Everyone is a story, waiting to unravel for you.
All of life can be summed up in the words written about a cup of melting ice and the remnants of a drink.
A woman cares most about her extremities, where she is furthest from herself and closest to who she wants to be.
A man worries most about their stature, what is natural or gained/lost and matters least when all alone.
Success is collaborative, though recognition usually falls on a single set of shoulders—not the tallest or strongest, but the most talkative.
We often look past the execution to the role being executed. If we appreciate the execution performed by others, we learn from them, absorbing tidbits of their story to make our own more vibrant. Even the most disgruntled should execute with aplomb, daring another to question their performance and the results brought through determination; a new role awaits us all if we remain professional, regardless of the task.
Your words fill volumes, but my thoughts can only fill a page.
They’re the type to mention they stayed somewhere exotic for 2 weeks, withholding that it took 4 years.
“We,” when one.
We poets are just screaming babes with no other means to emote; few of us learn to talk, and far fewer learn to form coherent sentences.
The hardest part of our lives, waking up, is also the most rewarding.