Prose Quotes - Page 3

I just wish you could see my demons for what they are, and lay here beside me on the floor. No words. Just your presence.

Charlotte Eriksson

What is above all needed is to let the meaning choose the word, and not the other way around. In prose, the worst thing you can do with words is to surrender to them.

Each of us carries a room within ourselves, waiting to be furnished and peopled, and if you listen closely, you may need to silence everything in your own room, you can hear the sounds of that other room inside your head.

I tended to find lines of poetry beautiful only when I encountered them quoted in prose, in the essays my professors had assigned in college, where the line breaks were replaced with slashes, so that what was communicated was less a particular poem than the echo of poetic possibility. Insofar as I was interested in the arts, I was interested in the disconnect between my experience of actual artworks and the claims made on their behalf; the closest I'd come to having a profound experience of art was probably the experience of this distance, a profound experience of the absence of profundity.

The Waterfall and the Sea""Her love and passion are a waterfall, fed from the wellspring of her heart,gently tumbling into a pool, preparing herself to share her gifts.His passion and love are like the sea, deep and wide, waiting mysteriously,Patiently he awaits her, calling out through time and spaceShe hears his call, her pool overflowing.Her love and passion gushing over her banks she rushes toward himWinding and twisting she finds her way, destined to reach his shoresHe awaits her arrival as she opens her delta and his tide comes inTheir waters mingle every molecule of her river with his seaForever mixing and sharing their passion and love in that place betweenThe Waterfall and the Sea

Christopher Earle

Do You BelieveDo you believethat I have loved yousince the dawn of time?Do you believethat we were destinedto be intertwined?...

Muse

Do You Believe...on this road of lifeon this dayI take younow husband and wife...

Muse

Ode to the Chamber...linger here amidst the chamberin which we embrace our lovetalk to me of sonnetsand call me turtledove...

Muse

The Bane...where coxswain's dirtand seaman's shirtsbrushed bawdily upon her chest...

Muse

Cradle of SolitudeFor we know not why our tribulationsare given as suchour fragile formscreated from the dust...

Muse

Parched by the deprivation of your love for so long made me forget what a cup brimming with love, on my lips, felt like. Everything that now wets it, only wrinkles it with a bland taste.

...flames moved towards himand dropped within-singed and marred his tender skin ...(the frightful plight tale)

Muse

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

It could be yesterdaywhen I was less in loveI thinkFor I didn’t see you in the mirrorbehind mewhile getting dressed.The way your hands couldn’t stay awayand our bodies always found their ways back to each otheras if they were meant to be togetherClose.But then it was today and I saw you againin the mirrorbehind me while getting dressedSo I go to sleep tonightalonewithout actually falling asleep because I’m scared of the moment I will wake upand realise it was just a dreamYou’re actually gone.Now all I can do is get through to another tomorrowhoping that I will be less in loveagainLike yesterdayBut not today.I was never really well with things at all.

Charlotte Eriksson

There were days when I still put on make up in case you’d come back,but I wear the same clothes and shower in the rainand eat when I can and sleep when I can,which is rare and not often,so if you’d see me nowon these streetswhere I once imagined walking with youyou’d have a hard time recognising me.I takes a lot to run away.

Charlotte Eriksson

The Tao Te Ching is partly in prose, partly in verse; but as we define poetry now, not by rhyme and meter but as a patterned intensity of language, the whole thing is poetry. I wanted to catch that poetry, its terse, strange beauty. Most translations have caught meanings in their net, but prosily, letting the beauty slip through. And in poetry, beauty is no ornament; it is the meaning. It is the truth. We have that on good authority.

Ursula K Le Guin

For I have nothing to lean on, nowhere to call my home and there is nowhere I will go for Christmas to rest my head and touch familiar walls. I have no degree to show on paper or employment to take care of my health or the reassurance that I can pay my rent. And I have no right to complain because this is the road I choose and I built it myself, not really knowing where I wanted it to lead, but I have hope in all things ahead and behind and I am learning to let myself go. Forget my own ego and believe that what I am doing is grander than my very own self.

Charlotte Eriksson

And you might try to hide or protect yourself, or compare the different states of love,but you must not grow up, must not act wise when it comes to love.You must stay foolish and fall for every heart will beat in different ways together with yours and love is not meant to be compared, only enjoyed, and suffered, and remembered.

Charlotte Eriksson

It’s January and I’m kicking snow off the ground. I just threw out the flower you made me promise to water, handle with care, because I was too careless, you said. Careless with things and people, around me and behindand I remember being still for just a second or two, thinking that it’s so much easier to leave and start anew, than take care of what’s already here.

