There can be no forced inspiration.
Too often, feelings arrive too soon, waiting for thoughts that often come too late.
How strange and ironic it is- all the words i long to sayare lost in words.
Not words. nor laughter. but rather someonewho will fall in lovewith your silence.
All things want to float.
What you are trying to let go of...is already gone.
i writebecauseit is the only wayi can reach you.
I'd had a little feeling of destiny. Because, you see, what I mean about affinities is true from friendships down to even the accidental glance at someone on the street-there's always a definite reaso...
A poet is someone who never forgets they were born naked.
wordslike mysterious mermaids come and live permanentlyin the soft sweepsand scars of my skin.
poetry. i am not writing it.(make way for me please)it is my skin. dripping with light.
Philosophers, Poets and Fools have similar Consciousness
A poet dares to be just so clear and no clearer he approaches lucid ground warily like a mariner who is determined not to scrape his bottom on anything solid. A poet's pleasure is to withhold a litt...
Poets create gods, philosophers destroy them.
Words are fossilized butterfly wings,pretty to look at sometimes,but only good for Museums.I want to miserably burn down the Museums.
Sail Forth- Steer for the deep waters only. Reckless O soul, exploring. I with thee and thou with me. For we are bound where mariner has not yet dared go. And we will risk the ship, ourselves, and all...
Any society that produces twice as many lawyers as it does poets and preachers is doomed.
They say that history is going on somewhere.They say it won't stop. I have heldOne picture still for a long time and waited.
I don't really feel my poems are mine at all. I didn't create them out of nothing. I owe them to my relations with other people.
The bats inebriate the sky . . .