c2p-cmd/Good-Quotes-Authors huggingface dataset:
You're growing up. And rain sort of remains on the branches of a tree that will someday rule the Earth. And it's good that there is rain. It clears the month of your sorry rainbow expressions, and it clears the streets of the silent armies... so we can dance.
— Jim Carroll
An Irish Airman foresees his DeathI Know that I shall meet my fate	 Somewhere among the clouds above;	 Those that I fight I do not hate	 Those that I guard I do not love, My country is Kiltartan Cross,My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor,	 No likely end could bring them loss	 Or leave them happier than before.	 Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,	 Nor public man, nor cheering crowds,	 A lonely impulse of delight	 Drove to this tumult in the clouds;	 I balanced all, brought all to mind,	 The years to come seemed waste of breath,A waste of breath the years behind	 In balance with this life, this death.
— W.B. Yeats, The Wild Swans at Coole
DAISIESIt is possible, I suppose that sometimewe will learn everythingthere is to learn: what the world is, for example,and what it means. I think this as I am crossingfrom one field to another, in summer, and themockingbird is mocking me, as one who eitherknows enough already or knows enough to beperfectly content not knowing. Song being bornof quest he knows this: he must turn silentwere he suddenly assaulted with answers. Insteadoh hear his wild, caustic, tender warbling ceaselesslyunanswered. At my feet the white-petalled daisies displaythe small suns of their center piece, their -- if you don'tmind my saying so -- their hearts. Of courseI could be wrong, perhaps their hearts are pale andnarrow and hidden in the roots. What do I know?But this: it is heaven itself to take what is given,to see what is plain; what the sun lights up willingly;for example -- I think thisas I reach down, not to pick but merely to touch --the suitability of the field for the daisies, and thedaisies for the field.
— Mary Oliver, Why I Wake Early
Sickness awakens sadness sleeps- Moments of aloneness results into peace.
— Santosh Kalwar, A Very First Book Of Poems: Heartbreak
Sour MilkYou can't make itturn sweetagain. Onceit was an innocent colorlike the flowers of wild strawberries,and its texture was simplewould pass through a clean cheesecloth,its taste was fresh.And nowwith nothing more guilty that the passage of timeto chide it with,the same substancehas turned sour and lumpy.The sour milkmakes interesting & delicious doughs,can be carried to a further state of bacterial actionto create new foods,can in its own rightbe considered complicated and more interesting in textureto one who studies it closely,like a map of the world.Butto most of us:it is spoiled.Sour.We throw it out,down the drain-not in the backyard-careful not to spill anybecause the smell is strong.A good cook would be shocked with the waste.But we do not live in a world of good cooks.I am the milk.Time passes.You cannot make it turn sweetagain.I sit guiltily on the refrigerator shelftrembling with hope for a cookwho dreams of waffles,biscuits, dumplingsand other delicious breadsfearing the modern housewifewho will lift me off the shelf and with one deft twistof a wrist...you know the rest.You are the milk.When it is your turnremember,there is nothing more than the passage of timewe can chide you with.
— Diane Wakoski, Emerald Ice: Selected Poems, 1962 1987
The dividing line forms-fashioned from:Dragon's tearsMissed yearsOvercome fearsThe fire and ice paradoxSeen with True SightDarkness does not always equate to evilLight does not always bring good
— P.C. Cast, Destined
Darkness all around, smoke in between my fingers, all you have given me dear, sorrow and sadness to sing here.
— Santosh Kalwar, A Very First Book Of Poems: Heartbreak
And now dear little children, who may this story read, To idle, silly flattering words, I pray you ne'er give heed: Unto an evil counsellor, close heart and ear and eye, And take a lesson from this tale, of the Spider and the Fly.
— Mary Howitt, The Spider and the Fly
They're both convincedthat a sudden passion joined them.Such certainty is beautiful,but uncertainty is more beautiful still.Since they'd never met before, they're surethat there'd been nothing between them.But what's the word from the streets, staircases, hallways--perhaps they've passed by each other a million times?I want to ask themif they don't remember--a moment face to facein some revolving door?perhaps a "sorry" muttered in a crowd?a curt "wrong number" caught in the receiver?but I know the answer.No, they don't remember.They'd be amazed to hearthat Chance has been toying with themnow for years.Not quite ready yetto become their Destiny,it pushed them close, drove them apart,it barred their path,stifling a laugh,and then leaped aside.There were signs and signals,even if they couldn't read them yet.Perhaps three years agoor just last Tuesdaya certain leaf flutteredfrom one shoulder to another?Something was dropped and then picked up.Who knows, maybe the ball that vanishedinto childhood's thicket?There were doorknobs and doorbellswhere one touch had covered another beforehand.Suitcases checked and standing side by side.One night, perhaps, the same dream,grown hazy by morning.Every beginningis only a sequel, after all,and the book of eventsis always open halfway through.
— Wisława Szymborska, View With a Grain of Sand: Selected Poems
How clear, how lovely bright,How beautiful to sight Those beams of morning play;How heaven laughs out with gleeWhere, like a bird set free,Up from the eastern sea Soars the delightful day.To-day I shall be strong,No more shall yield to wrong, Shall squander life no more;Days lost, I know not how,I shall retrieve them now;Now I shall keep the vow I never kept before.Ensanguining the skiesHow heavily it dies Into the west away;Past touch and sight and soundNot further to be found,How hopeless under ground Falls the remorseful day.
— A.E. Housman, A Shropshire Lad
TREE HOUSEA tree house, a free house,A secret you and me house,A high up in the leafy branchesCozy as can be house.A street house, a neat house,Be sure to wipe your feet houseIs not my kind of house at all- Let's go live in a tree house.
