PoetryWhore

[poetrywhore4ever]

A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.

Robert Frost 

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I loved you on this day. I love this memory.

Joel Barish

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My lips and fingers were pens on her flesh. / I memorized her in every alphabet and memorized my memories until they multiplied...

Adonis

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I feel as if I were rising from a grave,

Sylvia Plath, from a diary entry written . April 1963 featured in “The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath,”

[poetrywhore4ever]

(your face is my chosen abyss)

Gwendolyn MacEwen, from The Shadow-Maker

[poetrywhore4ever]

If you asked me now who I am, the only answer I could give with any certainty would be my names. For the rest: my loves, my hates, down even to my deepest desires, I can no longer say whether these emotions are my own, or stolen from those I once so desperately wished to be.

Evelyn Waugh (Via quotemadness)

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And sometimes I have kept my feelings to myself, because I could find no language to describe them in.

Jane Austen

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This is my last message to you: in sorrow, seek happiness.

Fyodor Dostoyevsky; The Brothers Karamazov

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I'm lost. And it's my own fault. It's about time I figured out that I can't ask people to keep me found.

Anne Sexton

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I couldn't see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.

And I still don’t. (Via Sylvia Plath)

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I am not actually tired, but numb and heavy, and can't find the right words.

Franz Kafka; From a Letter to Felice Bauer, November 1912

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I am so fucking tired and sad and lost.

Kassody E. Still

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Human existence is so fragile a thing and exposed to such dangers that I cannot love without trembling.

Simone Weil; Gravity and Grace

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I would give you back to yourself if I could-

Julianna Baggott, from “For Sylvia, Come Winter. Come, Winter,” featured in “When She Named Fire: An Anthology,”

[poetrywhore4ever]

The books that the world calls immoral are books that show the world its own shame.

Oscar Wilde, from The Picture Of Dorian Gray

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Allow me to feel my pain,

Cesar Vallejo, tr. by Clayton Eshleman, from Selected Poem; “Violence,”

[poetrywhore4ever]

When love is not madness it is not love.

Pedro Calderon de la Barca