Love flows like flowers, and grows like water. I’m so thirsty for romance I could drink a dozen roses.

Whole life is a search for beauty. But, when the beauty is found inside, the search ends and a beautiful journey begins.

Maybe life is all about twirling under one of those midnight skies, cutting a swathe through the breeze and gently closing your eyes.

There are no lines in nature, only areas of colour, one against another.

..so Grandpa turned the rusty latchkey of his magnificent remembery and set free a symphony of stories

Being Adam Parrish was a complicated thing, a wonder of muscles and organs, synapses and nerves. He was a miracle of moving parts, a study in survival. The most important thing to Adam Parrish, though,...

when whisperedwhat an exquisitesong, it makes-your name.

Live a life abundant in love and rich in spirit, these are the seeds of a fulfilling existence. Be the safe harbor you seek in the world. Follow your dreams, not your fear. Go into...

No non-poetic account of reality can be complete.

There were secrets there, the secrets of the ether all mankind is born from; of the blackness that holds our oldest memories captive.

Some people were destined to have a significant other.Some people were destined for greatness.But few others were destined to be soldiers, to be warriors, to be alone.That is me.It is not a path that i...

If Messenger would be to open his mouth right now, his voice would be a terrible wound.

What would your shoes say about the things you do everyday?

Early in her career, Muse engaged her skills for technical purposes, such as document translation and schematic visualizations for government entities. She continued to write and paint poetically, in secret, using her pen name, Muse....

The grave casts long shadows, Iron Lord,” Mirri said. “Long and dark, and in the end no light can hold them back.

Did no one tell him that pain lives in this sand, dug in and watered with our blood?

I know who I was, I can tell you who I may have been, but I am, now, only in this line of words I write.

Shake those stars from your hair, pretty Moonchild. It’s time to dance with the noonday sun!

I get a little poetic sometimes. The moonlight does that to me.

a young man was hung by a rope made of Stalingrad snow

I love with love, so that we all may love.” ~ Amunhotep El Bey

REVENGE is a kind of wild justice; which the more man’s nature runs to, the more ought law to weed it out.

Because we were not in our country, we could not use our own languages, and so when we spoke our voices came out bruised.

In the molten fire where he lay he could watch the slow machinations of eternity, the cosmic miracle of each second being born, eggshaped, silverplated, phallic, time thrusting itself gleaming through the worn and worthless...

With these words there came the rending scream of a shattered stirk and an angry troubling of the branches as the poor madman percolated through the sieve of a sharp yew, a wailing black meteor...

I drive as fast as four tire swings hanging from a tree branch in the middle of winter. I also make love with as much speed and rotation.

I was wild and tame and pulled into shreds and crushed into being all at once.

you areso deliciousto my poetic side.

Like a kite, carried by the wind, he followed her into the fluffy white clouds of her imagination. He didn’t think her silly for living in the sky, but rather, he marveled at the wondrous...

Do not wander in the deeps,Where the Shriker’s shadow creeps.When he rises from beneath,Beware the Sharpness of his teeth.

Our house is quiet, small and plain,and yet its rooms run far and wide. A hundred pencils, swift as rain, writing on sheets of beaten goldwould not be quick enough to holdthe strange adventuresshadows hide…

I knew that people said love should be unconditional, given like a dog gives to its master, but what Being could give that way? What could love though it had been kicked and beaten? What...

The unwelcome November rain had perversely stolen the day’s last hour and pawned it with that ancient fence, the night.

…and the women spread their ntsaroz and sit on one side, the men on the other, like they are two different rivers that are not supposed to meet.

Sometimes stars do fall to earth. It was true. They did and then became commonplace like the rest of the dirt on the planet. His star was one of a kind.He would never allow her...

I have seen beyond the bounds of infinity and drawn down daemons from the stars. . . . I have harnessed the shadows that stride from world to world to sow death and madness. ....

You wanted hearts and flowers. You have my heart — and here are the flowers.

This time around I was so lonely that I was forced to be face to face with myself. Realizing at the end of the day I only have me and I didn’t seem to like...

A tattoo is a true poetic creation, and is always more than meets the eye. As a tattoo is grounded on living skin, so its essence emotes a poignancy unique to the mortal human condition.

Love can be so hauntingly beautiful, waking up past selves that have been wandering aimlessly through the corridors of our soul, for far too long. When someone else can take us from the ghost-town of...

My secrets must be poetic to be believable.

An errant May-fly swerved unsteadily athwart the current in the intoxicated fashion affected by young bloods of May-flies seeing life.

He is in love with the land that is always over the next hill and the next, with the bird that is never, Caught, with the room beyond the looking glass. He likes the half-hid,...

When it has finished saying it, it no longer is. The longer it is in saying it, the more it can say it at length, the more slowly it melts, the better quality it is.

His green eyes blazed with desire; such a different look than I’d known before. Chase had studied me, reading my feelings. Tucker was only trying to see his own reflection. Disturbing on several levels.

Descobri a minha estrela. Ela é bela e graciosa. Elegante e divina. O meu riso no inverno. Ela é corajosa e forte. Arrojada e tentadora. Diferente de qualquer outra no universo e não posso tocar-lhe....

His stories were not always new, but there was in the telling of them a special kind of magic. His voice could roll like thunder or hush down into a zepherlike whisper. He could imitate...

Beauty is startling. She wears a gold shawl in the summer and sells seven kinds of honey at the flea market. She is young and old at once, my daughter and my grandmother. In school...

If you were destined to be a poet, then you won’t brainstorm for lines that rhymes. If you were destined to be a celebrity, then you shouldn’t start searching for fans. If you are truly...

… in these new days and in these new pages a philosophical tradition of the spontaneity of speculation kind has been rekindled on the sacred isle of Éire, regardless of its creative custodian never having...