Cities get built out of poet's dreams.
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.
For a poet reality is mysterious, imaginations are magical, and perceptions are magnificent.
I'm sick of the images trapped in my headI'm sick of being preoccupied with the dead
Philosophers, Poets and Fools have similar Consciousness
Any society that produces twice as many lawyers as it does poets and preachers is doomed.
You hid in my ink and guided my hand. You stained the pages with your silence as God wrote the words, "Be still." Yet, my heart's blindness could only write in loud hues of red, "I love you.
Let your writing liberate you. Write with passion to allow your feelings to breathe and enjoy the journey across blank pages.
poetry. i am not writing it.(make way for me please)it is my skin. dripping with light.
We dreamt of a crappy apartment somewhereMaking love while we let the midnight airFlow through the open window, into our closed heartsLeft bitter from heartbreak and too much time apart
Your words... I hold them deeplike ancient skinshold wrinkles.
Tell me something only you know and make a new friend.
Love is almost never simple.
How strange and ironic it is- all the words i long to sayare lost in words.
I waited for the seasons of love to pass from this cold winter to the summer heat I dreamed of.
some words bring warmthjust bybeing next to each other.
wordslike mysterious mermaids come and live permanentlyin the soft sweepsand scars of my skin.
i would rather havefeelings without wordsthan words without feelings.
Words are fossilized butterfly wings,pretty to look at sometimes,but only good for Museums.I want to miserably burn down the Museums.
Traveling down a road of self-destructionWith no room for any reconstruction
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