— Shel Silverstein, Where the Sidewalk Ends
Any day of the week I would choose to be "out" with others and in touch with myself... then to be "in" with others and out of touch with myself.
— Portia Nelson
My country, 'tis of thee,Sweet land of liberty,Of thee I sing;Land where my fathers died,Land of the pilgrims' pride,From every mountainsideLet freedom ring!My native country, thee,Land of the noble free,Thy name I love;I love thy rocks and rills,Thy woods and templed hills;My heart with rapture thrills,Like that above.Let music swell the breeze,And ring from all the treesSweet freedom's song;Let mortal tongues awake;Let all that breathe partake;Let rocks their silence break,The sound prolong.Our father's God to Thee,Author of liberty,To Thee we sing.Long may our land be bright,With freedom's holy light,Protect us by Thy might,Great God our King.
— Samuel Francis Smith
The word love has always tasted like the scent of fresh ink and soft paper to me. Like a newly written poem.
— Megan Hart, Tear You Apart
There are so many things to say
—  so many things that can't really be said. So much has happened
Yawn...I believe that I love sleepmuch more than anybody I’ve evermet.I have the ability to sleep for2 or 3 days andnights.I will go to bed at any givenmoment.I often confused my girlfriendsthis way—say it would be about onethirtyin the afternoon:“well, I’m going to bed now, I’mgoing to sleep…”most of them wouldn’t mind, theywould go to bed with methinking I was hinting forsexbut I would just turn my backand snore off.this, of course, could explainwhy so many of my girlfriendsleft me.as for doctors, they were neverany help:“listen, I have this desire togo to bed and sleep, almost allthe time.what is wrong withme?”“do you get enough exercise?”“yes…”“are you getting enoughnourishment?”“yes…”they always handed me aprescriptionwhich I threw awaybetween the office and theparking lot.it’s a curious maladybecause I can’t sleep between6 p.m. and midnight.it must occur aftermidnightand when I ariseit can never bebefore noon.and should the phone ringsay at 10:30 a.m.I go into a mad ragedon’t even ask who the callerisscream into thephone: “WHAT ARE YOUCALLING ME FOR AT THISHOUR!”hangup…every person, I suppose, hastheir eccentricitiesbut in an effort to benormalin the world’seyethey overcome themand thereforedestroy theirspecial calling.I’ve kept mineand do believe thatthey have lent generously tomy existence.I think it’s the main reason Idecided to become awriter: I can typeanytime andsleepwhen I damn wellplease.
— Charles Bukowski
If the world stops spinning, slowing to a crawl. I will continue to dream of you. Until, I no longer dream at all.
— Jessica de la Davies, Slippery When Wet!
I am nobody, even if I say I am this or that.
— Santosh Kalwar, A Very First Book Of Poems: Heartbreak
To harden the earththe rocks took charge:instantlythey grew wings:the rocksthat soared:the survivorsflew upthe lightning bolt,screamed in the night,a watermark,a violet sword,a meteor.The succulentskyhad not only clouds,not only space smelling of oxygen,but an earthly stoneflashing here and therechanged into a dove,changed into a bell,into immensity, into a piercingwind:into a phosphorescent arrow,into salt of the sky.
— Pablo Neruda
Love much. Earth has enough of bitter in it.
— Ella Wheeler Wilcox, Poems by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Never complete. Never whole.White skin and an African soul.
— Michelle Frost
One sister for sale,One sister for sale,One crying and spying young sister for saleI'm really not kidding so who'll start the biddingDo I hear a dollar?A nickle?A penny?Oh isnt there isnt there isnt there anyOne person who will buy this sister for saleThis crying spying old young sister for sale.
— Shel Silverstein
His brow is seamed with line and scar;His cheek is red and dark as wine;The fires as of a Northern starBeneath his cap of sable shine.His right hand, bared of leathern glove,Hangs open like an iron gin,You stoop to see his pulses move,To hear the blood sweep out and in.He looks some king, so solitaryIn earnest thought he seems to stand,As if across a lonely seaHe gazed impatient of the land.Out of the noisy centuriesThe foolish and the fearful fade;Yet burn unquenched these warrior eyes,Time hath not dimmed, nor death dismayed.
— Walter de la Mare
THE ONE WHO STAYEDYou should have heard the old men cry,You should have heard the biddiesWhen that sad stranger raised his fluteAnd piped away the kiddies.Katy, Tommy, Meg and BobFollowed, skipped gaily,Red-haired Ruth, my brother Rob,And little crippled Bailey,John and Nils and Cousin Claire,Dancin', spinnin', turnin','Cross the hills to God knows where-They never came returnin'.'Cross the hills to God knows whereThe piper pranced, a leadin'Each child in Hamlin Town but me,And I stayed home unheedin'.My papa says that I was blestFor if that music found me,I'd be witch-cast like all the rest.This town grows old around me.I cannot say I did not hearThat sound so haunting hollow-I heard, I heard, I heard it clear...I was afraid to follow.
— Shel Silverstein, Where the Sidewalk Ends
Look, do you see that poem?' she said suddenly, pointing.
— L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Avonlea
I.Don't trace out your profile--forget your side view--all that is outer stuff.II.Look for your other halfwho walks always next to youand tends to be who you aren't.
— Antonio Machado
An orphans curse would drag to hellA spirit from on high
— But oh! How more horrible that thatIs the curse in a dead man’s eye!
