Quotes About Yearning

I have lost my rhythm. I can't sleep. I can't eat. I have been robbed of my filth.

I could never accept life as it was, I could never gobble down all its poisons bu there were parts, tenuous magic parts open for the asking.

I love you but don't know what to do.

Anything, anything to stop drowning in this dull, trivial and cowardly existence.

I got the sad sads and all I want to do is fuck you.

Sweet Christ, you must know that a man will go further for any poem than for any woman ever born.

I know that some night in some bedroom soon my fingers will rift through soft clean hair songs such as no radio plays all sadness, grinning into flow.

the flesh covers the bone and they put a mind in there and sometimes a soul, and the women break vases against the walls and the men drink too much and nobody finds the one but keep looking crawling in and out of beds. flesh covers the bone and the flesh searches for more than flesh.

it's the same as before or the other time or the time before that. here's a cock and here's a cunt and here's trouble. only each time you think well now I've learned: I'll let her do that and I'll do this, I no longer want it all, just some comfort and some sex and only a minor love. now I'm waiting again and the years run thin. I have my radio and the kitchen walls are yellow. I keep dumping bottles and listening for footsteps. I hope that death contains less than this.

I wait on my fix: I am a poetry junkie.

It's never quite right, all the things we are taught, all the loves we chase, all the deaths we die, all the lives we live.

I've got the sad sads all I want to do is fuck you.

I would have loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom, but that didn't happen.

I need a good woman. I need a good woman more than I need this typewriter, more than I need my automobile, more than I need Mozart; I need a good woman so badly that I can taste her in the air, I can feel her at my fingertips, I can see sidewalks built for her feet to walk upon, I can see pillows for her head, I can feel my waiting laughter, I can see her petting a cat, I can see her sleeping, I can see her slippers on the floor.

and you go on toward your ocean, the cigar biting your lips the way love used to.

When can I see you again?" "In 2 hours or tomorrow." I walked to the door. You walk like a poem," she said. "See you in 2 hours," I told her.

and I sit there alone with you and Dostoevsky as the real and the artificial heart continues to falter, famished… I love you but don't know what to do.

If I could only make her fall in love with me. Pretend to be a writer and just fuck her and have her cook for me. I would never have to write I'd just pretend.

He's sick on the dream. We're all sick on the dream, that's why we're out here.

I do not feel good. I've got the sad sads. All I want to do is fuck you.

I suppose there's always something out there that we want to torture ourselves with.

my poems are only bits of scratching on the floor of a cage.

There is a blue bird in my heart that wants to get out.

who put this brain inside of me? it cries it demands it says that there is a chance. it will not say no.