Poems Quotes - Page 7

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

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

I need to work on me.
The me
without you.

You are the poem
that sticks in my throat
teaching me to whisper
with the voice of my heart.

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

Birthing hope from the madness
that perches on the fence
of our once perfect
dreams.

Great literature makes a great life.

There is nothing to save, now all is lost,
but a tiny core of stillness in the heart
like the eye of a violet.

The shadow of a character is defined by its maker...while a heroine is personified by its actions and relatability. So writers can create a world with a heroine that has impact and finish with everessence lights at the dims of its shadows

Take'th my temple and cut it into little stars, placed carefully to the face of heaven and the world will shine.

The wall between writing and painting is just good grammar.

Moderation in moderation.

Fun is scary with a happy ending.

Just love. If love doesn’t transform that which annoys you, it will be easier to tolerate.

hough we travel the whole over to find the perfect match,we must carry it with us a light or it's playing hard to catch.

Time slips by; our sorrows do not turn into poems,
And what is invisible stays that way.

Hemingway is overrated,
Twain is even more lost at sea,
And all truths point to the mouth of a woman,
Where both her whispers and her screams,
Are born.
Pour another glass,
Beer, wine, whiskey,
I don't care,
So long as its wisdom is sharp,
And it tells lies instead of promises.

Yet, beauty cannot be forgotten,
Eternal Wisdom can never die ...

In the hours waking,
when we're still all still,
and you can hear the floorboards creaking,
and you can feel the shades blow in,
the night we slept with,
we'll never kiss like that again.
Our lips, will sever,
our memories, will dissipate,
and our shadows will be swallowed by the sky.

Do we not each dream of dreams? Do we not dance on the notes of lost
memories? Then are we not each dreamers of tomorrow and yesterday, since dreams
play when time is askew? Are we not all adrift in the constant sea of trial and when all is done, do we not all yearn for ships to carry us home?

Call me crazy, but there is something terribly wrong with this city.

I can’t help but ask, “Do you know where you are?”
She turns to me with a foreboding glare. “Do you?

There is a stillness between us, a period of restlessness that ties my stomach
in a hangman’s noose. It is this same lack in noise that lives, there! in the
darkness of the grave, how it frightens me beyond all things.