poems

It is so hard to stay afloat in a world that just wants to drown you.

I am very close to HIM, sometimes I think I am HIM, with my mood is the weather,bright and sunny forever.

God would seem to indicate to us and not allow us to doubt that these beautiful poems are not human, or the work of man, but divine and the work of God; and that the poets are only the interpreters of the Gods...

No matter how many romantic poems you recite, no matter how many glorious tales of love you read, how can you really understand the condition if you've never found yourself in it?

The shadow of a character is defined by its maker...while a heroine is personified by its actions and relatability. So writers can create a world with a heroine that has impact and finish with everessence lights at the dims of its shadows

While he sweated out a story she bled put a poem. (Dark City Lights)

My demons creep like a pedo in a park full of kids. Each one reminding me of the consequences, what I didn__ do, or did.

The streets are silent / The playgrounds are still /The noise has moved elsewhere / Into our homes / Into our hearts / It__ been too long /Children are not where they belong /The streets, the playgrounds and the song /Have been waiting for too long_

The world is a wide place where we stumble like children learning to walk. The world is a bright mosaic where we learn like children to see, where our little blurry eyes strive greedily to take in as much light and love and colour and detail as they can.The world is a coaxing whisper when the wind lips the trees, when the sea licks the shore, when animals burrow into earth and people look up at the sympathetic stars. The world is an admonishing roar when gales chase rainclouds over the plains and whip up ocean waves, when people crowd into cities or intrude into dazzling jungles.What right have we to carry our desperate mouths up mountains or into deserts? Do we want to taste rock and sand or do we expect to make impossible poems from space and silence? The vastness at least reminds us how tiny we are, and how much we don't yet understand. We are mere babes in the universe, all brothers and sisters in the nursery together. We had better learn to play nicely before we're allowed out..... And we want to go out, don't we? ..... Into the distant humming welcoming darkness.

Great literature makes a great life.

I think poetry without metaphor is like husband and wife living in separate bedrooms.

For every moment of suffering,Others will arriveThat will instead pierce you with joy.

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, will dissipate,and our shadows will be swallowed by the sky.

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 is no greater escape.Love and war, even when buttered on toast,still makes for the breakfast of champions.

In a myriad of ways you tell one truth.

If you had told me, though, when I was twenty-four that I would write about Skokie, Illinois, where I grew up, I would have said, __ou__e out of your mind. Why would I have Skokie in a poem?_ But you become resigned. Your job is to write about the life you actually have.

There are no lungs like the ones that breathe poetry.

Where Do You Show Up to Share What You Have to Offer?When You Love What You Do-You Share It Daily