THE POEMS OF OUR CLIMATEIClear water in a brilliant bowl, Pink and white carnations. The lightIn the room more like a snowy air, Reflecting snow. A newly-fallen snowAt the end of winter when afternoons return.Pink and white carnations - one desiresSo much more than that. The day itselfIs simplified: a bowl of white, Cold, a cold porcelain, low and round,With nothing more than the carnations there.IISay even that this complete simplicityStripped one of all one's torments, concealedThe evilly compounded, vital IAnd made it fresh in a world of white,A world of clear water, brilliant-edged,Still one would want more, one would need more,More than a world of white and snowy scents.IIIThere would still remain the never-resting mind,So that one would want to escape, come backTo what had been so long composed.The imperfect is our paradise.Note that, in this bitterness, delight,Since the imperfect is so hot in us,Lies in flawed words and stubborn sounds.
— Wallace Stevens
Every poem is an infant labored into birth and I am drenched with sweating effort, tired from the pain and hurt of being a man, in the poem I transform myself into a woman.
— Jimmy Santiago Baca
What a skeletal wreck of man this is.Translucent flesh and feeble bones,the kind of temple where the whores and villains try to tempt the holistic domes.Running rampid with free thought to free form, and the free and clear.When the matters at hand are shelled out like lint at alaundry mat to sift and focus on the bigger, better, now.We all have a little sin that needs venting,virtues for the rending and laws and systems and stems are rippedfrom the branches of office, do you know where your post entails? Do you serve a purpose, or purposely serve?When in doubt inside your atavistic allure, the value of a summer spent, and a winter earned.For the rest of us, there is always Sunday.The day of the week the reeks of rest, but all we do is catch our breath,so we can wade naked in the bloody pool, and place our hand on the big, black book.To watch the knives zigzag between our aching fingers.A vacation is a countdown, T minus your life andcounting, time to drag your tongue across the sugar cube,and hope you get a taste.WHAT THE FUCK IS ALL THIS FOR?WHAT THE HELL’S GOING ON? SHUT UP!I can go on and on but lets move on, shall we?Say, your me, and I’m you, and they all watch the things we do,and like a smack of spite they threw me down the stairs,haven’t felt like this in years.The great magnet of malicious magnanimous refuse, let me go,and punch me into the dead spout again.That’s where you go when there’s no one else around,it’s just you, and there was never anyone to begin with, now was there?Sanctimonious pretentious dastardly bastards with their thumb on the pulse,and a finger on the trigger.CLASSIFIED MY ASS! THAT’S A FUCKING SECRET, AND YOU KNOW IT!Government is another way to say better…than…you.It’s like ice but no pick, a murder charge that won’t stick,it’s like a whole other world where you can smell the food,but you can’t touch the silverware.Huh, what luck. Fascism you can vote for.Humph, isn’t that sweet?And we’re all gonna die some day, because that’s the American way,and I’ve drunk too much, and said too little,when your gaffer taped in themiddle, say a prayer, say a face, get your self together and see what’s happening.SHUT UP! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!I’m sorry, I could go on and on buttheir times to move on so, remember: you’re a wreck, an accident.Forget the freak, your just nature.Keep the gun oiled, and the temple cleaned shit snort,and blaspheme, let the heads cool, and the engine run.Because in the end, everything we do, is just everything we’ve done.
— Stone Sour, Stonesour
Some there be that shadow kiss
—  Such have but a shadow's bliss.
We will paste upon the curled pages wordsLike charming and romantic and sentimentalForgetting that charming is witchcraftRomantic is loveAnd sentiment is what makes us human
— Emilie Autumn, Your Sugar Sits Untouched
If I were dead, I wouldn't be sad, and I wouldn't be glad, because I wouldn't be.
— Marcus Sedgwick
The little boy was looking for his voice.(The king of the crickets had it.)In a drop of waterthe little boy was looking for his voice.I do not want it for speaking with;I will make a ring of itso that he may wear my silenceon his little fingerIn a drop of waterthe little boy was looking for his voice.(The captive voice, far away,put on a cricket's clo
— Federico García Lorca
I have studied many timesThe marble which was chiseled for me—A boat with a furled sail at rest in a harbor.In truth it pictures not my destinationBut my life.For love was offered me and I shrank from its disillusionment;Sorrow knocked at my door, but I was afraid;Ambition called to me, but I dreaded the chances.Yet all the while I hungered for meaning in my life.And now I know that we must lift the sailAnd catch the winds of destinyWherever they drive the boat.To put meaning in one’s life may end in madness,But life without meaning is the tortureOf restlessness and vague desire—It is a boat longing for the sea and yet afraid.
— Edgar Lee Masters
Shade for a manAnd shelter for animals,Planted in your name,May you be the same for those around you,Every year the same.
— Nancy J. Cavanaugh, This Journal Belongs to Ratchet
The birthing wolf,Her heart fed with tenderness,Gave forth from ripe brown nipples,Food to feed the universe.
— Roman Payne
How can I wear the harness of toilAnd sweat at the daily round,While in my soul foreverThe drums of Pictdom sound?
— Robert E. Howard
My care is like my shadow in the sun, Follows me flying, flies when I pursue it, Stands and lies by me, doth what I have done.
— Elizabeth I
America, the plum blossoms are falling.
— Allen Ginsberg
The way you walk is slash and burn.Like understatement's now a crime.
— Justin Quinn
the flesh covers the bone and they put a mind in there and sometimes a soul, and the women break vases against the walls and the men drink too much and nobody finds the one but keep looking crawling in and out of beds. flesh covers the bone and the flesh searches for more than flesh.
