Maybe I spent more time dwelling on emotions than some people, and maybe that's why I ended up writing.
quote by Iris DeMent
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
Mr. Me
Once a boy named mister me bemoaned a great regret
I've floundered in the misty sea, but can't abide its mystery
I wound up sad, you bet
So onward go and edward ho into the bounding main
Enjoy the show look out below but mind the misty sea
Or end up sad like mister me
He ended up sad
He ended up sad
He ended up really, really, really sad
He ended up sad
He ended up sad
He ended up really, really, really sad
So take the hand of mister me and mister, make him glad
To swim the mister misty sea and cease the mister mystery
That mister, made him sad
He ended up sad
He ended up sad
He ended up really, really, really sad
He ended up sad
He ended up sad
He ended up really, really, really sad
He ended up sad
He ended up sad
He ended up really, really, really sad
He ended up sad
He ended up sad
He ended up really, really, really sad
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Happy ending
She spent her life worrying over everyone
She spent her days trying to get her kids the life they wanted
She spent her nights trying to convince her husband not to leave
She tried everything
But it never worked
Her worries never went away
Her kids ended up with dead-end lives
Her husband ended up with a 23 year old blonde
And all she wanted was a happy ending
poem by Tiffany Fawcett
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I spent as much time writing proposals in '98 and '99 as I did writing scripts.
quote by Mark Millar
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Writing The Words
I’m writing this at your funeral.
As I watch all the people in tears.
I wish I could join them,
But I know I have to be strong.
I’m writing this on my hand,
No paper to get it down on.
I want to remember your funeral,
So I’m writing this to honour you.
I’m writing the thoughts that pop into my head,
Making sure they are only the best.
I have to remember,
Because I couldn’t live with myself if I ever forgot.
I’m writing this at your funeral,
As people dropp flowers onto your coffin.
I stand up to dropp my own,
Blue, unlike the others, because I know it’s your favourite.
I’m writing this through the ceremony,
Because if I listen to the words I’ll cry.
And I know I can’t, for you,
I have to keep it together.
I’m writing the words I want to say,
To make people remember how much love you gave.
Because I want them to know,
How much of it you gave to me.
So, I’m writing this at your funeral,
To stop myself from shedding a tear.
I’m writing this at your funeral,
So that I never ever forget you.
poem by Rachel Brewer
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Thought Of Ph---a At News Of Her Death
NOT a line of her writing have I,
Not a thread of her hair,
No mark of her late time as dame in her dwelling, whereby
I may picture her there;
And in vain do I urge my unsight
To conceive my lost prize
At her close, whom I knew when her dreams were upbrimming with light,
And with laughter her eyes.
What scenes spread around her last days,
Sad, shining, or dim?
Did her gifts and compassions enray and enarch her sweet ways
With an aureate nimb?
Or did life-light decline from her years,
And mischances control
Her full day-star; unease, or regret, or forebodings, or fears
Disennoble her soul?
Thus I do but the phantom retain
Of the maiden of yore
As my relic; yet haply the best of her--fined in my brain
It may be the more
That no line of her writing have I,
Nor a thread of her hair,
No mark of her late time as dame in her dwelling, whereby
I may picture her there.
poem by Thomas Hardy
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For me, a play is a form of writing which isn't complete until it is interpreted by actors. But it's still a form of writing. And so most of my time is spent thinking about how to write a sentence.
quote by Wallace Shawn
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Thoughts of Phena
at news of her death
Not a line of her writing have I
Not a thread of her hair,
No mark of her late time as dame in her dwelling, whereby
I may picture her there;
And in vain do I urge my unsight
To conceive my lost prize
At her close, whom I knew when her dreams were upbrimming with light
And with laughter her eyes.
What scenes spread around her last days,
Sad, shining, or dim?
Did her gifts and compassions enray and enarch her sweet ways
With an aureate nimb?
Or did life-light decline from her years,
And mischances control
Her full day-star; unease, or regret, or forebodings, or fears
Disennoble her soul?
Thus I do but the phantom retain
Of the maiden of yore
As my relic; yet haply the best of her--fined in my brain
It may be the more
That no line of her writing have I,
Nor a thread of her hair,
No mark of her late time as dame in her dwelling, whereby
I may picture her there.
March 1890.
poem by Thomas Hardy
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I did not think that I was angry, but clearly anger was reflected in my writing. I did not think that I had been affected emotionally, but it was clear from my writing that I was still very emotional about the trial some six months after it ended.
quote by Christopher Darden
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In Another’s Shoes
As a writer I sometimes
have to step in another’s shoes.
Feel all the emotions the way they would do.
Feel the love that makes them happy,
the sadness that gives them pain,
and sometimes stepping out,
of their shoes is not an easy thing to do.
Sometimes for a while,
their emotions become yours.
You cry at the sad things,
laugh at things that aren’t that funny,
and get a lump in your throat,
at watching someone else’s joy.
