#poetic

He who has not been bitten by the serpents of light and snapped at by the wolves of darkness will always be deceived by the days and the nights. ↗

— Kahlil Gibran

#poetic #inspirational

Maybe he was as mad as he said he was, but she could see only a species of miserable fright. Suddenly, like the thud of a boxing glove on her mouth, she saw how close to the edge of everything he was. The agency was tottering, that was bad enough, and now, on top of that, like a grisly dessert following a putrid main course, his marriage was tottering too. She felt a rush of warmth for him, for this man she had sometimes hated and had, for the last three hours at least, feared. A kind of epiphany filled her. Most of all, she hoped he would always think he had been as mad as hell, and not . . . not the way his face said he felt. ↗

— Stephen King

#marriage

I write the word solitude on my wall and then below it: Do you know me at all? Are my words just air? Is my heart easy to spare? ↗

— Jessica Sorensen

#death

The poetical language of an age should be the current language heightened. ↗

— Gerard Manley Hopkins

#current #heightened #language #poetical #should

The poetic act consists of suddenly seeing that an idea splits up into a number of equal motifs and of grouping them; they rhyme. ↗

— Stephane Mallarme

#consists #equal #grouping #idea #into

A tattoo is a true poetic creation, and is always more than meets the eye. As a tattoo is grounded on living skin, so its essence emotes a poignancy unique to the mortal human condition. ↗

— V. Vale

#body #confidence #creation #creative #emotion

Love is not love which alters it when alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove: O no! It is an ever fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken; it is the star to every wandering bark whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks within his bending sickle's compass come: Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out, even to the edge of doom." (Sonnet 116) ↗

— William Shakespeare

#constancy #love #poetic #romantic #beauty

I wanted so badly to tell him, but something about that entire night seemed so beautiful, so bizarre, that I didn't trust it with my secrets. ↗

— Lauren DeStefano

#beauty

The hands that felled trees also cut umbilical cords; the hands that wrung the necks of chickens and butchered hogs also nudged African violets into bloom; the arms that loaded sheaves, bales, and sacks rocked babies into sleep. They patted biscuits into flaky ovals of innocence- and shrouded the dead. They plowed all day and came home to nestle like plums under the limbs of their men. The legs that straddled a mule's back were the same ones that straddled their men's hips. And the difference was all the difference there was. ↗

— Toni Morrison The Bluest Eye

#home