Do you want to see all the wrong things in our world?You sit right there.Then notice how many people move too fast about in life,they go blind over the miracle of being in the moment.Now, do you want to see all the right things?Well I can't honestly speak for others.But this is how it always works for me.I just sit right here.Right here. Beside you.Then silently,I notice how all the wrong things in my worldjust seem to start fallinginto their rightful places.Right here. Beside you.

Frederick Espiritu

I always felt it wouldpass.I listened to the charges against meknowing some of them to be truebut certainly notimportant enoughto become the target ofviolence, envy,vengeance.I thought it would surelypass.

Charles Bukowski

My wild heart craves shadows. Like a bat unfurling its wings, I open myself to darkness; I open myself to truth.

Nichole McElhaney

unrequited love is likekneeling on uncooked riceand waiting for the boiling water of his kissesto soften the painbut he never comes.

K.Y. Robinson

our foundation is rockybecause we made a home in each other’s skin.the damage is beginning to show.

K.Y. Robinson

i knew his heart was yours but i wanted to become an alchemist to make gold of the pieces i receivedbecause all i ever felt was the dark side of his leaded heart.

K.Y. Robinson

tears swell in the wells of my eyes.love is a constant side effect of mine.

K.Y. Robinson

love riddeni searched for youin corridors,open doorsand in endless seas of similesand metaphorsbut we never were on the same page.

K.Y. Robinson

Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read to the end just to find out who killed the cook. Not the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark, in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication. Not the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot, the one you beat to the punchline, the door, or the one who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones that crimped your toes, don’t regret those. Not the nights you called god names and cursed your mother, sunk like a dog in the livingroom couch,b chewing your nails and crushed by loneliness. You were meant to inhale those smoky nights over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches. You’ve walked those streets a thousand times and still you end up here. Regret none of it, not one of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing, when the lights from the carnival rides were the only stars you believed in, loving them for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved. You’ve traveled this far on the back of every mistake, ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house after the TV set has been pitched out the upstairs window. Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied of expectation. Relax. Don’t bother remembering any of it. Let’s stop here, under the lit sign on the corner, and watch all the people walk by.

Dorianne Laux

A poem is about something the way a cat is about the house.

Allen Grossman

Life doesn't stop. It doesn't stop progressing forward and it never stops trying to bring you to your knees. It will test your strengths and exploit your weakness, and I'm not sure that is always such a bad thing.

Christy Aldridge

Closed eyescan't sacrifice a third timei may never knowA dreamer's dreammy stars are onlymade of goldCame into this life holding onWas it a dream Or life lived beforeAlien genetics Formed on the 7thToo late So i was turned awayToo lateBut i seen those gatesIt’s just latelyi’ve forgot the wayWhat am i saying?somewhere out there is a starCovered in goldlaugh, its okayit's just best i wait this time can't sacrifice a third timehow will i knowfeverish devils place their bets the abyss or the flameBut at the edgei stop & look to the skytonight I find the stars are covered in gold so right here i will just stayHere i’ll just remain in a place where time and space does not existbut a gateway to Sarin does covered in golddeep in the chest you appearjust like I always knewa distant star

greg c warner

Blank pages are cruelPure torture in white or beigeBut how else to start

A.A. Patawaran

My life was a blank paper, until you came to rhyme with words & make it a poetry book. ❤ ❤

Akansh Malik

Sometimes my helpless blood runs numb and, if only for a second, I forget how frail bones can be.

Taylor Patton

Dissociated, I follow this body in its reckless haste.

Taylor Patton

Leave the hush to those who love like apes because together, you and I make vulgar sounds like a fervent sojourn in paradise.

Taylor Patton

Doubt quit stopping by when I started staying out late, dancing in a flood of self assurance discovered when holding your hand.

Taylor Patton

I am foolish in the way distance makes me feel partial.

Taylor Patton

Even lungs that are gasping are lungs that are trying.

Taylor Patton

3 A.M. isn't a time for sleep when the silhouette of you is breathing next to me.

Taylor Patton

I haven't got a clue on how to love you like a lover should, how to make you happy or even how to make you stay. I hardly grasp the essence of desire and true affection scares me more than it should, but know that every stutter, every shy glance, every hesitant touch, come from someone who believes in you and I.

inkness//IG poet

Nostalgia dies in the pit of my throat from lack of exercise and I buried the word six feet under the pronunciation of hopeful tomorrows.

