— Edna St. Vincent Millay, From A Letter To Arthur Davison Ficke

I dream of...

I dream of the empty tunnels within the earth,

where once worms lived but now only their corpses lay in the poisoned dirt. 

I dream that the sick earth gives away beneath our feet, that mankind slips down passing our equally sickened history as we go. 

I dream there are trees forever preserved in plastic, bones of fish that twist in deformation, the hornless rhinos mouths are still wide in pain and in their blank eye sockets remains fear, small bones lay next to big ones. 

 Finally, we reach our ancestors alongside the mammoths they slew,

 the only genuinely recognizable corpses. 

I dream that we never hit the end, our bodies fall upwards as we pass our mistakes, our triumphs are few and far between. 

Then I wake up. 

I stand on the dirt that I dreamt of, waiting for the human race’s sins to pull me down. 

I feel nothing but the worms digging beneath my feet, I do not feel the waxy plastic or the sharp bones of fish,

but it is then I realize I’m still dreaming. 

Poetry and quotes to me.. is a way to express the more sensual parts of my soul. I mean, like.. they are an intimate part of my being and they say things I wouldn’t be able to otherwise. Whether it’s your writing or mine.. we share that bond, that connection.. our souls intertwined because we are the same in that moment. You and I. All through some words scribbled on some paper or on a screen.. it doesn’t matter where. It just matters that it comes from the heart. So keep expressing yourself by writing and keep touching the hearts of the world.. and keep touching mine..

Poetry and quotes touch me right here *pointing to chest* - Eue

WHEN ALL MY FAVORITE CHARACTERS IN A BOOK ARE KILLED OFF

Yes, I was infatuated with you: I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn't stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren't having any of those.

Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

I haven’t seen you in a while. Oh, how I miss your smile. Sometimes I start to pick up the phone to dial, but I haven’t seen you in a while. One day our paths my cross again. You’ll see all these roses that have begun to pile. Until then I will hope and pray for you, my love. It’s all I can do. I haven’t seen you in a while.

J.c.A

No poet could be just happy or their soul would waste away in starvation.

They live life with a mixture of pain, pleasure, confusion, ecstasy, love, heartbreak, happiness, sadness. They feel, think, and they weave these all together through the magic of their words.

Sometimes you just gotta stay silent cause no words can explain the shit that’s going on in your mind and heart.

Insufficient

I loved you. maybe still do, who knows? maybe it hurts me to think I still love and care for you when the feeling may or may not be mutual on your side.

It hurts to know I gave you my all for the time it lasted, I poured all my love and affection to you as you undoubtedly continued to mourn for her. was I not enough? what was it she had and I didn't ? was my smile not attractive enough? was my hair not long enough? all I wanted was to enjoy sleepless nights in your embrace but I guess that was not in your plans. the effort was way too much for you to put in. does it even hurt you that we're no longer one. does my absence not affect you? was it even real... I mean what we had was it real? or was it merely a distraction for you to forget her? I guess I'll never know.

Querer no puedo, mas que amarte, pues eres la dicha de este corazón errante, preciosa doncella de presencia distante. Me vuelves de humo ante tu aliento, vago en el ósculo de tu ser henchido de fuego... Ven, respírame, que sin ti me muero. Desear más sería pecado, con saberte viva me doy por atrapado. No importa si muero, en ti, encerrado. Curioso es que, contigo, el fuego que Somos se vuelve suspiro de vapor entre nubes de diamantes.

— Esu Emmanuel©, I cannot want you, but I can love you, for you are the joy of this wandering heart, precious maiden of distant presence. You turn me into smoke before your breath, I wander in the osculum of your being full of fire... Come, breathe me in, for without you I die. To wish for more would be a sin, knowing you're alive I'm trapped. It doesn't matter if I die, enclosed in you. Curious is that, with you, the fire that we are becomes a sigh of steam among clouds of diamonds.