— Charles Bukowski
The Last LeafI saw him once before,As he passed by the door,And againThe pavement stones resound,As he totters o'er the groundWith his cane.They say that in his prime,Ere the pruning-knife of TimeCut him down,Not a better man was foundBy the Crier on his roundThrough the town.But now he walks the streets,And looks at all he meetsSad and wan,And he shakes his feeble head,That it seems as if he said,"They are gone."The mossy marbles restOn the lips that he has prestIn their bloom,And the names he loved to hearHave been carved for many a yearOn the tomb.My grandmamma has saidPoor old lady, she is deadLong agoThat he had a Roman nose,And his cheek was like a roseIn the snow;But now his nose is thin,And it rests upon his chinLike a staff,And a crook is in his back,And a melancholy crackIn his laugh.I know it is a sinFor me to sit and grinAt him here;But the old three-cornered hat,And the breeches, and all that,Are so queer!And if I should live to beThe last leaf upon the treeIn the spring,Let them smile, as I do now,At the old forsaken boughWhere I cling.
— Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr.
Steal not this book for fear of shameFor on it is the owners nameAnd when you die the Lord will sayWhere is the book you stole awayAnd when you say you do not knowThe Lord will say go down below.
— L.M. Montgomery, Emily of New Moon
YOU YOU YOUyour eyes, thick as a high school scrapbook crackling and yellow, curling at the edgesa book of myths in which i do not appear.
— Clint Catalyst, Caresses Soft as Sandpaper
Since ever the world was spinningAnd till the world shall endYou've your man in the beginningOr you have him in the end,But to have him from start to finishAnd neither nor borrow nor lendIs what all of the girls are wantingAnd none of the gods can send
— L.M. Montgomery, Emily's Quest
Just looking at themI grow greedy, as if they werefreshly baked loaveswaiting on their shelvesto be broken open--that oneand that--and I make my choicein a mood of exalted luck,browsing among themlike a cow in sweetest pasture.For life is continuousas long as they waitto be read--these inked pathsopening into the future, pageafter page, every bookits own receding horizon.And I hold them, one in each hand,a curious ballast weighing mehere to earth.
— Linda Pastan
ANY FOOL CAN GET INTO AN OCEAN BUT IT TAKES A GODDESS TO GET OUT OF ONE.
— Jack Spicer
Fox-TrotBy the stream the fox and she-fox stoodNose to nose beneath the starsDancing the music of the woods.The deer rapped a beat with their hooves,The ravens sang from raven heartsAs by the stream the fox and she-fox stood.The great owl called as a great owl would,The squirrels all shimmied in the dark,Dancing the music of the woods.Then from the north a fierce wind blewAnd broke the starry dance apartBy the stream where the fox and she-fox stood.
— Beth Kephart, Undercover
Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,Which I gaze on so fondly to-day,Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms,Live fairy-gifts fading away,Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art,Let thy loveliness fade as it will,And around the dear ruin each wish of my heartWould entwine itself verdantly still.It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear,That the fervor and faith of a soul may be known,To which time will but make thee more dear!No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,But as truly loves on to the close,As the sunflower turns on her god when he setsThe same look which she turned when he rose!
— Thomas   Moore
Despair and Genius are too oft connected
— George Gordon Byron, Byron Poems
That young man with the long, auburn hair and the impudent face - that young man was not really a poet; but surely he was a poem.
— G.K. Chesterton, The Man Who Was Thursday: A Nightmare
Mark but this flea, and mark in this, How little that which thou deniest me is; Me it sucked first, and now sucks thee, And in this flea our two bloods mingled be; Thou know’st that this cannot be said A sin, or shame, or loss of maidenhead,  Yet this enjoys before it woo,  And pampered swells with one blood made of two,  And this, alas, is more than we would do. Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare, Where we almost, nay more than married are. This flea is you and I, and this Our mariage bed and mariage temple is; Though parents grudge, and you, we are met, And cloisterd in these living walls of jet.  Though use make you apt to kill me,  Let not to that, self-murder added be,  And sacrilege, three sins in killing three. Cruel and sudden, hast thou since Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence? Wherein could this flea guilty be, Except in that drop which it sucked from thee? Yet thou triumph’st, and say'st that thou Find’st not thy self, nor me the weaker now;  ’Tis true; then learn how false, fears be:  Just so much honor, when thou yield’st to me,  Will waste, as this flea’s death took life from thee.
— John Donne
Twas a sheep not a lamb that strayed awayIn the parable Jesus told,A grown-up sheep that strayed awayFrom the ninety and nine in the fold.And why for the sheep should we seekAnd earnestly hope and pray?Because there is danger when sheep go wrong;They lead the lambs astray.Lambs will follow the sheep, you know,Wherever the sheep may stray.When sheep go wrong, it won’t take longTil the lambs are as wrong as they.And so with the sheep we earnestly pleadFor the sake of the lambs today,For when sheep are lost, what a terrible costThe lambs will have to pay!
— C.C. Miller
Ah Sun-flower! weary of time,Who countest the steps of the Sun:Seeking after that sweet golden climeWhere the traveller's journey is done. Where the Youth pined away with desire,And the pale Virgin shrouded in snow: Arise from their graves and aspire, Where my Sun-flower wishes to go.
— William Blake, Songs of Experience
We turned an anthem into an assignment, a poem into a job description.
— Rachel Held Evans, A Year of Biblical Womanhood
Many are poets, but without the name;For what is Poesy but to createFrom overfeeling Good or Ill; and aimAt an external life beyond our fate,And be the new Prometheus of new men,Bestowing fire from Heaven, and then, too late,Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain
— George Gordon Byron
If I wrote the word flower,would it still grow like a flower?If I wrote a poem concerning a river,would the water still flow in the eyes of the reader?
— Zakariya Amataya, No Women in Poetry
I cast myself at him, like a fool, but he didn't see me. And then one day he noticed I was beautiful and he wanted me. He broke me off and took me with him, in his hands, and I didn't care that I was dying until I actually was.