Charlotte Eriksson

… and now and then we could look up and give each other a thought, because I think he could have beautiful thoughts,and we could just let each other be less lonely in our loneliness.

Charlotte Eriksson

Poetry is more than a form of art. It's a vibration and a pulsing heart. Whether it's sour or whether it's sweet. It can give you strength no one can defeat

Stanley Victor Paskavich

He celebrated his solitude with a frown.

It was a very ordinary day, the day I realised that my becoming is my life and my home and that I don't have to do anything but trust the process, trust my story and enjoy the journey. It doesn't really matter who I've become by the finish line, the important things are the changes from this morning to when I fall asleep again, and how they happened, and who they happened with. An hour watching the stars, a coffee in the morning with someone beautiful, intelligent conversations at 5am while sharing the last cigarette. Taking trains to nowhere, walking hand in hand through foreign cities with someone you love. Oceans and poetry. It was all very ordinary until my identity appeared, until my body and mind became one being. The day I saw the flowers and learned how to turn my daily struggles into the most extraordinary moments. Moments worth writing about. For so long I let my life slip through my fingers, like water. I'm holding on to it now,and I'm not letting go.

Charlotte Eriksson

You kissed me that morning as if you’d never done it before and never would again and now I write another letter that I will never dare to send, collecting memories of loss like chains tight around my chest,and if you see a fire from the shore tonightit’s my chains going up in flames.

Charlotte Eriksson

Three boys. Three deaths. One school. We've made the national news. Is out school cursed? Are we a reckless bunch of fools? The media asks questions no one can answer. Kids can't stop crying.

This town of churches and dreams; this town I thought I would lose myself in, with its backward ways and winding roads leading to nowhere; but, I found myself instead. -Magic in the Backyard (excerpt from American Honey)

She would not have cared to confess how infinitely she preferred the exactitude, the star-like impersonality, of figures to the confusion, agitation, and vagueness of the finest prose.

... endowing the imperfect and the preterite with all the sweetness which there is in generosity, all the melancholy which there is in love; guided the sentence that was drawing to an end towards that which was waiting to begin, now hastening, now slackening the pace of the syllables so as to bring them, despite their difference in quantity, into a uniform rhythm, and breathed into this quite ordinary prose a kind of life, continuous and full of feeling.

Of all the art forms, poetry is the most economical. It is the one which is the most secret, which requires the least physical labor, the least material, and the one which can be done between shifts, in the hospital pantry, on the subway, and on scraps of surplus paper. Over the last few years, writing a novel on tight finances, I came to appreciate the enormous differences in the material demands between poetry and prose. As we reclaim our literature, poetry has been the major voice of poor, working class, and Colored women. A room of one's own may be a necessity for writing prose, but so are reams of paper, a typewriter, and plenty of time.

You have never asked for anything, yet you have become an albatross around my neck. Your bony arms are knotted behind my head, I walk bowed under the weight of you.

Never try to outgrow the people who were helping you walk, when you could not even walk.

Nothingness...there in this placewhere nothingness takesbut for the glimmera steadfast shimmerall would be consumed...

Muse

You’re lonely,” they say,but it doesn’t scare me anymorefor it teaches me,and maybe that’s the biggest win from these years:I don’t need anyone else to distract me from myself anymore,like I always thought I would.I don’t break mirrors anymore,like I always thought I would. I can finally stand myself,and I never thought I would.

Charlotte Eriksson

In a tired time, with the light outside drifting away for another day and the lights inside flickering as they come to life, I cup my hands together and prepare to give thanks ... to the life of a day given to me. A day shared with past and present, living and dying, of body and not, and a realization that in everything that is, there is something that was.

I have hopein who I am becoming.I have belief in every scar and disgraceful wordI have ever spokenor been toldbecause it is still teaching meand I have hope in who I am becoming.They say it takes 756 days to run to someone you loveand they also say that the only romance worth fighting foris the one with yourselfand I know by nowthat they say a lot of things,people talking everywherewithout saying a word,but if it took me all those years to learn myselfor teach myselfhow to look into the mirrorwithout breaking itI know for a fact that it was a fight worth fighting.I stood up for my own head and so did my heartand we are coming to terms with ourselves.Shaking hands, saying ”let’s make this workfor we have places to goand people to seeand we will need each other”So I have hopein who I am becoming.It’s Julyand I have hope in who I am becoming.

Charlotte Eriksson

MotherHushed and sacred silencefills the dawning skyI ponder in this momentof our journey which is nigh...

Muse

Don’t try to present your art by making other people read or hear or see or touch it; make them feel it. Wear your art like your heart on your sleeve and keep it alive by making people feel a little better. Feel a little lighter. Create art in order for yourself to become yourselfand let your very existence be your song, your poem, your story.Let your very identity be your book.Let the way people say your name sound like the sweetest melody.

