...some say Twitter seems trite and lacks weightiness - but in actuality, it lends itself to poetry - it can be very compressed and intense...
John GeddesTag: poetry intense twitter compressed trie weightiness
I make love with a focus and intensity that most people reserve for sleep.
Dark Jar Tin ZooTag: humor love men women romantic romance sleep sex relationships funny sleeping intensity focus intense reserve not-romantic make-love word-junkies
I feel a flash of grief so intense it almost makes me cry out: not for what I lost, but for the chances I missed.
Lauren OliverTag: grief cry intense alex-and-lena
How is it that men create such lovely silhouettes, such shadows of the corporeal, capturing things in their most wraith-like moment and yet they are not content with honing such divine talent? Instead, they opt to dissect the cadaver of that which cast the shadow.
F. VoutsakisTag: humanity lyrical powerful moving intense erudite
I found lines that mirrored an ache and longing I had so often felt when the beauty around my woods cathedral was too intense, when the need to grasp and keep loveliness left me with a sense of desolate frustration.
Irene HuntTag: beauty nature feelings intense
Allison."
I almost collapsed in relief. "Yeah," I whispered, forcing a pained smile as he stared at me as if I were a ghost. "It's me. Damn you, Kanin. You were a pain in the ass to find, you know that?"
Kanin didn't answer. Without warning, his hands rose, pressing to either side of my face as I went rigid. His stare was awed, hopeful, as if he couldn't quite believe I was real and had to touch me to make sure I wasn't a phantom.
"You're here." I barely caught the whisper, and Kanin's eyes closed again as he bowed his head. It was a broken sound, a man desperately grasping at the last thread of hope, when he had been in the darkness for so long. "You came."
And, as I stood, shocked, against the wall of the cell, Kanin sank to his knees in front of me, holding the backs of my legs. The top of his bowed head pressed against my thighs. "You came," he repeated, a chant holding him to sanity. I swallowed the lump in my throat and touched his broad shoulders, biting my lips to keep the tears in check, as the cell door opened with a creak, and the Prince beckoned us both to freedom.
What doesn't kill us sharpens us. Hardens us. Schools us. You're beating plowshares into swords, Vosch. You are remaking us. We are the clay, and you are Michelangelo. And we will be your masterpiece.
Rick YanceyTag: awesomeness intense dramatic-moment
Please don't shoot me for this
Tahereh MafiHis eyes are so intense I want to look away . . . or never look away, I can’t decide.
Kasie Westi can only think god is responsible for passion,for god gives us bodies with which to express it and heart in which to hold it
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