What Is A Poem Quotes

You make such a noise falling! You scatter all my winter dreams

Perhaps it was the way he'd look at me and smile, Perhaps it was the sound of his voice after being utterly defeated, Perhaps it was the warmth of his touch, Perhaps I've always been in love with you

One has to commit a painting, ' said Degas, 'the way one commits a crime.

I stood there on the corner of the street, I held on to your hand, I looked into your eyes, And all you responded with was, "move on

I am at the gates of my own destruction.(Or so I'm told.)

Deep down, I lay dormant inside her head, Deep down, I lay the rules inside her head, Deep down, I lay inside inside her heart, Deep down, I know she will never move onBecause deep down, I am always there

How—I didn't know anyword for it—how "unlikely". . .How had I come to be here, like them, and overheara cry of pain that could havegot loud and worse but hadn't?

I did what I could, I tried to stay away, I told myself that I don't need you, I don't need to feel this way, But soon I realized that I am just a fishAlways falling as you're prey

Determined, I riseand face the dawn with resolve.This time I will win.

The sweetest melody that playson starry nights and wintry days, most soothing to my listening earsand calming to beleaguering fears, I call a symphony on air―the song of sweet, still silence rare.

Roses are wilting, Violets are dead, The sugar bowl is empty, and so is your head.

Our past sins, our fractured lives--soon nothing but drowned stars in dark skies.

we are two like-minded creatures too well-matched, both equal halves of a whole not altogether wholesome

Hers is a timeless life weaving through other longer lives like a flash of lightning in a clouded evening sky.

A litany of headlights blinding her, she stands unsteady on the dotted traffic line, takes timid steps toward rolled up windows behind which any horror could crouch....

I escape disaster by writing a poem with a joke in it:The past, present, and future walk into a bar—it was tense.

You can't write a poem until you live.

If a picture is worth a thousand words, how much for a poem?

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

Mislaid flame of tender emotionsRekindled.Together we live to the point of tears, I wouldn’t want it any other way.

There can be no law of nature, no science, No aberrant infliction of human willThat unchained the soul cannot conquer, Simply sweep away, should it chose to.

Sacred space in whichTo distil, like amber, The best of your love.

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

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

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

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

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

Imperfection is my ticket, perfection is my pursuit

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.

Novels are readOr their authors are blue.Support Indie writers:Buy their books, post reviews!

Pina colada kisses and cocaine nipsnever lie, swear to me that this feeling is real.

Dear Lover...you are the only man, who never hurt me, but broke my heart.

YOUR WORDS ARE MADE OF THE AIR I BREATHE.

I wanted you mine. I wanted me yours.

If Love is Pure, Love is Simple

Poetry is another name for a person’s telling of the self, existence and what is beyond, and one’s own perceptions.

Amy King is a true bard.

You love meand love me notyour love is an arm of clockjoining hands with mineonly to leave me again

I figured I wasn't supposed to be capable of that kind of thinking, and I felt like an alien. I feel that a lot, actually, in a lot of circumstances. Like I ought to be feeling something I don't.

I cannot forgive you. That day, if you had not refused, I would have given you a present. I would have carved my love in stone.

Did we not look out together upon the dark waters of the lakeAnd behold there the constellationsOf both hemispheres at once?-Love Songs of the Cinnamon Wastes

A poem isn't selfish. It speaks to people.

Write it as easy as you think about the difficulty

A poet is somebody who has written a poem.

They tell me to be quietWhen I’d rather cause a riotAnd have everyone screamingOut their eccentric meaning.

Her touch is like doing simple mathWhen she sleeps in the bed, subtracting clothesThere is a red ink, like a sparkling red wine, adding colorsDividing body, remembering gods, without multiplying

I love your round head, the brilliant green, the watching blue, these letters, this world, you.I am very, very hungry.

You've slipped away like a fistful of sand. You've vanished so quickly like a wind. Do you know how I long to hold you love of my life.

When I feel lonely you are here beside me with your loving and caring touch.

In times of need I call unto you Abba Father and you answer.