Taylor Patton

Sitting makes us think of standingOur current stance keeps on demanding We wish to fly without the wings Puppets move before pulling the strings

Munia Khan

#Ola MusingsHer brow's penciled bowEyes tinged with kohl wowA mere passing shadow of hersCauses dust dry bloom wow!By nCr

NarayanChandraRauf

I am not soft. I do not have that luxury. I am the wolf in girl’s clothing; all snarls and claws. My mother once told me: be gentle, be kind. She forgot to mention that the world was full of beasts, and if I wanted to survive I would have to become one myself.

Nichole McElhaney

Rise AgainOne goal goes by the waysideSome watch sneering arms foldedLaughing at you until the endUntil you have the last laughYou've courage you're no riffraffAnother will lend you a handYou're apparently not left for deadYou rise again and all is fineDefeat no matter how crushingThat seemingly final act they consingIs speckle of dust to you the leaningMajestic Tower of Pisa still standingHow dissapointed they must beThinking they have the master keyMore bogus then a midnight sunYet you stand on a solid foundationYour destiny is beyond what anyoneOr anything can give or take from youDangling hope strings attached rescueInstead rise and face the morning dewYou the sun reclaiming your denFrom the frost,beams of hope chasingYou are alone but alive againShining the sheen of your greenYou rise again free no one's lienYou are alive because you alaoneCan decide the meaning of the dustIf they had meaning to begin withKaleb Kilton (c) 2016

Kaleb Kilton

I learned from Whitman that the poem is a temple--or a green field--a place to enter, and in which to feel.

Mary Oliver

I will missmy chest explodingyou coming home latenot turning on the lightalways waking me upI will missthe sudden burst of safetywhen you look at meor hold my handor say something like”let’s go home”I will missthe years I loston something or someone.The pieces didn’t fit, shaped wrongthe timing slightly off.I loved you like I always will.

Charlotte Eriksson

Understand the poem not the poet.

Christina Strigas

Carry good cheer in the morning;Carry good cheer in the night.Effort is sweeter and living completer,If ever we walk in love's light.

G.B. Williams

In snow thou comestThou shalt go with resuming groundThe sweet derision of thx crowAnd Glee's advancing sound

Emily Dickinson

so the poem hurt you.it was supposed to.

Trista Mateer

Gloomy roomimmersed in a scentof modern cowardsfilled withshapeless creaturessitting in silencebecause they havenothing to sayFake plastic faceswith a grimaceof disappointmentpainted on themAre we stuck on holdexpecting our turnin a waiting roomof so-calledlost generation?

Asper Blurry

What do you think of when you think of mourning?' Jenny asks.The question snaps me back to attention. I answer without really thinking. "I guess 'Funeral Blues' by W.H. Auden. I think it was Auden. I suppose that's not very original.''I don't know it.''It's a poem.''I gathered.''I'm just clarifying. It's not a blues album.'Jenny ignores my swipe at her intelligence.'Does your response need to be original? Isn't that what poetry is for, for the poet to express something so personal that it ultimately is universal?'I shrug. Who is Jenny, even new Jenny, to say what poetry is for? Who am I for that matter?'Why do you thin of that poem in particular?'"Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, / Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, / Silence the pianos and with muffled drum / Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.' I learned the poem in college and it stuck.

Steven Rowley

Persephone had it right.If you must go, might as welltake all of spring with you—

Cathy Linh Che

And there you sit.My eyes burning a hole on the side of your face while the stars are being captured in your eyes from the prolonged, there's-plenty-of-time, full attention you're giving each one.And there you sit.And I'm wishing I could give you every ounce of what you give the stars.

Taylor Patton

Death lurks in the shadows, just out of view. Now and then I see his reaching hand, uncertain of the blurry image that passes before my eyes, but conscious of the crippling influence of his touch. Some say Death rears an ugly head, so hideous a view the beholder can scarcely gasp their last breath. Others call him beautiful, a sweet relief to look upon. But these are rumors babbled by the unknowing. For Death is like the gorgon, Medusa, who when perceived, turns the body to stone. Those who know Death take the knowledge of his shadowed face with them to wherever it is he leads our dearly departed by the hand. All who are left behind must wait their turn to glance into the eyes of the one who will close our mouths forever.

Richelle E. Goodrich

What if dragons breathed bubbles and purred when they cuddled and giggled at chivalrous knights for their troubles?What if dragons felt soft, having scales made of cloth,and they moved rather slow like a brown-throated sloth?What if dragons were shyand did easily crywhen confronted by characters callous and sly?What if dragons did goodbut were misunderstoodso men mercilessly slew the beasts right where they stood?What if dragons aren’t missedbecause there is no listof extinct types of quarry that now don’t exist?