— Alice Hoffman, The Story Sisters
A Book I Can Put DownI’m halfway throughand I’ve gotten usedto the way it wantsto be read. This writerwants to spoon it up,wants to watch meswallow it. This writermakes a point of gooddeeds, clean living,god and country,when what I wantis sin and shame,the rusty metal edgeof cruelty, varietiesof pain, his motherstill crying years later,just like mine. I wanta writer who’s given upon the moral of the story,one who’ll hand mea knife and sit backto see what I do wi
— Antonia Clark
Bob's Words:Nobody knows what tomorrow bringsBy loving, giving, caringAnd sharing todayLets one know that if tomorrowDoes not comeToday is a good day to be the last
— Greg Noack
El remanso de airebajo la rama del eco.El remanso del aguabajo fronda de luceros.El remanso de tu bocabajo espesura de besos.*The still waters of the airunder the bough of the echo.The still waters of the waterunder a frond of stars.The still waters of your mouthunder a thicket of k
— Federico García Lorca, The Selected Poems
All letters of love are Ridiculous. They wouldn’t be love letters if they were not Ridiculous.
— Fernando Pessoa
At last the bottom fell out.No more water in the pail.No more moon in the water.
— John  Gould, Kilter
Iron helmets will not save/Even heroes from the grave/Good man's blood will drain away/While the wickid win the day.
— Heinrich Heine
As a perfume doth remain In the folds where it hath lain, So the thought of you, remaining Deeply folded in my brain, Will not leave me; all things leave me -You remain. Other thoughts may come and go, Other moments I may know That shall waft me, in their going, As a breath blown to and fro, Fragrant memories; fragrant memories Come and go. Only thoughts of you remain In my heart where they have lain, Perfumed thoughts of you, remaining, A hid sweetness, in my brain. Others leave me; all things leave me -You remain.
— Arthur Symons
People need people and the happiest people aresurrounded with friendly flesh.If you have ten kids they'll be so sweet --ten really sweet kids! Have twelve!What if there were 48 pro baseball teams,you could see a damn lot more games!And in this fashion we get awayfrom tragedy. Because tragedy comes when someone gets too special. 
— Mark Halliday
Oh, a sleeping drunkard Up in Central Park, And a lion-hunter In the jungle dark, And a Chinese dentist,And a British queen--All fit togetherIn the same machine.Nice, nice, very nice;Nice, nice, very nice; Nice, nice, very nice--So many different peopleIn the same device.
— Kurt Vonnegut Jr., Cat's Cradle
We need each other yet, we bleed each other of the very life we are all drowning in with one another...
— The1Essence, Reflections of Light
I desired to praise the Chosen One and was hinderedBy my own inability to grasp the extent of his glory.How can one such as I measure an ocean, when the ocean is vast?And how can one such as I count the stones and the stars?If all of my limbs were to become tongues, even then –Even then I could not begin to praise him as I desired.And if all of creation gathered together in an attemptTo praise him, even then they would stint in his due.I have altogether ceased trying – awestruck, clinging to courtesy,Tempered by timidity, glorifying his most exalted rank.Indeed, sometimes silence holds within it the essence of eloquence,And often speech merely fodder for the faultfinder.
— Ibn Juzayy al-Kalbi
Do I, then, belong to the heavens?Why, if not so, should the heavensFix me thus with their ceaseless blue stare,Luring me on, and my mind, higherEver higher, up into the sky,Drawing me ceaselessly upTo heights far, far above the human?Why, when balance has been strictly studiedAnd flight calculated with the best of reasonTill no aberrant element should, by rights, remain-Why, still, should the lust for ascensionSeem, in itself, so close to madness?Nothing is that can satify me;Earthly novelty is too soon dulled;I am drawn higher and higher, more unstable,Closer and closer to the sun's effulgence.Why do these rays of reason destroy me?Villages below and meandering streamsGrow tolerable as our distance grows.Why do they plead, approve, lure meWith promise that I may love the humanIf only it is seen, thus, from afar-Although the goal could never have been love, Nor, had it been, could I ever haveBelonged to the heavens?I have not envied the bird its freedomNor have I longed for the ease of Nature,Driven by naught save this strange yearningFor the higher, and the closer, to plunge myselfInto the deep sky's blue, so contraryTo all organic joys, so farFrom pleasures of superiority But higher, and higher,Dazzled, perhaps, by the dizzy incandescenceOf waxen wings.Or do I then Belong, after all, to the earth?Why, if not so, should the earthShow such swiftness to encompass my fall?Granting no space to think or feel,Why did the soft, indolent earth thusGreet me with the shock of steel plate?Did the soft earth thus turn to steelOnly to show me my own softness?That Nature might bring home to meThat to fall, not to fly, is in the order of things,More natural by far than that improbable passion?Is the blue of the sky then a dream?Was it devised by the earth, to which I belonged,On account of the fleeting, white-hot intoxicationAchieved for a moment by waxen wings?And did the heavens abet the plan to punish me?To punish me for not believing in myself Or for believing too much;Too earger to know where lay my allegianceOr vainly assuming that already I knew all;For wanting to fly offTo the unknownOr the known:Both of them a single, blue speck of an idea?
— Yukio Mishima, Sun and Steel
Your love taught me to grieveand I have been needing, for centuriesa woman to make me grievefor a woman, to cry upon her armslike a sparrowfor a woman to gather my pieceslike shards of broken crystal
— نزار قباني
Whenever you touch a poem that caresses your soul, breathe it gently for it might be the wind that perfects your life's goal.
