To love is to soar in the wild unexpectedly.
She was a beautiful dreamer. The kind of girl, who kept her head in the clouds, loved above the stars and left regret beneath the earth she walked on.
She was broken from moment to moment, watching her world collide she felt lost inside herself. She fell apart for a passion that flamed beneath her. She waited and died a hundred times, it dripped fro...
There are no lungs like the ones that breathe poetry.
Writing, then, was a substitute for myself: if you don't love me, love my writing & love me for my writing. It is also much more: a way of ordering and reordering the chaos of experience.
My only wish is to be buried with my books.
If I lived a million lives, I would've felt a million feelings and I still would've fallen a million times for you.
3 A.M. isn't a time for sleep when the silhouette of you is breathing next to me.
Poems are soft kitten furs. smoothing out the rough edges of my world.
I only wrote prose before I met you. My musings were superfluous and serious as well. But now the words dance with me. I sing with them and we create poetry.
APPLY WITHINYou once told meYou wanted to findYourself in the world -And I told you toFirst apply within,To discover the worldwithin you.You once told meYou wanted to saveThe world from all its wars -...
The garden was full of sorrowSongbirds and unusual winds whistled a rhymeClouds caused to appear and cast down darknessFor this was the first day the sun didn't shine
The seed of our love will always cube within the wonder of infinite.
For the novelist or poet, for the scientist or artist, the question is not do ideas come from, the question is how they come. The is the mystery. The how is fragile.
These poems are cupsthat I pour my love into.Here, Drink!
TO what purpose, April, do you return again? Beauty is not enough. You can no longer quiet me with the redness Of little leaves opening stickily. I know what I know. The sun is hot on my neck as I obs...
Madness and chaos are self-destructing but over thinking is the suicide.
A fleeting second on someone's news feed,No dearth of meanings for those who read,Not my stories but 'tis what I think,I say I don't write poems, I just write dreams.
a silent night. - the most eloquent poem i have ever read.
Sometimes those we love break us to bind us whole within the transition.