always?

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

SONNET 116

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it 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.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved

William Shakespeare

Being a poet and why I write is actually hard to put into words, you just have to, it is just who you are, but I will try....

At seven years of age poetry made me laugh. At eleven it made me cry. Throughout the day and night and even in company, poetry will call "Come be with me".
We read, we muse, then capture it in ink.
It is a need to express my humanity, almost an ecstasy or a fire in my soul.
Sounds weird, but any other poet will get what I am saying lol

I'm not a poet but I love the way you put it ! It's a come be with me and I need to be with you thing....

Why thank you Maxisu

Inspiration is anything that touches my humanity to continue with the OP questions.

When poetry inspires me, it releases and inspires within, that which I have a passion for.

I wrote the following verse after reading a post on another thread. I believe promises are made, only to be broken. It saddens me.

Silence
Silence is better than broken promises spoken.
Promises and Vows are spoken then broken,
Meaningless words are spoken but not forgotten,
Better silence than broken promises spoken.

Say what you mean, and mean what you say.

My inspiration came from this verse:
Words like violence
Break the silence
Come crashing in
Into my little world
Painful to me
Pierce right through me
Can't you understand
Oh my little girl
All I ever wanted
All I ever needed
Is here in my arms
Words are very unnecessary
They can only do harm
Vows are spoken
To be broken
Feelings are intense
Words are trivial
Pleasures remain
So does the pain
Words are meaningless
And forgettable
All I ever wanted
All I ever needed
Is here in my arms
Words are very unnecessary
They can only do harm
Enjoy the silence
By Pansy, Mingles2, Jan 2015

Not all poetry inspires me, so I don't make it my own, it has to touch me within and my belief system.

Mo, I don't claim authorship of that... This is the lyrics of a song by depeche mode...the orange title is the link to the video.... And it is inspired... Thanks for visiting my thread from time to time.....i believe everyone has experience over broken promises by oneself or from another... Some broken without intent, some by conscious choice... Either way... Much damage to self and others can result as a consequence of broken promises....Words can be unnecessary, and a meaningful silence from the heart can be much much better...
This is something I wrote about broken promises a while back...

"Broken Promises"

The lights dancing through stained windows,
Colored my world rose.
Falling gently on hallowed bricks,
Like snowflakes.

A whispered prayer,
A secret pact,
Entered and logged in Heaven's book,
Lasts forever.

A story of my age,
Comes nigh, passing through Hell's gates.
My resolve, my bound,
Weakened by the burning shadows.

The illusion of forever dissipates.
Time passes, people change.
I learned,
Not to make promises anymore.

- mgsmd "PT" 01-15

You are so beautiful, Tilly!!

beautiful indeed !

Brian Patten ... LOVE POEMS

"��Patten composes rhapsodies and lamentations to the terrible beauty of human love."�� Literary Review



http://www.amazon.co.uk/Love-Poems-Brian-Patten/dp/0586092056/ref=pd_sim_b_5/275-1118228-5204866?ie=UTF8&refRID=0T3Q66DQESYRF6CG52H5

beautiful, 23 Sept. 2001
By marcwall@another.co.uk
"I bought this when I was falling in love, I read it when I was IN love, and cried into it when love left me. Every possible action that Love takes is described in line after line of real emotion. Patten is fantastic. If you have ever experienced any contact with love then buy this book."

Here's a poem of my own
Dark skies and rays of light
Embers fly and the melody dies
She looks at me from a far
While I sit alone with my guitar
She seems to be amazed
By me or the muse
The muse is the butterfly in which I have drew
Does it make sense to her
Can she relate
Only time will tell as she feels drawn to me by fate
She gets up and falls by me
I let go of the tune a beautiful melody
I pick her up and kiss her hand
She tells me she's never been greeted by a true man
We walk and talk and laugh and cry
Talk of life and dreams that all have died
I lean in for a kiss and she excepts
Where does this poem take us next?
--------Zachary T. Barnett----------

i do not claim the title of poet
ive written many lines that rhymed
but nobody would ever know it
some came in spanish others in english
i play with words because i am a cunning linguist

To quote from Whitman, "O me! O life!...

What will my verse be? I do not claim to be a poet, I play with words because life exist, the powerful play *goes on* so that I might contribute a verse.

Friedrich Nietzsche contribution:

Philip Levine (1928-2015) American poet best known for his poems about working-class Detroit, MI, died at age 87.

What Work Is
We stand in the rain in a long line
waiting at Ford Highland Park. For work.
You know what work is-if you're
old enough to read this you know what
work is, although you may not do it.
Forget you. This is about waiting,
shifting from one foot to another.
Feeling the light rain falling like mist
into your hair, blurring your vision
until you think you see your own brother
ahead of you, maybe ten places.
You rub your glasses with your fingers,
and of course it's someone else's brother,
narrower across the shoulders than
yours but with the same sad slouch, the grin
that does not hide the stubbornness,
the sad refusal to give in to
rain, to the hours wasted waiting,
to the knowledge that somewhere ahead
a man is waiting who will say, "No,
we're not hiring today," for any
reason he wants. You love your brother,
now suddenly you can hardly stand
the love flooding you for your brother,
who's not beside you or behind or
ahead because he's home trying to
sleep off a miserable night shift
at Cadillac so he can get up
before noon to study his German.
Works eight hours a night so he can sing
Wagner, the opera you hate most,
the worst music ever invented.
How long has it been since you told him
you loved him, held his wide shoulders,
opened your eyes wide and said those words,
and maybe kissed his cheek? You've never
done something so simple, so obvious,
not because you're too young or too dumb,
not because you're jealous or even mean
or incapable of crying in
the presence of another man, no,
just because you don't know what work is.

Wisteria
Philip Levine (1928-2015) An American poet

The first purple wisteria
I recall from boyhood hung
on a wire outside the windows
of the breakfast room next door
at the home of Steve Pisaris.
I loved his tall, skinny daughter,
or so I thought, and I would wait
beside the back door, prostrate,
begging to be taken in. Perhaps
it was only the flowers of spring
with their sickening perfumes
that had infected me. When Steve
and Sophie and the three children
packed up and made the move west,
I went on spring after spring,
leaden with desire, half-asleep,
praying to die. Now I know
those prayers were answered.
That boy died, the brick houses
deepened and darkened with rain,
age, use, and finally closed
their eyes and dreamed the sleep
of California. I learned this
only today. Wakened early
in an empty house not lately
battered by storms, I looked
for nothing. On the surface
of the rain barrel, the paled,
shredded blossoms floated.