On Poetry Quotes

I want to gossip about forever / against the part of your back that / is mine.

The untented Kosmos my abode, I pass, a wilful stranger:My mistress still the open roadAnd the bright eyes of danger.

and you taste / of the memory of god abandoned.

Our age has built itself vast reservoirs of power / formless as the straining energy that it wrests from the earth.

there are these places on your poem, / where I want to write bodies.

Like the number nineeternity is forever mine

Decide if a poem is a question or a declaration, a meditation or an outcry.

sometimes I hearscreaming like a childand wake upto find it’s me

life is first boredom, then fear.whether or not we use it, it goes, and leaves what something hidden from us chose, and age, and then the only end of age.

I strike the ground with the soles of my feet and life rises up my legs, spreads up my skeleton, takes possession of me, drives away distress and sweetens my memory. The world trembles.

Imagine a sunset, lavender and red / as battered morals . . .

There always comes the day when children swallowthe key to the door of secrecy. They’ll not return it.

Forgive me, joy, if I blasphemed youbefore I learned to love.

Because Of You, My Heart Exploded Into Stars

I am a hoarder of words, a giver of them, too

I want to ripoff your logic and make passionate sense to you.

Poetry, to me, is a type of shamanistic chant capable of chasing away the darkness within us.

Early mapmakers kept their backs to the sea

My fist is her flag still furled. Take the cannoli and leave the tuxedo - This is my jackleg opera to the world.

When I/Don’t know/What to say, /Let me/Listen.

Doubt makes faith true

My grandmotherhad no time for old, no matter how her face crinkledor her days folded like an apron aroundher middle.

Writing and art are my lovers

Wisdomis in the insane asylums.The endis in the everyday-pale smiles

If the poets offered us nothing more than another make-believe world, they would be mere sellers of drugs or, at best, sweetmeats.

I was asked once why I write poetry. I said, why do you breath?

If there is no God, Not everything is permitted to man.He is still his brother's keeperAnd he is not permitted to sadden his brother, By saying there is no God.

Her smile was like laughter to me— it bubbled in like champagne.

You did anything to bury me, but you forgot that I was a seed.

But you must know that only he who fights the darkness within will the day after tomorrow have his own share in the sun.

Find that gem amongst your so-called, "friends.

Touch Me, but not with your hands.

The important thing in life is to be.

A badly written novel can always be shortened to a poem.

I’m on a long journey around and through myself...

I feel like shredded paper thrown to the wind, each poet took a piece of me and wrote a word or phrase...

Push off, and sitting well in order smite the sounding furrows

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

What differentiated us was our perception of our mutual reality, which made no difference.

Some find freedom in comfortothers find comfort in freedom

Like a speeding trainI am passing by...I don’t knowwhere I’m headingwith whom or whyall I know is thatI will never, everpass from here againall I know is I’m skidding forwardon this track of life.

At the end of the day all we ever need is something that helped pass the time and something that keeps time from passing.

I am going to hurt you.You are going to hurt me.But we will do it with practiced fingersand passionate mouthsand I swear to godit will be worth something.

How can I blame the cherry blossomsFor rejecting this floating world And drifting away as the wind calls them

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.

love is always moving towards you

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

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

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.

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.