Poetry is the journal of the sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air. Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable. Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away. ― Carl Sandburg
My feelings are too loud for words and too shy for the world. ― Dejan Stojanovic
I’m sorry this letter took so long to write. I didn’t have time to make it shorter. — Fyodor Dostoevsky
I love sleep. My life has the tendency to fall apart when I’m awake, you know? — Ernest Hemingway
Never break the heart, you live in. ― M.F. Moonzajer
Patience, n. A minor form of despair, disguised as a virtue. — Ambrose Bierce
I am made for autumn. Summer and I have a fickle relationship, but everything about autumn is perfect to me. Wooly jumpers, Wellington boot, scarves, thin first, then thick, socks. The low slanting light, the crisp mornings, the chill in my fingers, those last warm sunny days before the rain and the wind. Her moody… Continue reading Alys Fowler