— A. Saleh
Is Virgin you trying to  fathom me
— Jack Kerouac
This is for you, all the women of the worldThose who lived, all who ever willthis is for your love, mine is yoursLove is fate, I am hereBecause you know the meaning of lifeThat begins and ends with a kissWe are knights in shining ardor, who toil for youAnd our children, it's a circleSo they will know this truthLove is the sacred gospel, all we need to knowAs your son and lover, my spirit lives imbuedWith, from and by your wisdom and beautyI am here to pay honor and homage to your soulThis is and will always be my devotionThis I dedicate, because through you I become whole
— Trevor McShane
Time moved for you not in quotidian beats, but in the slow rhythm the ages keep –
— Aldous Huxley
Like one who, on a lonely road, Doth walk in fear and dread, And, having once turned round, walks on, And turns no more his head; Because he knows a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread. - Coleridge's "Ancient Mariner.
— Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley
Don't be polite.Bite in.Pick it up with your fingers and lick the juice that may run down your chin. It is ready and ripe now, whenever you are. You do not need a knife or fork or spoon.For there is no coreor stemor rindor pitor seedor skinto throw away.
— Eve Merriam, How to Eat Poem
His gaze, bluntedby the unnumbered processionof iron bars, uncountedas his softly padded steps.Smooth motion of blood and sinewturning in its own, small circleprescribed by bars and walls...and skin, confined.Suddenly, without warning,a flash of light and imagepierces the caged brain,and passing through its beating heartto stillness finds its way. 
— Rainer Maria Rilke
Release-For yearsthey told you tosit.Stay.Now they open the doorand tell you toget up.Leave.Where do you gowith no oneto show youthe way?
— Keelie Breanna
I do not fear the nightWhen I know that todayI am bathed in a lightIt cannot be stolen away
— Holly Ducarte, Hiding Bones: The Best Poetry of Hiding Skeletons & Literary Bones
my mine ,I searching for you ..long time in the trip time walls,searching you in was me..I never felt lonely,this world always singeven at grave heart'sbeing numb to hearyour song is ..What the dealt of this life saidso breathe in wind singingsinking sailing in waves,and breathe out find me..in the rain and riversbut you and me are the ocean,you know ? in long time agothe time in this room make you forget..keep searching time with me and i.put the name your mine to heart of golduntil you coming home,behind the tumble light waiting.
— Ridwan Nurwansyah
When I was young and miserable and prettyAnd poor, I'd wishWhat all girls wish: to have a husband,A house and children. Now that I'm old, my wishIs womanish:That the boy putting groceries in my carSee me. 
— Randall Jarrell, Selected Poems
Hang tightHold on Look upStay strongHang on Hold tightLook strongStay up One day I might breakOne day I mightb r e a kfree
— Tahereh Mafi, Ignite Me
They find me odd, and whisper behind hands…And my brutal desires sink hooks into their lips…
— Arthur Rimbaud, Collected Poems
The weight of the world is love. Under the burden of solitude, under the burden of dissatisfaction the weight, the weight we carry is love. Who can deny? In dreams it touches the body, in thought constructs a miracle, in imagination anguishes till born in human-- looks out of the heart burning with purity-- for the burden of life is love, but we carry the weight wearily, and so must rest in the arms of love at last, must rest in the arms of love. No rest without love, no sleep without dreams of love-- be mad or chill obsessed with angels or machines, the final wish is love --cannot be bitter, cannot deny, cannot withhold if denied: the weight is too heavy --must give for no return as thought is given in solitude in all the excellence of its excess. The warm bodies shine together in the darkness, the hand moves to the center of the flesh, the skin trembles in happiness and the soul comes joyful to the eye-- yes, yes, that's what I wanted, I always wanted, I always wanted, to return to the body where I was born.
— Allen Ginsberg
Choice-Judgement.Black coffee acidon an empty stomach.Perception.Cool, clear water.
— Keelie Breanna
The Pressure-Maybe one day,after centuries,we can become brilliant gemsin crystal cavesand we will be immortal after all.
— Keelie Breanna
A poem that is itself a name does not yearn for the name of its creator, but shines from its name alone.
— Dejan Stojanovic, Serbian Satire and Aphorisms
No matter how right or how beautiful your path is, never try to impose your path on others! Remember that flowers by no means pull bees by force to their world! Your path is your poem; if people like your poem, they will fondly join you in your path!
— Mehmet Murat ildan
The only time she's come close to being "known" was when she accidentally came out as bisexual during sophomore English class while talking about her favorite poem.
— C.B. Lee, Not Your Sidekick
A voice, a tone, a feelingDeep inside, growing bigger and brighter.Shining against the dark area in my soul.Telling everyone that I haven’t leftI am here!
— Marcus J. King, Changes in His Veins
For this,let gardens grow, where beelines end,sighing in roses, saffron blooms, buddleia;where bees pray on their knees, sing, praisein pear trees, plum trees; beesare the batteries of orchards, gardens, guard them.
— Carol Ann Duffy, The Bees
You weresunrise to merise and warm and streaming.' - Praise Song For My Mother by Charlotte Mew
— Charlotte Mew, Complete Poems
I dreamt of you last night,vivid and consuming andgone as I woke upfaded from memory before I had the chanceto collect and recollectEven in my dreams you are ephemeraland just outside of reach- Fleeting
— Abby Rosmarin, No One Reads Poetry: A Collection of Poems
You werewater to medeep and bold and fathoming' - Praise Song For My Mother by Charlotte Mew
— Charlotte Mew, Complete Poems
home is the structure/ you build when nowhere else will have you
— Ann  Tweedy, The Body's Alphabet
Cruel, Clever Cat.Sally, having swallowed cheese,Directs down holes the scented breeze,Enticing thus with baited breathNice mice to an untimely death.
