I find to be: That I am weary of words and people, Sick of the city, wanting the sea.
We distance ourselves for protection, Wear scarves when it’s cold. What seems most outlandish in our autobiography Is what really happened.
I'll be your blanket, baby. Wrap yourself up in me. Let me give you shelter, in the winter of this world.
Isn't it true that a pleasant house makes winter more poetic, and doesn't winter add to the poetry of a house?
unsignificantlyoff the coastthere wasa splash quite unnoticedthis was Icarus drowning
There is so much want. I feel it so much that I am water, a river of want, pooled in the shape of a girl named Cassia.
Metaphor is a slippery eel, if it wasn't for its shock I'd stick to the easy catch of prose.
I promise permanence. I promise persistence. I promise that falling in love was just the beginning for us.
As artists, we create the beautyWe are too afraid to live outAnd search, but always fall just shyOf finding what life is about.
And in uttering thatExcellently executed truthYou become an artist too
We cannot always cry at the right timeand who is to say which time is right?
There was a young lady called Peaches, who simply loved animals to pieces.She ate pigs and sheep, and for cows she would weep, when baked in a sauce of rich greases.
So many questionsbut nothing to say, in this current momentwe are still so farfrom the answers.
Falling in love with you was out of my control, but I do have a say in what happens next. And, I will choose to stay in love with you through everything this life throws at us.
...yes, I am your priest, your magician, your lover - I make charms to incant your presence...
I didn't know the demonsthat walked across your memory.They came from the dustwhen you were at peacein your grave.
Please don’t tell me, it was less painful than a broken backbone, a forgotten poem, a lost home.
Some mysterious revenge of nature has seen to it that no poem in praise of drink or tobacco (or snuff, if any) can succeed.
We would – or at least we should – take upon ourselves the ultimate task of our poet: to seek the face of God.
Trying to pump breath into a fairy tale is as arduous and tragic as ancient Greek theatre.
Nowhere hidden has ever turned away a goodheart guest.
The world's supply of heartache is secure. There's love and hate and mayhem everywhere.
Heartache makesfor good poetry, heartburnnot so much.
Chance is your godThough you're falling free you will land hard
I'm a wanderessI'm a one night standDon't belong to no cityDon't belong to no man(Note: These lyrics were inspired by Roman Payne's quote from his novel "The Wanderess".)
The poet lusts after emotionally unavailable people because she doesn't have to worry about commitment. The poet desperately wants commitment.
Poetry is a poets work in clandestine chemistry and there is no ethic other than poethics!
Against Self-PityIt gets you nowhere but deeper intoyour own shit--pure misery a luxuryone never learns to enjoy.
Why is it that you still beguile me –As wind, stone, bird – and all the likes? Why is that you smile on me – With sudden summer lightning strikes?
♫ Climbed that roost, alighted right there. Made mush of his head for the onlooker bears.A two-pronger her prize, a meat most rare. Do-gooders will pay. Do-gooders will fear. ♫
i hugged myself as a child & told Myself that everything was perfect in the petrichor The smell of pure innocence & earthy & earthly Innocence that stays in the clothes I only wear on good days…
