Success is counted sweetest by those ne’er succeed.

It is kind of ridiculous that a poet is expected to live in the real world.

With you a part of me hath passed away; For in the peopled forest of my mind A tree made leafless by this wintry wind Shall never don again its green array. Chapel and fireside,...

Poetry keeps mein a highly drunken stateof divinity.

A badly written novel can always be shortened to a poem.

Uncontradicting solitudeSupports me on its giant palm;And like a sea-anemoneOr simple snail, there cautiouslyUnfolds, emerges, what I am.

Once I knew what I was doingI was there and with it;I had the total knowing.I Googled God and orgasmedAt the amount of Gods andMonsters out there posted about.

Empty-page staring again tonight. It’s maddening. I suppose people who don’t write (like the Connollies) imagine anything that can be though can be expressed. Well, I don’t know. I can’t do it. It’s this sort...

You can’t memorize poetry and stay a fake. Sooner or later, you start to understand what these poets are saying, and it makes you feel life has something quite special, with certain layers of meaning...

be the kiss in my hairthat no one seesmove, when i movesigh, when i sigh…be that line from a poemthat i hold in my eyes.

she thought it was the misfortune of poetry, to be seldom safely enjoyed by those who enjoyed it completely; and that the strong feelings which alone could estimate it truly, were the very feelings which...

Wordsare powerfulforces of nature.they are destruction.they are nourishment. they are flesh. they are water.they are flowers and bone.they burn. they cleansethey erase. they etch. they can eitherleave youfeelinghomelessor brimmingwith home.

Talent is a faucet. When it is on, one must write. Inspiration is a farce that poets have invented to give themselves importance.

Poems are soft kitten furs. smoothing out the rough edges of my world.

Souls grow on bones but die beneath bankers’ hours…

Carry out your literary dream, no matter how unlikely it may seem…

That’s not a run in your stocking, it’s a hand on your leg.

The tides are in our veins, we still mirror the stars, life is your child, but there is in meOlder and harder than life and more impartial, the eye that watched before there was an...

These poems, with all their crudities, doubts and confusions, are written for the love of man and in Praise of God, and I’d be a damn fool if they weren’t.

We don’t always get the answers we want, sometimes a simple look can haunt us enough to know some ghosts need their rest.

Be silent and safe — silence never betrays you; Be true to your word and your work and your friend; Put least trust in him who is foremost to praise you,Nor judge of a road...

On the canvas of life,Every sweep of the brush matters,Counts for something…

When wounds are healed by love,The scars are beautiful.

The sea loved the moonWhen she was supposed to love the shore.The moon knewAnd hence made his intentions known. That she should love the shoreWho was destined for her.Yet his protests seemed weak. And even...

In fiction, the characters have their own lives. They may start as a gloss on the author’s life, but they move on from there. In poetry, especially confessional poetry but in other poetry as well,...

The Road Not TakenTwo roads diverged in a yellow wood,And sorry I could not travel bothAnd be one traveler, long I stoodAnd looked down one as far as I couldTo where it bent in the...

It is the taste of cut steps, bloody fingerprints. Of healed books, smiles on fresh tulips. Of longing and sweet fatigue.

Originality and initiative are what I ask for my country.

Pina colada kisses and cocaine nipsnever lie, swear to me that this feeling is real.

The NetI made you many and many a song, Yet never one told all you are–It was as though a net of words Were flung to catch a star;It was as though I curved my...

And so I pray I am today as honestwith myself, with life all around me and below and above me,with all who I encounter.

From the time I began to read, as a child, I loved to feel their heft in my hand and the warm spot caused by their intimate weight in my lap; I loved the crisp...

Cities are built out of poet’s dreams.

I love the way he says my name. With the elegance and utmost respect of a King, just before he bows to his Queen.

How do I learn to speakwhen silence is all I know?

That tingle in the brain is called a word.It bats itself against its fleshy bounds.

I’m not aspiring to be someone else – If I’m me for the rest of my life then so be it

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

No poem ever bought a hamburger, or not too many.

The same that oft-times hath charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam of perilous seas, in fairy lands forlorn.

Tonight, I won’t dream, because nobodyhas held me and no hands have strayed and eventhough I’m drunk with love, my arms are empty.

Recently I’ve been dreamingof cursing old peoplewith little provocation,because their culturehas a long history of enslaving,raping, and segregating,and they have special lightswhich prevent us from dancing.

first of all nothing will happen and a little laternothing will happen again

never trust anyone who says they do not see color. this means to them,you are invisible.

How do I feel today? I feel as unfit as an unfiddle,And it is the result of a certain turbulence in the mind and an uncertain burbulence in the middle.What was it, anyway, that angry...

The moon shines in my body, but my blind eyes cannot see it:The moon is within me, and so is the sun.The unstruck drum of Eternity is sounded within me; but my deaf ears cannot...

Hearts rebuilt from hope resurrect dreams killed by hate.

A silent velvet footstep filled me, unwelcome yet so needed. You finally found my hidden shore with grains of time and ocean of the most secret secrets, violet and red; left a trail of deep...

I am born with WINGS, that is my DESTINY’..says the butterfly..’Just let me come into my own’…

We wanderers, ever seeking the lonelier way, begin no day where we have ended another day; and no sunrise finds us where sunset left us. Even while the earth sleeps we travel. We are the...