What you gain here, you lose on the other side.

OvermodulationBy Charlotte M Liebel-FawlsYou’re a cavity in my oasis,You’re a porthole in my sea,You’re a stretch of the imagination every time you look at me.You’re an ocean in my wineglass,You’re a Steinway on the beach,You’re...

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,...

Horse[Man you will find herea new representation of the universeat its most poetic and most modernMan man man man man manGive yourself up to this art where the sublimedoes not exclude charmand brilliancy does not...

It…whatever ‘it’ is, has swallowed me and I lie here in the pit of its cold dark stomach being eaten alive by its bile and I…I don’t even know if I want to be saved.

Reading a stranger’s words and finding yourself in them.

My only wish is to be buried with my books.

Sometimes to self-discover you must self-destruct.

You’re not a bad person, you’re just a little bit different and I’m a sucker for that.

I started writing poetry and philosophy when I was 17 years old and my mind so was wild. Now I’m 56 and I often want to write like a child.

Ourchestra:So you haven’t got a drum, just beat your belly.So I haven’t got a horn-I’ll play my nose.So we haven’t any cymbals-We’ll just slap our hands together,And though there may be orchestrasThat sound a little...

This winter, there will be no voices, no glimpses, no arms.only the fabric of poetry, to keep me warm.

Some people like me, some don’t. I don’t understand, Where the difference comes from. My heart like them all. For a simple childish reason. We all are created equal, we all are humans.

She opened up a book of poems and handed it to me written by an Italian poet from the 13th century and every one of them words rang true and glowed like burning coal pouring...

The kind of poetry to avoid in the pretty-pretty kind that pleased our grandmothers, the kind that Longfellow and Tennyson, good poets at their best, wrote at their worst.

In the biggest and the smallest I sleep but at the same place I stay.

Here is the world. Don’t be afraid for wonderful and terrible things will happen. Simply remember to breath.

Come le donne le foglie si scambianoconfidenze acute.A volte sono cenni, a volteillazioni portentose.

Through the darkest hours of the nightand through the dreamers realm I seek,Far beyond the starry skyand beyond galaxies I am free.Through the grimmest memoriesand past a seasons air I cannot breathe,Far beyond this mortal...

Maybe you could be mine / or maybe we’ll be entwined / aimless in this sexless foreplay.

I can’t love anymore.Except for you…I love you so much it hurts to breathe.

Yesterday I fell completely off the face of the earthContemplating life, light and love in the darkness of the voidStrangely it was in the dark that I found meaning for the light

How could I live above the water or breathe under it. How could I swim in darkness consumed in an ocean of you? Falling or flying towards you, losing or finding myself in you and...

I arrived, I saw humans and I saw through their faces. Nothing ever changes but the light in their eyes. For I too have buried my demons today, without knowing what might remain beneath the...

With the need for the self in the time of another / I left my seaport grim and dear / knowing good work could be made / in the state governed by both Hope and...

Poems are difficult to silence.

I keep my kindness in my eyes Gently folded around my iris Like a velvety, brown blanket That warms my vision I keep my shyness in my hair Tucked away into a ponytail Looking for...

Blankly expressing oneself can be stronger than words.

À une passanteLa rue assourdissante autour de moi hurlait. Longue, mince, en grand deuil, douleur majestueuse, Une femme passa, d’une main fastueuse Soulevant, balançant le feston et l’ourlet;Agile et noble, avec sa jambe de statue....

They are both spectacular, Life and death.

Rosa Mystica’The rose is a mystery’–where is it found?Is it anything true? Does it grow upon the ground?It was made of earth’s mould, but it went from men’s eyes,And its place is a secret and...

Love is wind for the soul

The rat isthe mous-tacheinthetrache.the wrong-doerinthesoer.

You write poetry?” Klaus asked.He had read a lot about poets but had never met one.”Just a little bit,” Isadora said modestly. “I write poems down in this notebook. It’s an interest of mine.””Sappho!” Sunny...

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

As long as music survives, poetry will never die.

only kindness that raises its headfrom the crowd of the world to sayit is I you have been looking for,and then goes with you everywherelike a shadow or a friend.

Its dark and I’m reading my scars because our moments remind me of where I should be.

She wasn’t broken. She was just bent, over the chance of being ignored by the one she loved.

Apakah hidup ini akan menjadi membosankan, jika hanya melulu soal patah hati dan perasaan yang tak berbalas?

…so i will greet youin a wayall loved thingsare meant to be greetedwith a tear in my heartand a poem in my eye.

a silent night. – the most eloquent poem i have ever read.

THE WILD ROSE” – BY WENDELL BERRYSometimes, hidden from me in daily custom and in ritualI live by you unaware, as if by the beating of my heart.Suddenly you flare again in my sightA wild...

Poems are not often simply emotions butOne has enough emotions — they’re experienceExperience themselves are not important….

Through everything I have passed but nowhere I have been.

Le cancreIl dit non avec la têteMais il dit oui avec le coeurIl dit oui à ce qu’il aimeIl dit non au professeurIl est deboutOn le questionneEt tous les problèmes sont posésSoudain le fou rire...

Distance, the dissonance insurmountable,would be not the end,but a magnet.When fingertips kiss,they imprint and cement something,that cannot be disintegrated. Time becomes a phantom,the wind becomes an anchor,and old dreams- blankets of warmth.Lull with me, Lady,there...

Don’t ask me what it means; ask me how it felt.

Poems should be like pins which prick the skin of boredom and leave a glow equal in its pride to the gate of the sadist who stuck the pin and walked away

I am the poet, you are the poem; I hold the pen, you are the words, love is the ink, silence is the blank page.