— Geoffrey Taylor
You weremoon's eye to mepull and grained and mantling' - Praise Song For My Mother by Charlotte Mew
— Charlotte Mew
Touch was absolutelyout of the question. I couldn’t stop sweating. My heart, a butterfly pinnedto a glacier. Empires fell inside my mouth. I touched myself like a pogrom& broke my sex into a history of inconsequential shames. I wept viciouslyinside of my own stomach & had it condemned. From an upside-down bellI drank silence, subsisted on the memory of someone else’s hands. Wolvessang & I did not answer. I forgot their names. Mornings were the worst, thenthere were days & evenings. Streetlights & darkened sycamore & suburbangrief so full it made me foolish. I shattered my fist on the Lord’s jaw. Sorrowsat, licking my wrists & my neck. I slept at its convenience. O, uncelebratedbody. My penis, a lighthouse on the bottom of the ocean, shining shadowsat the undersides of boats. Nobody drowned for so many years. Desperatefor the making of those candy-throated ghosts, I found the rooms betweenthe violence of comets. I threw myself into anything’s path. Even the skybent around me. How lonely to be something that nothing wants to kill. (So I Locked Myself Inside A Star for Twenty Years)
— Jeremy Radin
Scene: Darkness. Suddenly, a single spotlight illuminates Apollo standing on the front porch of the Big House. The house is a bold red colour, a stark contrast to the short white chiton Apollo wears. He clears his throat and s
— Rick Riordan, Camp Half-Blood Confidential
The Perfect Man.The perfect man is gentle,Never cruel or mean.He has an beautiful smile,And keeps his face so clean.The perfect man likes children,And will raise them by your side.He will be a good father,As well as an good husband to his bride.The perfect man loves cooking ,Cleaning and vacuuming too.He will do anything in his power,To convey his feelings of love on you.The perfect man is sweet ,Writing poetry from your name.He's an best freind to your mother,And kisses away your pain.He has never made you cry,Or hurt you in any way.Oh f*** this stupid poem,The perfect man is GAY!
— Unkown Author
King John was not a good man,He had his little ways.And sometimes no one spoke to him,For days and days and days.
— A.A. Milne
ILikeThe WayThat when youTiltPoemsOn their sideTheyLook likeMiniatureCities FromA long wayAway. SkyscrapersMade outOfWords.
— Matt Haig, How to Stop Time
Sprawled out on the front lawn/ looking up at an ordinary sky/ it could fall on me and some how be/ the day I didn't die.
— Bart Yates, Leave Myself Behind
Silly little monster” all would say.They’d scratch its head and turn awayuntil it snatched their tiny noses.They couldn’t even smell the roses!Ever after, every childdreaded monsters, fierce or mild.
— Richelle E. Goodrich, Slaying Dragons
Medicinal Spirit, Inside MirrorTherapy becomes a harmony, and that harmony is built on levels,No one knows how to upscale another, for it has to come from the inside grails,Striking inflicts at the mirror and hatred to the being of creator,Causes hate in mirror too and abused flesh to the author,Changes come from its prudence and rationalism liberation,Not its pardon,A mirror is but a substance of a conscious,But identity says "let me fly" when journeying from the subconscious to the conscious.
— John Shelton Jones, Awakening Kings and Princes Volume I: Sacred Knowledge to Nourish the Mentality, Support Spiritual Growth, Learning the Light, and Progressing to Become a Master Lover While Embracing Desire
A dragon grows in leaps and bounds,Like troubles mounting by the pound.Its stature heightens day to day,Imposing dread and deep dismay.A paralyzing roar it gainsWhile from its snout hot fire rains.It sees you shrink. Your fear it knows.And by the hour the nightmare grows.Unless you slay the dragon soon,Your troubles may become your doom.
— Richelle E. Goodrich, Slaying Dragons
There are no good tights, Rare they are, a rare sight. You roll and roll Inside a new hole, They´re only good for a fight.
— Ana Claudia Antunes, ACross Tic
Ashryver eyes.The fairest eyes, from legends oldof brightest, ringed with gold.
— Sarah J. Maas, Crown of Midnight
WINTER'S GHOST:Autumn moonincautious in the dark riverWinter’s ghost walkswith a covered faceand silver bones wait in all animalsto be bone cloth upon her shoulderwait for her happiness in that they are silver
— Tamara Rendell, Mystical Tides
You tell me that yes, I can do it. I know. And I may do it, if I so choose.You tell me that no, I cannot. I say, Oh? I shall do it, since you refuse!
— Richelle E. Goodrich, Slaying Dragons
Today you are young.your beauty attract every manBut the day when you will feel older yourself when you will feel magic of body vanishOn that day time will remind you,that man who fall in love with your soulbut you will not find him,because you killed him in AllThe day when you will feel wrinkles on your skinand will understand,no one want to touch it,not soft any moreOn that day time will remind that manwho die for aroma of your skin,for him its always remain best fragrance But you will not find him, because you killed him by your ignoranceThe day you will feel,you are now not able to feed sex hungerand you will understand men around you but not with youOn that day time will remind you that manwho never hungry for your body,who just feed love and emotions to your soul and to your heartBut you will not find him,because,you killed him by put your betrayed knife in his heartmaybe it will not happen,maybe your life will full of lovemaybe you will never remember past.maybe you will forget AllBut on the day when you will die,and your loving people will bury youinside your grave,when you will realize,all that who loves you,all that with you spend days & nightsall that for whom you cooked you serve,all that whose bed you warmall that who impress by your beauty,all that who claim to love youthey all buried you here alone and gonein that your loneliness,time will remind you,that manwho just dream to lay with you inside your grave,who dream to bury together in one graveBut you will not find himThat day will realize you,whom you killedThat day will realize you,you killed a manwho don't wanted to be just partner of you life but to partner of your deathwho don't wanted to be just partner of your bed but to partner of your graveThen you will realize you betrayed killed,partner of your gravePartner Of Your Grave,
— Mohammed Zaki Ansari, "Zaki's Gift Of Love"
A poem does not radiate from the name, but the name emanates from the poem.
