The artist is not a man who describes, but a man who feels.
Love is the whole and more than all.
Listen; there's a hell of a good universe next door: let's go.
(existing's tricky:but to live's a gift)
n OthI n g can s urPas s the m y SteR y of s tilLnes s
Someone asked me what home was and all I could think of were the stars on the tip of your tongue, the flowers sprouting from your mouth, the roots entwined in the gaps between your fingers, the ocean echoing inside of your ribcage.
To destroy is always the first step in any creation.
i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses
Once we believe in ourselves, we can risk curiosity, wonder, spontaneous delight, or any experience that reveals the human spirit.
Your head is a living forest full of songbirds.
I will take the sun in my mouth and leap into the ripe air Alive with closed eyes to dash against darkness
i like my body when it is with your body. It is so quite new a thing. Muscles better and nerves more. i like your body. i like what it does, i like its hows. i like to feel the spine of your body and its bones, and the trembling -firm-smooth ness and which i will again and again and again kiss, i like kissing this and that of you, i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes over parting flesh ... And eyes big love-crumbs, and possibly i like the thrill of under me you so quite new.
For whatever we lose (like a you or a me), It's always our self we find in the sea.
a poet is someone who is abnormally fond of that precision which creates movement. Which is to say the highest form of concentration possible: fascination; to report on the electrifying experience of being
The Artist is no other than he who unlearns what he has learned, in order to know himself.
Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings. Anaïs Nin I like not only to be loved, but also to be told I am loved. George Eliot Love is the voice under all silences, the hope which has no opposite in fear; the strength so strong mere force is feebleness: the truth more first than sun, more last than star.
I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing than to teach ten thousand stars how not to dance.
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses
A bouquet of clumsy words: you know that place between sleep and awake where you're still dreaming but it's slowly slipping? I wish we could feel like that more often. I also wish I could click my fingers three times and be transported to anywhere I like. I wish that people didn't always say 'just wondering' when you both know there was a real reason behind them asking. And I wish I could get lost in the stars. Listen, there's a hell of a good universe next door, let's go.
The eyes of my eyes are opened.
The snow doesn't give a soft white damn whom it touches.
here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)
Laughing is just another way of showing people your wise
Only by you my heart always moves.
And this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart I carry your heart [ i carry it in my heart ]
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