“I intend to put up with nothing that I can put down.”

With me poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion.

We had always dwelled together, beneath a tropical sun, in the Valley of the Many Colored Grass.

As a poet and as a mathematician, he would reason well; as a mere mathematician, he could not have reasoned at all.

I remained too much inside my head and ended up losing my mind.

Mysteries force a man to think, and so injure his health.

Believe nothing you hear, and only one half that you see.

Yet mad I am not and very surely do I not dream.

Imperceptibly the love of these discords grew upon me as my love of music grew stronger.

There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion.”

Either the memory of past bliss is the anguish of to-day; or the agonies which are have their origins in ecstasies which might have been.

The best things in life make you sweaty.

A million candles have burned themselves out. Still I read on.

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore.

Never to suffer would never to have been blessed.

Stupidity is a talent for misconception.

The true genius shudders at incompleteness – and usually prefers silence to saying something which is not everything it should be.

Poetry is the voice of the soul and the inspiration of the heart.

Our love is poetry oozing from our hearts spilling onto bedsheets and tearing us apart. Our love was always meant to be a journey through the cosmos for eternity.

His love held the scent of lavenders, as i carved them into poetry.

He is the story I cannot finish he is the poem I’ll always miss.

Maybe we become what we write about.

Poetry is a silent revolution.

Isn’t this loneliness a strange poetry? you want everyone to read, but you are never willing to write it down.

If you want to see the world as it should be, read poetry.