— Dejan Stojanovic, Serbian Satire and Aphorisms
The name does not deserve the poem, but the poem deserves the name.
— Dejan Stojanovic, Serbian Satire and Aphorisms
In a real poem a sound does not swallow a letter, but a letter swallows a sound.
— Dejan Stojanovic, Serbian Satire and Aphorisms
Death lurks in the shadows, just out of view. Now and then I see his reaching hand, uncertain of the blurry image that passes before my eyes, but conscious of the crippling influence of his touch. Some say Death rears an ugly head, so hideous a view the beholder can scarcely gasp their last breath. Others call him beautiful, a sweet relief to look upon. But these are rumors babbled by the unknowing. For Death is like the gorgon, Medusa, who when perceived, turns the body to stone. Those who know Death take the knowledge of his shadowed face with them to wherever it is he leads our dearly departed by the hand. All who are left behind must wait their turn to glance into the eyes of the one who will close our mouths forever.
— Richelle E. Goodrich, Slaying Dragons
Rash is he who at unknown doors relies on his good luck.
— Hávamál
What if dragons breathed bubbles and purred when they cuddled and giggled at chivalrous knights for their troubles?What if dragons felt soft, having scales made of cloth,and they moved rather slow like a brown-throated sloth?What if dragons were shyand did easily crywhen confronted by characters callous and sly?What if dragons did goodbut were misunderstoodso men mercilessly slew the beasts right where they stood?What if dragons aren’t missedbecause there is no listof extinct types of quarry that now don’t exist?
— Richelle E. Goodrich, Slaying Dragons
Sipping teawith gleebeneath a gooseberry tree.I wish Alice were here.Oh, my dear,do not fear,she will be.
— Richelle E. Goodrich, Slaying Dragons
Does poem also walk the valleys seeking tongues from dandelions?
— Ymatruz
What is poetry? Only the poetry can answer this!
— TRIPURARI
The one who can draw your widest smileis also the one who can throw youto the farthest exile
— Sam Haidy, Malaikat Cacat
You don't have to be an angel.All you need is someone who can always see your best angle.
— Sam Haidy, Malaikat Cacat
In poetry, the best way to say cuss words is to hide it behind metaphors.
— Ymatruz, The Coffee Cries Foul
I say, flawless poems do not exist.
— Ymatruz
I was born one thousand times and all the while it was you I met again to only meet again under the thousand stars that divide us and connect us.
— Christina Strigas, Your Ink on My Soul
you are as faras the moonand as closeas it feelswhen I look upon it.
— Christina Strigas, Your Ink on My Soul
Imitating others, I failed to find myself. I looked inside and discovered I only knew my name. When I stepped outside I found my real Self. ~Rumi
— Maryam Mafi, Rumi's Little Book of the Heart
Do you love me?" I ask.In your hesitation I found my answer.
— Lang Leav, Love & Misadventure
could not sleep last nightbed cover of unease distance kept me awake windy whispers in summer nightwas telling you were awake one corner to another rollinglike swimming in a competitionmy heart wanted to seeyou then n thenwe live ,we loveon same earth mostlyrare within a real another world don't allow usto sleep in side your ,or mine restful love©litymunshi
— litymunshi
Your gravity, your grace have turned a tideIn me, no lunar power can reverse;But in your narcoleptic eyes I spiedA sightlessness tonight: or something worse,A disregard that made me feel unmanned.Meanwhile, insomniac, I catch my breathTo think I saw my future traced in sandOne afternoon "as still, as carved, as death,”And pray for an oblivion so deepIt ends in transformation. Only dawnCan save me, flood this haunted house of sleepWith light, and drown the thoughts that nightly warn:Another lifetime is the least you’ll need, to traceThe guarded secrets of her gravity, her grace.
— Jonathan Coe, The House of Sleep
In all the flames of fire fume’s left the traceInto the bluest sea the sky is drownedThe miracles of life can you embraceFrom the poem 'Can You Embrace?
— Munia Khan, Beyond The Vernal Mind
For the wanderer astray, the hermit seeking the lost booksTo him the bitter path of knowledge is truly germaneAnd to gaze at the grand canvas of depravity, the deified crooksAll the depth of duplicity of the celestial rulers most profane.
— T. M. Lakomy
Even when the lights go out, even when someone says to me: "It's over---," even when from the stage a gray gust of emptiness drifts toward me,even when not one silent ancestor sits beside me anymore---not a woman, not even the boy with the brown squint-eye:I'll sit here anyway. One can always watch.
— Rainer Maria Rilke, Duino Elegies
i have taken life as its came to me first time i wanted to go to life .
— litymunshi
I will missmy chest explodingyou coming home latenot turning on the lightalways waking me upI will missthe sudden burst of safetywhen you look at meor hold my handor say something like”let’s go home”I will missthe years I loston something or someone.The pieces didn’t fit, shaped wrongthe timing slightly off.I loved you like I always will.
— Charlotte Eriksson
Be nothing which thou art not
— Edgar Allan Poe
Understand the poem not the poet.
— Christina Strigas