Every poem is unique to each person who reads it. — Salil Jha, Naked Soul: The Erotic Love Poems
Every poem is unique to each person who reads it. — Salil Jha, Naked Soul: The Erotic Love Poems
Every poem is unique to each person who reads it. — Salil Jha, Naked Soul: The Erotic Love Poems
Every poem is unique to each person who reads it. — Salil Jha, Naked Soul: The Erotic Love Poems
Every poem is unique to each person who reads it. — Salil Jha, Naked Soul: The Erotic Love Poems
Download Customize

Every poem is unique to each person who reads it.

— Salil Jha, Naked Soul: The Erotic Love Poems
Pin Share Tweet Telegram
Topics
poem poetry salil jha unique

More “Poem” Quotes

YOU YOU YOUyour eyes, thick as a high school scrapbook crackling and yellow, curling at the edgesa book of myths in whic — Clint Catalyst, Caresses Soft as Sandpaper
Since ever the world was spinningAnd till the world shall endYou've your man in the beginningOr you have him in the end, — L.M. Montgomery, Emily's Quest
Just looking at themI grow greedy, as if they werefreshly baked loaveswaiting on their shelvesto be broken open--that on — Linda Pastan
ANY FOOL CAN GET INTO AN OCEAN BUT IT TAKES A GODDESS TO GET OUT OF ONE. — Jack Spicer
Fox-TrotBy the stream the fox and she-fox stoodNose to nose beneath the starsDancing the music of the woods.The deer rap — Beth Kephart, Undercover
Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,Which I gaze on so fondly to-day,Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet — Thomas Moore
Despair and Genius are too oft connected — George Gordon Byron, Byron Poems
That young man with the long, auburn hair and the impudent face - that young man was not really a poet; but surely he wa — G.K. Chesterton, The Man Who Was Thursday: A Nightmare
Mark but this flea, and mark in this, How little that which thou deniest me is; Me it sucked first, and now sucks thee, — John Donne
Twas a sheep not a lamb that strayed awayIn the parable Jesus told,A grown-up sheep that strayed awayFrom the ninety and — C.C. Miller
Ah Sun-flower! weary of time,Who countest the steps of the Sun:Seeking after that sweet golden climeWhere the traveller' — William Blake, Songs of Experience
We turned an anthem into an assignment, a poem into a job description. — Rachel Held Evans, A Year of Biblical Womanhood