On Poetry Quotes
Each morning the winds of the city moan and weep with lost souls clinging to hope of reliving the memories of yesterday.
Poets, with no sponsors, no agenda, are the truest form of freedom today, bleeding out every drop of themselves for the world to either hate or devour.
They say, poetry is dead. I say, was there ever a time they had a clue of what the state of poetry is?
The gristle of the underneath stings in the air of responsibility.
I was a poet. I had no expectations other than creating a world of art with words that would live on long after I was gone.
As a writer, a poet, you’re not alone in wanting to be alone. Your work is a friendship that never leaves you.
Tingling fingers, morning birds, rain splatters on window pane, journals of fading escapades and laughter...
Pray that the summer mornings are many when with such pleasure, with such joy you will enter ports seen for the first time
What differentiated us was our perception of our mutual reality, which made no difference.
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.
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.
The same things that make you unique in this world, make you a target for the archers consumed by fear and jealousy.
I am a poem in progresswith no clear beginning or endingjust a middleuntended, unintended, unfinished, hanging therelike the breath before a question
We all have our state of mind- happy or sad, sources of both are so relatable.Despite showing someone’s faults & flaws we need to cherish them. cause, we all are into an e n d l e s s l o o p.
Failure has a hacksaw to my anklesand right now there is nothingI want more than to learnhow to walk on my hands.
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.
Springtimeand I wish I knew you
Karibu, dada wangu. Hapa, wewe ni nyumbani. Welcome, my sister. Here, you are home. Home. And to this home, may you always return.
no one tells you rome is ending until you're the last one standing alone in a coliseum where a city had been.
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.
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.
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
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.
Moonlight drifts from overA hundred thousand milesTo fall upon a cemeteryIt reads a hundred epitaphsAnd then smiles at a nest ofBaby owls
At times poems can be like riddles, too difficult to decipher or comprehend. But how else does one come to understand what can only be felt but not said?
I'm two days away from day after tomorrowCounting the hours to my upcoming sorrow Suddenly I lookinto the eyes of my childThen all sadness goneas I smile the way she smiled
And thenwe no longer distinguish far nor nearThey sleepdreamgather branchesfor this firethe cloud brewsagainst the powerless day —Long line of fugitivesbeneath the snow
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
I've been told by many the art of poetry's dead, I believe it's alive on pages they haven't read
No music in the raindropsNo clouds with silver liningTorrents of sorrowsHorror in streams
