Poet Quotes - Page 4

Some people make you want to be a better person, and that, for me, is the purest form of love.

When you told me I didn't love you
I simply thought how would you know
For I remembered the spaces between your fingers
And the crease between your eyes
How dare you tell me
I never thought of you as mine.

I crave for knowledge. I envy tolerant, peaceful folks. I am frightened by ignorance. I loathe violence.

For the poet is a light and winged and holy thing, and there is no invention in him until he has been inspired and is out of his senses, and the mind is no longer in him: when he has not attained to this state, he is powerless and is unable to utter his oracles.

You cannot deny the struggle; the struggle denies you.

A poet, you see, is a light thing, and winged and holy, and cannot compose before he gets inspiration and loses control of his senses and his reason has deserted him.

I am the Constellation of my own

In this story
I am the poet
You're the poetry.

That happens a lot with Shakespeare. The women go after what they want; the men wind up suckered into things.

There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book.
Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.

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.

Seré una de las pocas poetisas en el mundo completamente feliz de ser mujer, no una de esas amargadas y frustradas, retorcidas imitadoras de hombres, que en su mayoría acaban destrozadas

In the coastal strains of music full of lovers hopes and dreams upon, wearing only warmth, fresh scent of the ocean and delightfully joyous smile...I look deep in your dark gloomy ochi 'cross the oceans and lands between us, am aware by sweet memories your heart is tortured...and you are for eternity mine...

for sometime now I have believed that it is our own force, all our own force that is still too great for us. It is true that we do not know it; but is it not just that which is most our own of which we know the least?

All that really matters is
to feel alive,
if only for a single moment –
to feel in Intense Sensation
that our existence is not an endless repetition
of sleeping, eating, drinking, and dressing.

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.

Just take my hand, lead, dance with me...and I will simply follow the blueness of the water, the white waves rolling free...where the earth beneath my feet and stars make my heart whole again...in long and priceless moments of shared solitude...

The serenity of the lulling ocean is a wondrous thing to behold..more precious than the gems coveted and covered in platinum or gold...

There is an old Latin quotation in regard to the poet which says 'Poeta nascitur non fit' the translation of which is - the poet is born, not made.

I looked at an angel today, but the angel could not see me. The angel was more amazing than beautiful, like the best forgotten dream.