Poetry Quotes - Page 21

I live in the first drop of ink that touches every blank page.

I am a tale, I am a book, written in different languages and styles I can’t be read, can’t be understood,neither by me nor the greatest of minds I am too big, I am too small, to be processed or seen by the naked eyeI am too dim, I am too bright, to appear in the shadows or the sunshine.

leave me a smilejust warm enough...to spend a milliongolden afternoons in.

Karibu, dada wangu. Hapa, wewe ni nyumbani. Welcome, my sister. Here, you are home. Home. And to this home, may you always return.

Jen Lynn Anderson

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.

Santosh Lamichhane

Failure has a hacksaw to my anklesand right now there is nothingI want more than to learnhow to walk on my hands.

Jen Lynn Anderson

I am a poem in progresswith no clear beginning or endingjust a middleuntended, unintended,unfinished, hanging therelike the breath before a question

Jen Lynn Anderson

The same things that make you unique in this world, make you a target for the archers consumed by fear and jealousy.

Jason E. Hodges

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.

Jason E. Hodges

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.

Santosh Lamichhane

I wouldn't mindif life left me...winglessburnt to cindersripped by stormsscattered...like weedscelestially woundedwithout cherry blossomsto perish withbut I would crywith head held in my handsif it left me...unfulfilled.

for all I can really do isstand herein September’s rainsavoring…soaking it all inslipping..and simplyholding on to poetryfor dear life.

Had I only known my lettersWould be of such importanceI’d empty myself on paperEvery single morning’And it was for such reason,as she read his little stanza,that she decided to stamponefinalletter:‘Every single morningI’d empty myself on paperYou were my greater importanceThat’s why I wrote you letters.

We quenched the bulging flame, amongst the ashes embers of fire remain

The match I struck shall not run deadYou’re my first inhale, my last cigarette.

Lonely you linger in a league above poetry.

love is always moving towards you

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.

It was not Death, for I stood up,And all the Dead, lie down—It was not Night, for all the BellsPut out their Tongues, for Noon.

Emily Dickinson

Wake up, wake up!' He said to me'No, I'm still sleepy,do not disturb me'Wake up me child, see the beautyDon't cry, wipe your tears, He said to me'No, I'm so lonely, Nobody understands me'Don't cry my child, embrace the beautyDon't panic, be calm, He said to me'No, you don't understand,I need to earn money'Don't struggle my child, connect to the beautyDon't blame or attach, He said to me'How can I be loving,When they hurt me?'Don't retaliate my child, show them the beautyDon't withhold your love, He said to me'How can I give FatherWhen they only take from me?'Don't fear my child, I replenish the beauty

I AM 27 YEARS OLD"If as a baby you can remain,Then in my bosom you’d always stay.And my need to love and care,Will only grow stronger without shadow or fear.By no one could my love be taken away, For you'd be the reason why I live today.And my Love; for this my life will stay, If my baby you'd forever remain.

Anonymous

It is very good, Wisehammer, it's very well written, but it's too-too-political. It will be considered provocative.""You don't want me to say it.""Not tonight. We have many people against us.""I could tone it down. I could omit 'We left our country for our country's good.'""That's the best line.

Timberlake Wertenbaker

I love poetry, but I often wonder how poetry feels about me.

As I string, a swift rhythm is played out with my hands, a cadence known only to those who have strung tobacco. To many of the poor workers, the meter and rhythm of stringing tobacco is the only poetry they’ve ever known.

Brenda Sutton Rose

To me and the rest of the world your poetry is a gift.

With Other Wordsby George G. AsztalosWith Other Words we do not see things as they areBecause simple as that we only see things as we areWe see as they are the sick ambitionsTo idolize and define about everythingWith The Same Damn WordsBut only with Other Words we see as we really areWith Other Words everything is in the hands minds and our heartsEverything is Here and NowAnd There or Then Is really nothingThere and Then everything Was or Will BeThere and Then Is Nowhere and NeverMy heart is shamelessly steering at the world with Other WordsMy heart is a bitch unveiling you’re intimal beautiful partsAnd if she does not see them she fantasizes shameless with Other WordsWith The Same intimal beautiful Words is really nothing There and ThenGo figure that all that shameless beauty is only in my eyesGo figure that all that shameless beauty is Here and NowYesterday is dead and tomorrow could be in the course of CreationWell me from Now on I stay to kill myself with a lively joyBecause simply as this I am Here and Now with Other WordsBecause everything Is and goes to hellWith a wonder of sickening of shameless of beauty

George G. Asztalos

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.

Stop the tape, cut the paper! I will just write another poem and grab a microphone and push record again!

Miracles happen, lyrical inhalation of poetry, you will not stop my words from breathing.

Only God and His angels can hear our hearts duet.

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.

She dances in a ring of fire and throws off the challenge with a shrug.

Mountains clothed in snowRobed in white against blue skiesMirrored in the lake.

his abusemakes her an anvilwithout spark

To them, eternal life beginsAnd God Himself shall wipe away all tears.

In every garden grows one single rose so perfect that once the frost takes it, no other can grow there again. My rose is and will ever be my Edilyn. And I shall never stop mourning her." Illarion's Tattoo

Sherrilyn Kenyon

She dances in a ring of fire and throws of the challenge with a shrug.

O Weep No More ForMe When I Am Gone!

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.

Jason E. Hodges

I'm not worried about plagiarism, I don't care if every person between here and Hell's creation put their name on my work as long as it ends up in the eyes of someone that found peace in the words

Stanley Victor Paskavich

Hatred begets One with eyes Closed,The wiser's love cannot be sourced.

Shouvik N. Hore

Beneath her thinnest skin and light, a fuse leads way to dynamite.

When the last leaf falls,what will die within us?

Sheniz Janmohamed

In my heart, poetry screams, “I exist!

Moonlight drifts from overA hundred thousand milesTo fall upon a cemeteryIt reads a hundred epitaphsAnd then smiles at a nest ofBaby owls

Richard Brautigan

Poets are Prisoners8-29-2015Poets are prisonersPractitioners, commissioners &conditioners of the spoken word Caged by their own mindsWords are shackles

Debbie Tosun Kilday

This poem inspired me to write my eBook.The Miller's Daughter by Alfred Lord TennysonAnd I would be the necklace, And all day long to fall and rise Upon her balmy bosom, With her laughter or her sighs; And I would lie so light, so light, I scarce should be unclasp’d at night.

Poetry is not a mere expression of a poet's self, but an enchantment, a spell of the muse, the inspiration. Poetry is thus magic and magic is poetry.

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

Isabel Marcheselli

This poem inspired me to write my eBook.The Miller's Daughter by Alfred Lord TennysonIt is the miller’s daughter, And she is grown so dear, so dear,That I would be the jewel That trembles in her ear; For hid in ringlets day and night I’d touch her neck so warm and white.

Drink in the moon as though you might die of thirst.

Look athow deeply flawedwe areand yet capable of lovingso perfectly.

When we were kids I begged cupid to come and shoot me.

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 fights against the injustice of this world. Poetry's truths are ageless.

the dolphins stitch sky to sea.

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