Richelle E. Goodrich

Sipping teawith gleebeneath a gooseberry tree.I wish Alice were here.Oh, my dear,do not fear,she will be.

Richelle E. Goodrich

What is poetry? Only the poetry can answer this!

TRIPURARI

The one who can draw your widest smileis also the one who can throw youto the farthest exile

Sam Haidy

You don't have to be an angel.All you need is someone who can always see your best angle.

Sam Haidy

In poetry, the best way to say cuss words is to hide it behind metaphors.

Ymatruz

I say, flawless poems do not exist.

Ymatruz

I was born one thousand times and all the while it was you I met again to only meet again under the thousand stars that divide us and connect us.

Christina Strigas

Imitating others, I failed to find myself. I looked inside and discovered I only knew my name. When I stepped outside I found my real Self. ~Rumi

Maryam Mafi

Do you love me?" I ask.In your hesitation I found my answer.

Lang Leav

could not sleep last nightbed cover of unease distance kept me awake windy whispers in summer nightwas telling you were awake one corner to another rollinglike swimming in a competitionmy heart wanted to seeyou then n thenwe live ,we loveon same earth mostlyrare within a real another world don't allow usto sleep in side your ,or mine restful love©litymunshi

litymunshi

In all the flames of fire fume’s left the traceInto the bluest sea the sky is drownedThe miracles of life can you embraceFrom the poem 'Can You Embrace?

Munia Khan

Even when the lights go out, even when someone says to me: "It's over---," even when from the stage a gray gust of emptiness drifts toward me,even when not one silent ancestor sits beside me anymore---not a woman, not even the boy with the brown squint-eye:I'll sit here anyway. One can always watch.

Rainer Maria Rilke

Cruel, Clever Cat.Sally, having swallowed cheese,Directs down holes the scented breeze,Enticing thus with baited breathNice mice to an untimely death.

Geoffrey Taylor

Touch was absolutelyout of the question. I couldn’t stop sweating. My heart, a butterfly pinnedto a glacier. Empires fell inside my mouth. I touched myself like a pogrom& broke my sex into a history of inconsequential shames. I wept viciouslyinside of my own stomach & had it condemned. From an upside-down bellI drank silence, subsisted on the memory of someone else’s hands. Wolvessang & I did not answer. I forgot their names. Mornings were the worst, thenthere were days & evenings. Streetlights & darkened sycamore & suburbangrief so full it made me foolish. I shattered my fist on the Lord’s jaw. Sorrowsat, licking my wrists & my neck. I slept at its convenience. O, uncelebratedbody. My penis, a lighthouse on the bottom of the ocean, shining shadowsat the undersides of boats. Nobody drowned for so many years. Desperatefor the making of those candy-throated ghosts, I found the rooms betweenthe violence of comets. I threw myself into anything’s path. Even the skybent around me. How lonely to be something that nothing wants to kill. (So I Locked Myself Inside A Star for Twenty Years)

Jeremy Radin

The Perfect Man.The perfect man is gentle,Never cruel or mean.He has an beautiful smile,And keeps his face so clean.The perfect man likes children,And will raise them by your side.He will be a good father,As well as an good husband to his bride.The perfect man loves cooking ,Cleaning and vacuuming too.He will do anything in his power,To convey his feelings of love on you.The perfect man is sweet ,Writing poetry from your name.He's an best freind to your mother,And kisses away your pain.He has never made you cry,Or hurt you in any way.Oh f*** this stupid poem,The perfect man is GAY!

Unkown Author

King John was not a good man,He had his little ways.And sometimes no one spoke to him,For days and days and days.

A.A. Milne

ILikeThe WayThat when youTiltPoemsOn their sideTheyLook likeMiniatureCities FromA long wayAway. SkyscrapersMade outOfWords.

Matt Haig

Silly little monster” all would say.They’d scratch its head and turn awayuntil it snatched their tiny noses.They couldn’t even smell the roses!Ever after, every childdreaded monsters, fierce or mild.

Richelle E. Goodrich

Medicinal Spirit, Inside MirrorTherapy becomes a harmony, and that harmony is built on levels,No one knows how to upscale another, for it has to come from the inside grails,Striking inflicts at the mirror and hatred to the being of creator,Causes hate in mirror too and abused flesh to the author,Changes come from its prudence and rationalism liberation,Not its pardon,A mirror is but a substance of a conscious,But identity says "let me fly" when journeying from the subconscious to the conscious.

John Shelton Jones

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Poetry Quotes - Page 32

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