Why love what you will lose?There is nothing else to love.

The Quiet WorldIn an effort to get people to lookinto each other’s eyes more,and also to appease the mutes,the government has decidedto allot each person exactly one hundred and sixty-seven words, per day.When the phone...

When a reader enters the pages of a book of poetry, he or she enters a world where dreams transform the past into knowledge made applicable to the present, and where visions shape the present...

I have met the soul walking upon my path.”For the soul walks upon all paths.The soul walks not upon a line, neither does it grow like a reed.The soul unfolds itself, like a lotus of...

With each kiss that we shared we experienced the meaning of love. With the passing glances of passion we surrendered our hearts to the silence of the storm of intoxication. Holding on to each other...

She thought men were saviors……And she looked for more in them than what they were…Only to rescue herself from those she wished would rescue her…And isn’t that the most tragic lie…The lie where we tell...

Self love is an oceanand your heart is a vessel. Make it full,and any excess will spill overinto the lives of the peopleyou hold dear. But you must come first.

you told me onceabout how they usedto build whole city statesout of poemshow everything you see hereis made out ofthe bones of dreamshow having a stiffdrink with lorca meantyou had to writeeverything down right awaylately...

Now, standing here, it is clear as day: more than anything else, you want to find words for what you feel and think and everything that is dark. And then this terrifying thought hits you:...

I may not always be with you But when we’re far apartRemember you will be with meRight inside my heart

I have a lot of work to do today; I need to slaughter memory, Turn my living soul to stone Then teach myself to live again.

HarlemWhat happens to a dream deferred?Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore– And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over– like...

But then you left exactly how all the sad songs said you would

Meadow’s Waltz…the meadow had becomeher sanctuary of spiritoffering an escape from a painno child should ever endureforeboding clouds began…

Things change, time changes. People change, life changes. Time changes things, life changes people.

Cuando uno se enamora las cuadrillasdel tiempo hacen escala en el olvidola desdicha se llena de milagrosel miedo se convierte en osadíay la muerte no sale de su cuevaenamorarse es un presagio gratisuna ventana abierta...

Naming nature doesn’t tame nature.

Love SorrowLove sorrow. She is yours now, and you musttake care of what has beengiven. Brush her hair, help herinto her little coat, hold her hand,especially when crossing a street. For, think,what if you should...

Säjer att jag rymt hit för din skull men ljuger förstås det låter vackrare då ville bara att du skulle ta bort nåldynan från badrummet ställa in kanske mjölk i kylen låtsas att vi lever...

…they come to us, these restless dead,Shrouds woven from the words of men,With trumpets sounding overhead(The walls of hope have grown so thinAnd all our vaunted innocenceHas withered in this endless frost)That promise little recompenseFor...

I hear they make greeting cards now to thank your therapist… for NOTHING

Cansado,sobre todo,de estar siempre conmigo,de hallarme cada día,cuando termina el sueño,allí, donde me encuentre,con las mismas naricesy con las mismas piernas…

I don’t think I’ve ever dared to write down what I see in the ruins of me, or tell in any detail the scars and all their secrets.

, gathering fantasies about her. Curiosities were most sweet to accumulate, it is my heart, that does not beat without her.

You are my strength when I am weakYou are my shield when I am hurtingWhatever you say unto me LordI will do

Loneliness why do you accompany me if I wish to be alone?

SOME PEOPLE SIMPLY DO NOT EXIST ANYMORE. GET USED TO IT. QUESTION MARK.

This worldthat was our homefor a brief spellnever brought us anythingbut pain and grief;its a shame that not one of our problemswas ever solved.We departwith a thousand regretsin our hearts.

Fee-fi-fo-fum -Now I’m borrowed.Now I’m numb.

If a serious statement is defined as one that may be made in terms of waking life, poetry will never rise to the level of seriousness. It lies beyond seriousness, on that more primitive and...

Apples of HesperidesGlinting golden through the trees,Apples of Hesperides!Through the moon-pierced warp of nightShoot pale shafts of yellow light,Swaying to the kissing breezeSwings the treasure, golden-gleaming,Apples of Hesperides!.Far and lofty yet they glimmer,Apples of Hesperides!Blinded...

So you heroically undertook to endure the pains of faithlessness, just to be able to write good poems. But you didn´t realise then that when you lost that voice inside you, you´d end up all...

Within my reflection I see tears, for what I see is the truth, are my greatest fears.

I opened a book and in I strode.Now nobody can find me.I’ve left my chair, my house, my road,My town and my world behind me.I’m wearing the cloak, I’ve slipped on the ring,I’ve swallowed the...

Soy el desesperado, la palabra sin ecos, el que lo perdiò todo, y el que todo lo tuvo.

A song rises up from the belly of my pastand rocks me in the bosom of buried memories.

. . . All artists’ work is autobiographical. Any writer’s work is a map of their psyche. You can really see what their concerns are, what their obsessions are, and what interests them.

The Amorous Shepherd is a fruitless interlude, but those few poems are among the world’s greatest love poems, because they’re love poems about love, not about being poems. The poet loves because he loves, not...

Fai do meu sexo // un río sen leito.

We lay our words like tenuous plats, build a bridge over itsunsinkable depth: Not a sea of longing,but the brack of wanting what’s physicalto help us forget we are physical.

I want to look into a mirror that will love my own reflection harder than I hate myself.

We maintain, therefore, that the first essential, the life and soul, so to speak, of Tragedy is the Plot; and that the Characters come second—compare the parallel in painting, where the most beautiful colours laid...

Don’t you just love poetry that gives you a crinkly feeling up and down your back?

At last everything was satisfactorily arranged, and I could not help admiring the setting: these mingled touches betrayed on a small scale the inspiration of a poet, the research of a scientist, the good taste...

BELOVED, gaze in thine own heart, The holy tree is growing there; From joy the holy branches start, And all the trembling flowers they bear. The changing colours of its fruit Have dowered the stars...

The poet is a light and winged and holy thing, and there is no invention in him until he has been inspired and is out of his sneses, and the mind is no longer in...

Poetry most often communicates emotions, not directly, but by creating imaginatively the grounds for those emotions. It therefore communicates something more than the emotion; only by means of that something more does it communicate the...

He loves me, he loves me not. How many flowers must I kill before he loves me?” ~He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not

When the star dies, Its eye closes; tired of watching, It flies back to its first bright dream.

Deb and I were married on a snowy night – wind cross-wove a veil of snow for her then threw confetti at us as we left the lighted church…