#rose

When I first saw you when we were destined, I promised myself that I wouldn't force you to love me, but I would find a way to win you. ↗

— Andrea Cremer

#calla #nightshade #ren #love

Lily slumped, putting her shaking hands on his shoulders. "But you will, won't you?" Pansy's voice broke into a sob. "Yes, Pan," Galen said quietly. "I don't like that," Pansy said. Galen stood and put his arms around the fine-boned girl, while Rose continued to comfort Lily. Oliver looked away. It was such a private moment; he hated to intrude on it. Galen was beloved by all of the sisters, but the love between him and Rose was so clear and shining that it hurt to look at them, spending their last hours together caring for the other girls. ↗

— Jessica Day George

#love #rose #sad #love

i am a black rose dark dangerouse and beautiful ↗

— ayla moses

#beauty

Briar: "So I guess I was the last to know." Rosethorn: "Of course you are. You're a man, aren't you? ↗

— Tamora Pierce

#man #men #rosethorn #men

Roses! I swear you men have all your romance from the same worn book. Flowers are a good thing, a sweet thing to give a lady. But it is always roses, always red, and always perfect hothouse blooms when they can come by them. ↗

— Patrick Rothfuss

#roses #men

But hurry, let's entwine ourselves as one, our mouth broken, our soul bitten by love, so time discovers us safely destroyed. ↗

— Federico García Lorca

#broken #destroyed #entwine #federico-garcia-lorca #love

I don't love men that love other women. I think more of myself then that. ↗

— Rose The Vampire Diaries

#rose #the-vampire-diaries #women #love

A poet is a blind optimist. The world is against him for many reasons. But the poet persists. He believes that he is on the right track, no matter what any of his fellow men say. In his eternal search for truth, the poet is alone. He tries to be timeless in a society built on time. ↗

— Jack Kerouac

#beat #early-stories-and-other-writings #jack-kerouac #optimist #prose-poetry

Säjer att jag rymt hit för din skull men ljuger förstås det låter vackrare då ville bara att du skulle ta bort nåldynan från badrummet ställa in kanske mjölk i kylen låtsas att vi lever lika mycket båda två stängde dörren för längesen om mej och du bänder loss brädorna men kommer inte in du förstår älskling jag har kilat fast alla öppningar med frusna tårar avbrutna morrhår död hud och blodiga kräkningar har byggt berg utanför av uppsprättade drömmar och klätt in hela trappuppgången i tomhet och du kommer aldrig igenom man kommer aldrig igenom men inimej kom inimej och där nånstans låt mej liksom leva bara ↗

— Åsa Ericsdotter

#prose #swedish #men

The great error consists in supposing that poetry is an unnatural form of language. We should all like to speak poetry at the moment when we truly live, and if we do not speak it, it is because we have an impediment in our speech. It is not song that is the narrow or artificial thing, it is conversation that is a broken and stammering attempt at song. When we see men in a spiritual extravaganza, like Cyrano de Bergerac, speaking in rhyme, it is not our language disguised or distorted, but our language rounded and made whole. ↗

— G.K. Chesterton

#prose #song #speech #men