Quotes about poetry-love

Love will find you when you least expect it to it will find it in an unusual moment on a strange day!

Moments caught in time. Simple memories spread out before me. Timeless reminders of how life goes on, even when it feels as if you cannot.

All beautiful distractions, ignites from you.

all the wordsall the poems know my warm, soft spots.

all my lifei have looked for poemsto elope with.

thighs made of hymns, I read 'em like I'm reading runes. Now tell me where my future lies...your neck, can I Savion on it?

You read my words and instantly we are both connected

I asked of the limitless sunshineHow to shine with the dawn's glowing light;No answer came back from the sunshine, But my soul heard a whisper, "Burn bright!

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

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

all the parts of mei did not show youwere the onesi wanted you to notice.

You can run from the truth. You can run and hide from the truth.You can deny and avoid the truth. But you cannot destroy the truth. Nor can you make the lie true. You must know that love will always uncover the truth.

Wipe those tears, as they have cleansed your soul.

Do you love me enough that I am allowedto be damaged? Do you love me enough that I am allowed to be weak in some places?

She gave me hugs that were like oxygen to a dying man and uplifted my soul!

Love will find you when you least expect it to. It will come unannounced and find you in an unusual moment on the strangest of days!

Your love intoxicates me into an intoxication of intoxicating intoxication.

Hold my hand,and let me catch your paceEven if i'm last,you on first; we both won the race

She asked me the definition of beauty. So I told her name in my reply!

We have conversations most nights, Sylvia Plath and me. On these cold wintry nights with our coffee mugs in hand, we talk for hours and hours, Sylvia Plath and me!

It was her laughter that made me love her. Her shy inappropriate madness is what made her beautiful.

I wait on my fix:I am a poetry junkie.

Everything is all right,When you’re here,When you’re right next to me,When my hand is in yours,Don’t leave me,Don’t leave me empty handed.

Written soul is called poetry

I am a wildflower in your perfect bed of roses.

You resting your head tenderly on my shoulders while we sit below the old Oak tree. And we smile at each other and gaze lovingly at the fascinating sunset over the hills. This moment makes me feel completely alive as if we have reached not just cloud nine or ten but also cloud infinity!

Don't compare her to sunshine and roses when she's clearly orchids and moonlight.

I painted for the eyes, and wrote prose for the ears… Between those senses lay the mind and soul… I enjoyed connecting with people’s deepest thoughts, their hopes and dreams… My pen and brush were tools to achieve my artistic desired effects.

Watch, how the sunslowly risesfrom behind my earnew lines, new countriesspring up in my palmsmy rough hairbecome swaying silkand all the leavesin my bodybecome lusher than fruits.

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

There is a tender breeze Wafting around hereFeel it from your Soul You will see Magic over hereDid I just now hear a beautiful symphony over here ?Or is it just your soothing words murmuring in my ear?Is it the cute mynah bird on my shoulder?Or is it your soft head nestling that I feel so tender? There is a tender breeze Wafting around hereFeel it from your SoulYou will see Magic over here...Did I just now hear the nightingale sing around here?Or is it the breeze whispering softly to the trees n

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

And while she was fire,So fierce and so wild,I could only hope to be for her;The forests and the winds to carry her flame.

Your words... I hold them deeplike ancient skinshold wrinkles.

how these words, wait to diein the arms of all the poetry..yet to be written.

Poetry keeps mein a highly drunken stateof divinity.

A single poemis worth a hundredcozy winter nightskind wordsand healed wounds.

...you can use words if you wish, but I'm warning you - I've learned how to read your heart ...

... only a seer or a lover would know that I'm making a jewelry of words for you -drawn from your essence -to flash and burn with your fire -so you can bedazzle with your own light ...

some words bring warmthjust bybeing next to each other.

You should be more carefulwhen you move, my dearwhat with you...spilling moonlightinto my poem, with a mereflick of your hand.

We quenched the bulging flame, amongst the ashes embers of fire remain

I am a tale, I am a book, written in different languages and styles I can’t be read, can’t be understood,neither by me nor the greatest of minds I am too big, I am too small, to be processed or seen by the naked eyeI am too dim, I am too bright, to appear in the shadows or the sunshine.

