#poets

What we call imagination, which we value so highly in great poets — is, essentially, unbridled, loose, or if you will,

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Poets, prophets, and reformers are all picture-makers — and this ability is the secret of their power and of their

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The feelings came so fast, I really thought that they would last.

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What is a poet? An unhappy man who conceals profound anguish in his heart, but whose lips are so fashioned that when sighs

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I didn’t imagine I would be betrayed but perhaps it was only delayed?

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Why do I feel the shame when I have my monsters to blame?

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The poetizing philosopher, the philosophizing poet, is a prophet. A didactic poem should be and tends to become prophetic.

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“Are we in love with each other?”, her hugging him while smiling so brightly. Him smiling from ear to ear, “Sounds like

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Your hugs are the warmest. So full of love.

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Allow yourself to be loved.

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Nothing compares to the feeling of holding your hand.

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You set me on fire and I was grateful, as I burst into flames, to feel something. I was cold, numb you ignited me.

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I am always trying to convey something that can’t be conveyed, to explain something which is inexplicable, to tell

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Your love radiates through the haze of my gloomy days.

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There are two classes of poets — the poets by education and practice, these we respect; and poets by nature, these we love.

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Everyone thinks that I shine so bright, but they don’t see who I am at night.

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Nobody knows how dark my mind goes.

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I want someone who wants to converse about the universe.

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Your smile resembles a moon’s crescent and your luminance is just as iridescent.

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Many try to capture the Moon but she isn’t so easy to swoon.

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I’ve tried to water the flowers in my head, but they’re already dead.

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They say that love can save but it took me to the grave.

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You were the moon to my night, you illuminated my darkness with your light.

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I like to be alone. I like to be alone with you.

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