Charlotte Eriksson

I am a complicated person with a simple life.

Charlotte Eriksson

Pour Into My Spirit...spread your arms around meconsole me and keep me close -wield your mighty swordto vanquish all my foes...

Muse

I was never afraid of the dark and I spent my youth walking through empty playgrounds at midnight, worried mothers telling girls to be careful and ”the world is an ugly place and not everyone wants you well”. But I was not afraid and I wished for adrenaline to make my veins pulsate in that way that puts them more on the outside of my skin than inside.After the first night with you I never walked alone at night again because suddenly I had something to lose. Something to save.

Charlotte Eriksson

...unquestioning automatonsblindly marching to the beat -an eerie crunching soundhoards of shuffling feet...(from silent moments)

Muse

One day, I decided to be an island. I took off my clothes and walked into the sea, then floated there, bobbing along with the tide, suspended by my inflatable tube and water wings.

For me a page of good prose is where one hears the rain. A page of good prose is when one hears the noise of battle.... A page of good prose seems to me the most serious dialogue that well-informed and intelligent men and women carry on today in their endeavor to make sure that the fires of this planet burn peaceably.

This world can be quite wonderful once you let yourself be a part of it.

Charlotte Eriksson

The Inner Self...What makes us who we areshould be glorifiedpersonifiedand sung unto the stars!

Muse

Tiny GigglesSilly giggles of laughterI store upon a shelfI give some to otherI save some for myselfI am rich beyond all measureThough not with worldly wealthI store up these treasuresFor my heart and soulful health.

Muse

... ancient days of sorrowancient days of pain-heartaches of the pastslowly began to wane ...(from gleaning granules)

Muse

Lollypop...the passion contained merely kissesplaced upon lips, neck and cheekthese young lovers of the castleof which our fairytale speaks...

Muse

THE NEXT DAY WAS RAIN-SOAKED and smelled of thick sweet caramel, warm coconut and ginger. A nearby bakery fanned its daily offerings. A lapis lazuli sky was blanketed by gunmetal gray clouds as it wept crocodile tears across the parched Los Angeles landscape.When Ivy was a child and she overheard adults talking about their break-ups, in her young feeble-formed mind, she imagined it in the most literal of essences. She once heard her mother speaking of her break up with an emotionally unavailable man.She said they broke up on 69th Street. Ivy visualized her mother and that man breaking into countless fragments, like a spilled box of jigsaw pieces. And she imagined them shattered in broken shards, being blown down the pavement of 69th Street.For some reason, on the drive home from Marcel’s apartment that next morning, all Ivy could think about was her mother and that faceless man in broken pieces, perhaps some aspects of them still stuck in cracks and crevices of the sidewalk, mistaken as grit.She couldn’t get the image of Marcel having his seizure out of her mind. It left a burning sensation in the center of her chest. An incessant flame torched her lungs, chest, and even the back door of her tongue. Witnessing someone you cared about experiencing a seizure was one of those things that scribed itself indelibly on the canvas of your mind. It was gut-wrenching. Graphic and out-of-body, it was the stuff that post traumatic stress syndrome was made of.

Brandi L. Bates

if god is real, she put all of herself into this girl. she vowed to unleash a woman so violently herself, the sky would collapse every time she came to orgasm.

. . . I suppose one starts out, as a child, being romantic and dreaming of adventure. Poetic. Then reality comes along, and with it, a whole lot of prose.

A Coy Aversion...a fluttertoo shyto be seen...

Muse

You hid in my ink and guided my hand. You stained the pages with your silence as God wrote the words, "Be still." Yet, my heart's blindness could only write in loud hues of red, "I love you.

Shannon L. Alder

Gratitude...here at home our faith dwindlespolitical division causes tensions to kindle -we should never forgetwho stands at the door -who shields us with armorand shall forever more...

Muse

At Times I Am A Flower...at times I am a flower ~singularly defined ...

Muse

Honor LostAmbulant sunshine piercedthe soot covered glass ~the feeble man wandered byin this ritual morning pass ...

Muse

they told her, “fear the reaper."she laughed to herself and muttered, 'baby, death ain’t nothing’ more than a quick fuck. a little bit of silence after he comes.

An artist must be passionately in love with her art. Obsessed or possessed ― go mad for what you believe in.

Charlotte Eriksson

I am constantly torn between the will to be seen and still hidden so god damn well, a contradiction I never figured out.

Charlotte Eriksson

You are to me like white islands, in a world of vast darkness.

Charlotte Eriksson

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