A poem in the heart is worthmore than a million dollarsin the bank account.

My emotions have already spilled out on a canvas; I need you my king, to rescue me from the madness!

When you find yourself writing, reading, or listening the delivery of words when spoken? You know the melody of wordplay. “& I love Wordplay

sometimes i am not sure.if i am writing the poemor the poemis writing me.

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.

And perhaps, I'm a Tuesday night and you're a Wednesday morning the way we'll never even notice how we blend into each other.

Decades from now, my grandchild is going to be a poet... And she's going to write about how she's a living testament to how her grandmother made love to hurricane and calmed the storm.

And like nectar inside the bud,my blood drinks from your blood, beloved,and starves to join the salvation in your eyes;to be understood again and again, by your nakedness and certainty, a humbleness that trickles into the crevices of my seasoned mind.

Why do I love poetry? It's more than word play, less about the pay. Let's just say that for the first time in along while I stopped running, stared back at my darkest worst and said, 'Come here, you belong with me

Why do I love poetry? It's more than word play, less about the pay. Let's just say that for the first time in a long while I stopped running, stared back at my darkest worst and said, 'Come here, you belong with me

I heard the breeze whisper your name to the trees. And the flowers giggled smiling at the leaves. I and my loneliness keep talking about you.

why do people pour water on concrete expecting something to grow from it" AP

Thou doth not know the tragedy of a tale between two hearts till the tears of a forgotten love dissolve into the scars of yearning and seep through the cracks of the broken, leaving behind a trail of crimson for all but one to see.

Only fools lay claims where lovers thread for when such love is renewed, lovers dance upon their heads.

I wish that I could fly into the sky and touch the clouds with my hands.

Men take care of your responsibilities with maturity.

Many women have tried to compare to you, but they are only flawed imitations. You deserve the worlds admiration.

Where will I find you now that my heart is yours?Where should I search? I don’t know where to look.You fill my heart with desire and love,The perfume of the lotus, the grace of a dove.But then the dove flies far, far away,All that is left is a song for my harp strings to play.A voice in my memories like an angel of grace,Where can I find you? Do you know how I pray?Where will I find you now that my love belongs to you?Wherever your heart beats, I’m dreaming of you.Now and forever my love belongs

Love did not die. I still create your image to my heart every solitary night.

Did you know that Bharatiyar used the pen name “Shelley-dasan”? He admired the poems of Shelley so deeply that he wrote under the name “Shelley’s servant”. Wasn’t that a wonderful gesture of humility by someonewho was such a great poet himself? And later, Bharatiyar had his own dasan, the poet Subburathinam, who tookthe pen name Bharathidasan. Subburathinam’s poetry inspired yet another poet who wrote as Surada, short for Subburathina-dasan. And to think this long chain of inspiration spans cent

Kill the part of you that believes it can't survive without someone else.

Thy's bleeding heart confides in the With one's thoughts and troubles Let the kiss thy's lips To ease thou's pain Thy am thou's comfort Lie thou's head on mine pillow Of soft consolation And let the drown Thou's sorrow Away

They call it poetry, what she feels with her mouth closed. By his.

i am permanentlytannedin the summer of poetry.

If my like for you was a footy crowd, you'd be deaf cos of the roar.And if my like for you were a boxer, there'd be a dead guy lying on the floor.And if my like for you were sugar, you'd lose your teeth before you were twenty. And if my like for you was money, let's just say you'd be spending plenty.

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

Understand the poem not the poet.

But then you left exactly how all the sad songs said you would

And you’re a tall drink of water because we’re so fucking thirsty

It is kind of ridiculous that a poet is expected to live in the real world.

This winter, there will be no voices, no glimpses, no arms.only the fabric of poetry, to keep me warm.

She was born of space. And starlight. But she bled wrath. And vengeance.."[From Current Work In Progress]

Kiss the lips upon me once, and I shall never tell.

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

And they can’t understand, what hurts more— Missing the other person, or pretending not to.

Must I wonder if your thoughts are of me? If you are missing me, wanting me, creating heart beats and poet-less words for me? [ i do…]

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.

You bothered yourself and changed the season. I was left behind with your awful sounds.

Poetry has saved me on occasions when people couldn't.