Quotes about poetry-life

I don't feel strong anymoreI feel like falling to my knees.Things aren't the way they were before,They're not the way they're supposed to be.

I yearn to make these scars disappearAnd to forget about the past.To throw away all of my fearsAnd to be happy at last.

This is where I belong, burning in these flames. For everything I have done wrong, I know I am to blame.

I love being able to see an un-written future.

What am I to do?What is my destiny?I have no idea, not a clueFeeling lost and empty.What is my dream?What is my future?I beg thee to listen to me,I beg thee to answer.

I will never take what is never given, but I will receive to what is given.

Contemporary poets got so obscure that poetry kind of fell out of favor,

The searing light of morningAsks unwelcome questions,Fragile hopes soon blistered by daylight.

You exalt me Bati,This is the message to the society,Brightest day demands struggling, suffering and sacrifice,heroic labor would suffice.

In this life at least,Our fate is rarely epic.Maybe just as well,Impervious heroes we are not…

Perfection"Every oak will lose a leaf to the wind.Every star-thistle has a thorn.Every flower has a blemish.Every wave washes back upon itself.Every ocean embraces a storm.Every raindrop falls with precision.Every slithering snail leaves its silver trail.Every butterfly flies until its wings are torn.Every tree-frog is obligated to sing.Every sound has an echo in the canyon.Every pine drops its needles to the forest floor.Creation's whispered breath at dusk comeswith a frost and leaves within da

I think poetry without metaphor is like husband and wife living in separate bedrooms.

When I feel too much and the universe aches inside of me.

I see the beauty in you, and the darkness. Both are brilliant.

I could make love with you until the moon decides to never glow again.

I do not trust the truth. It shifts into reality.

After a TimeAfter a time, all losses are the same.One more thing lost is one thing less to lose;And we go stripped at last the way we came.Though we shall probe, time and again, our shame,Who lack the wit to keep or to refuse,After a time, all losses are the same.No wit, no luck can beat a losing game;Good fortune is a reassuring ruse:And we go stripped at last the way we came.Rage as we will for what we think to claim,Nothing so much as this bare thought subdues:After a time, all losses are the

Lark’s SongThat child who from Diana’s thought is bornA huntress swift, who doth the world adornWith strength and passion worthy of the GreenMay wax, and one day rise to be a queen.That child who in the eye of Phoebus growsOf visage fair, that none would dare opposeMay in her hand hold light and glory too,And to the Light hold sternly staunch and true.That child who with the face of Venus smiles,Will bear a heart of mischief and of wiles,And may in time love’s faithful bonds fulfilWhile bending

KUNDALINI DANCEDark and cold and wet were Her handsI felt Her chilly breath inside my throatHer claws deep inside trying to find traces ofFear within meI stayed still Accepting Opening ReceivingWithin a moment She was insideTwo fingers below My belly buttonIn there She found no traces of shiversno traces of resistance, no traces of weaknessjust clear pure Passage-WayThen She grew into Her most powerful SelfShe stood undisturbed, unmoved, unchangedTotally free and She screamedAAAAAUUUUUUMMMFrom t

Written soul is called poetry

Yes! all is past—swift time has fled away,Yet its swell pauses on my sickening mind;How long will horror nerve this frame of clay?I'm dead, and lingers yet my soul behind.Oh! powerful Fate, revoke thy deadly spell,And yet that may not ever, ever be,Heaven will not smile upon the work of Hell;Ah! no, for Heaven cannot smile on me;Fate, envious Fate, has sealed my wayward destiny.

The beautiful you is not the color of your skinOr the texture of your hair.The beautiful you is not how tall or short you areThe beautiful you is not rather you’re skinny or overweight by society standardsThe beautiful you is not the degrees you have obtainOr the size of your bank accounts.The beautiful you, has nothing to do with where you’re from, or religious beliefsNor the car you drive or the house you live in.The beautiful you is not the price tag of what you wearThe beautiful you has noth

My words are my children. I am eternally grateful to the womb of my mind for conceiving them.

Do not judge a woman on her knees_you never know how tall she is when she stands!