You do it because of what you write,
you want people to believe.
Sometimes they do believe,
and think what you are writing,
is actually happening to you.
poem by David Harris
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I Come Alive In Writing
I come alive in writing
Even if the writing means nothing to anyone else-
I come alive in writing
Even if I am totally deluding myself as to its value-
I come alive in writing
Even if at times while writing there is an underlying hopelessness and despair -
I come alive in writing
As if writing is what God has given me to do-
I come alive in writing
As if through it I can truly give to and help others-
I come alive in writing
As if life has meaning through it-
I come alive in writing
Even when I sense the writing is not good or great
As I would wish it to be.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Planning to write is not writing. Outlining, researching, talking to people about what you're doing, none of that is writing. Writing is writing.
quote by E.L. Doctorow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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After I left Texas and went to California, I had a hard time getting anyone to play anything that I was writing, so I had to end up playing them myself. And that's how I ended up just being a saxophone player.
quote by Ornette Coleman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The real reason we ended up getting into that type of music was our dad worked for an oil company so we spent a year overseas when we were young kids. Because of that, it was all Spanish TV and radio so we ended up having these '50s and '60s tapes, tapes of that music.
quote by Zac Hanson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Charity and good deeds
Make charity
Make good deeds
For the common people
My poems are for the common people
Common people have emotions
I am a poet and
I look after the emotions
Emotions follow actions
This world is full of action
Action with devotion
Gives a man perfection
And a perfect man is
His best creation.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Plus, we spend most of our time writing music. Most of the time is spent in the studio in my house.
quote by Warren Cuccurullo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Expecting To Fly
There you stood on the edge of your feather,
Expecting to fly.
While I laughed, I wondered whether
I could wave goodbye,
Knowin that youd gone.
By the summer it was healing,
We had said goodbye.
All the years wed spent with feeling
Ended with a cry,
Babe, ended with a cry,
Babe, ended with a cry.
I tried so hard to stand
As I stumbled and fell to the ground.
So hard to laugh as I fumbled
And reached for the love I found,
Knowin it was gone.
If I never lived without you,
Now you know Id die.
If I never said I loved you,
Now you know Id try,
Babe, now you know Id try.
Babe, now you know Id try,
Babe.
song performed by by Neil Young
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dear Friend
i always love to write, as early as
gradeschool when we were classmates
while you were playing and chasing and stumbling
i just sat on the grass of the playground under a tree and scribble anything
and read a lot about some stories with lots of pictures
and colors of fairies and kings and queens and butterflies and bees,
i do not stop writing, in fact, writing has become my life
that without words i may die an instant death
i dream that i have written novels and stories and lots of poems
i wake up with some ideas like some seeds that i want to sow
and grow in the field and see them become shrubs and trees and forests
and i keep on this life writing and writing and writing and writing
for writing's sake and i wish i may live longer so i may write
some more, some sequels of my love stories and suspense thrillers
and write finally all the poems that are inside my mind
hanging like ripe grapes and creeping like vines on my fence
as i am writing now as you always want to read me
until such time my friend that i will die, or end my life myself (who knows?)
(i will not talk about it now, it is something bizarre and makes me
shiver, but who knows, well you know, all are but possibilities and nothing
but possibilities in this vast wide world of realities and dreams)
there is something i must say somehow
there is something that i must have forgotten, i have not written about myself
i have always written about them, about you, about the world,
please do not refuse me, stop playing with your life,
gradeschool ended
a long time ago, i have one and ultimate request:
write the story of my life, because it is you who only knows about it.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I think finally good writing gets out there, and people like it, and bad writing doesn't. Well, no. Bad writing does get out there 'cause some people like it.
quote by Robert B. Parker
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sad Choices
It ended too soon?
It ended too late buffoon?
We should never have started?
We should never have parted?
Choices made emotions paid?
Choices made history laid?
Why seek reasons in changing seasons?
Why seek stability in dangerous liaisons?
poem by Terence George Craddock
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I Write A Little
(Randy Owen/Don Cook/Ronnie Rogers)
Military mail call....
I lay out some paper, I take out my pen
Turn on my table-lamp and here I go again
It's time to write a letter, I'm in the mood tonight
Gotta find a way to tell you how I feel inside
So I write a little and I cry a little
It's so hard to find a way to say goodbye a little
But somewhere in the middle, my emotions interfere
So I write a little and cry a little tear
And I die a little, wishing you were here
God I miss you, can't be with you
I would kiss you oh so good
'Cause you're my only cure for lonely
I'd call if I could
So I write a little and I cry a little
It's so hard to find a way to say goodbye a little
But somewhere in the middle, my emotions interfere
So I write a little and cry a little tear
And I die a little, wishing you were here
Oh, I die a little wishing you were here
Wishing you were here
I'm writing and wishing you were here
I write a little and cry a little tear
I'm writing and wishing you were here
song performed by by Alabama
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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