What Is Poetry Quotes
I have learned and dismantled all the words in order to draw from them asingle word: Home.
The fly lands on the swatter.The movie runs backwardsand catches fire in the projector.This species apes us wellby talking only about itself
The planet you inhabit is a single plane of infinite dimensions, stretched like a guitar string, and standing before you like a concubine waiting for your command.
The object of poetic activity is essentially language: whatever his beliefs & convictions, the poet is more concerned with words than what these words designate.
Writing poetry is about learning to pare down the poem to the most essential words. Every word used has to be crucial to the poem.
Arrange your unutterable alphabet, my man, / and hold tight. / It's all you've got, a naming of things, and not so beautiful.
The sky never falls with the rain. It is never weighed down by all that it carries. It takes all of its anchorsand turns them into stars. Learn from this.
Your flesh is not a reflection of your soul. So when you look in the mirror, remember that your light outshines your flaws.
I am in awe of flowers. Not because of their colors, but because even though they have dirt in their roots, they still grow. They still bloom.
Life is so beautiful and so short that anything that makes me feel less than too much is nothing at all.
My heart's scripture tastes foreign in the mouths of cowards and on the tongues of those who have never breathed inthe moon and breathed out the world.
Take each day in your open palms and close your fists around it. This life is not done with you yet.
Whenever I learn a new word, I feel strong, for I discover a new world. Whenever I share a word, I feel weak: I give away a sparkle of my dreams. (Soar)
I will not impress you with words, I will prove to you their definition. It’s a genuine vocabulary.
Words are fossilized butterfly wings, pretty to look at sometimes, but only good for Museums.I want to miserably burn down the Museums.
I wrote so meagerly to you. But what I couldn't write swelled and swelled like an old-fashioned airship and drifted away at last through the night sky.
Loneliness of heartIn the still of the night my heart doth cry out, who can hear it for time is far spent. In the darkness in the shadow of the depth I find isolation and fear...
PoemWords from the heartBreaking, teaching, healingThe deepest, purest form of artFeeling
Poetry is one of my guilty pleasures and I want to thank you poets for providing me with beautiful words that I can devour and selfishly indulge in any time I want. ♥-Nina Jean Slack
...words are so strong and I am so timid - my soul ignores warnings and I end up covered with your paint ...
...when you're hard and unyielding your words score me with lines - I hate lines - I want curves - curves are happy like a snowman ...
...you can use words if you wish, but I'm warning you - I've learned how to read your heart ...
... only a seer or a lover would know that I'm making a jewelry of words for you -drawn from your essence -to flash and burn with your fire -so you can bedazzle with your own light ...
...come lie beside me again and understand - the others can show by actions, but I alone will immortalize you in words...
...perhaps in actions I'm less of a man - but, oh the words - such lovely words...
All words, then, belonging to the inner world of the mind, are of the imagination, are originally poetic words.
since words are all we have of wings.
You can't quell depression by making love. But we tried. But we tried, oh, we did.
What we have now, shall never be again. The poets of the past sit in amazement of the wanna-be's of an era long gone.
Bells ringing with no soundLaughter with no voiceHappiness lost without being foundMaking love with no noise
It’s voyeuristic the way you searchfor answers in these cries for help, and how you see Death’s fingersbut always think they’re paintbrushes.
I felt happier yesterday. I do not feel happy today – I feelabandoned and godless and brokenin a church built for the damnedwith artificial light through stained glassand warped wooden doors.
The monsters were neverunder my bed.Because the monsterswere inside my head.I fear no monsters, for no monsters I see.Because all this timethe monster has been me.
We're in the business of melancholiaand we are married to our work.
I want to celebrate the sadness that makes you feel everything so deeply. I want to throw a party for the wounds that make you so unabashedly human.
love meget lost in mebut bewareside effects includea lot of shivering, babya lot of drinking, maybea lot of sinking, baby
I want to sleep in the ovenbecause I just burn in the bed.
Oh, precious losing streak, you're too cute for your own good. I try to laugh about itbut my face is made of wood.
It...whatever 'it' is, has swallowed me and I lie here in the pit of its cold dark stomach being eaten alive by its bile and I...I don't even know if I want to be saved.
Where were you when I undressed and told the tales of my day?Where were youwhenI was silent with God in prandial pray?Where were youwhen I recited love poems as I lay?Where were you?
Scatter as a prayerescaping my lips...as orchidsblooming in clouds.