The work of great poetry is to aid us to become free artists ourselves...The art of reading poetry is an authentic training in the augmentation of consciousness, perhaps the most authentic of healthy modes.

Don’t you dare say these times are hollowJust because there are storms raging by.Just lay low on your pillow,Close your eyes and say goodbyeTo the world that you lived in today.Let your dreams carry you away;You lived a nightmare all through the day,It is time to dream, so don’t delay.You searched for a reason to live,Yes darling, you searched everywhere.You had to push, you had to strive,It is time now to get some air.You searched in all that is outside,It is time now to look inside,Cause that

Do tears not yet spilledwait in small lakes?Or are they invisible riversthat run toward sadness?

God’s justice in the one, and his goodness in the other, is exercised for evermore, as the everlasting subjects of his reward and punishment.

As a way of getting in touch with my originsevery night I set the alarm clockfor the time I was born so that waking upbecomes a historical reenactment...

Don't be afraid of Pain. Pain only comes down to a certain point... beyond that, it can't reach you and the love you have inside.

Poetry, playing with your words until you breathe life into them.

I was born with my eyes turned inward.

poems are small moments of enlightenment

There's two ways to become a famous Poet, find that one person that knows somebody, that knows somebody, that knows somebody.Or die trying

Yes, it is true that beauty is only skin deep, and internal loveliness resonates to the outside; but deep down inside every woman secretly longs to possess the allure of a royal queen.

A hallowed frequency withinThat, even in your darkest hour,You can always turn to.

We had the experience but missed the meaning,an approach to the meaning restores the experience

On Paper*some call it poetrybut it is just painon paper_____________________rassool jibraeel snyman (c) 2015"The Poetic Assassin

nothing is lifelesswhen the moon writes its screedon the silvern sand silence-From the poem:"The Universe In Blossom

We had scar-tissueromance and ours wasa relationship of sayinggoodbye—every timewe fought, every timewe fucked, and every timewe called it quits, beforepicking up our knivesagain

Imperfection is my ticket, perfection is my pursuit

what if you get most of what the eye sees?what if love came in seeds?what if we plant them and they grow trees? what if they form hearts instead of leafs?what if hate was to freeze?what if there was no honeybees?what if your heart stops when you sneeze?what if the evil uses the word please?what if we get down on our knees?what if we pray to the creator of the earth, heavens ,and seas?what if the heartless bleeds?what if the poor needs?what if the wealthy and greedy feeds?what if the illiterate r

Keep Moving...Move forwardLet go Give inDecideand just DoProgress every dayAnd make one step forward no matter what's in your wayKeep moving, till one day you wake up and you're there.

And in the ocean I will fly to the bottomless pit of darkness

What do you do when the alienating silence deafens your 'bootless cries'?

It is something to have gazed on the constellated white, felt it running from the eyes and the pores: the salt of love. It is something to have whispered wild thank-yous in the only ways we know how.

We will read books together inside the blanket and stay warm. And keep writing poetry in our respective journals. Time will fly but we will still remain inside the blanket forever.

Through windows,in wishing wells,whispering in the wind...that's where I find you.

In that wounded place,buried betweenmy ribs and letting go,I miss you.

I die a little,In the echo of your silence.

I was just an option.Blown easily to piecesand offered to the skyby the sweet laced painupon your lips.

I can't love anymore.Except for you...I love you so much it hurts to breathe.

Bridge burned from end to end,and I don't miss you anymore.You delivered silenceI've birthed freedom.

You are the poemthat sticks in my throatteaching me to whisperwith the voice of my heart.

I've never seen beauty so devastatingas in the linesthat trace our hopeand fall from the stars.

Steep fall to the groundshatteringlike clay pigeons missed by bad shotsand unsteady hands.

Broken.As I search for hope,In the same eyesI lost it.

I build boxesand place them at your feet,to measure the distance between dreams and reality.

I bleed to un-break you,un-mending me.I fall to save you...now who will save me.

I balance you on the end of my pen.Teetering between loveand letting go.

Careful.The fall is quick,steep,and permanent.

I need to work on me.The mewithout you.

Birthing hope from the madnessthat perches on the fenceof our once perfectdreams.