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We fear monsters because we fear the dark parts of ourselves.

John J. Geddes

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John J. Geddes
Monsters
Parts
Dark
Fear

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Poetry is paying attention to life when all the world seems asleep to its beauties and truths.
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I love it when the dark bottle of night spills out, and the Moon writes in chalk about us.
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If you want your own distinctive voice, you first have to become someone.
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I see myself at crossroads in my life, mapless, lacking bits of knowledge - then, the Moon breaks through, lights up the path before me.
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Ambition or contentment? This simple question led me back to a more balanced view of life and put me in touch with the Me I used to know.
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A sensual life is a ghostly existence where you live on the surface and your soul passes through everything, touching nothing.
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I'm not afraid of the opinions of others - but of being needed and coming up short.
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And not out of fear or loneliness, but only to find myself again... for we have come too far my Life, to turn back now.
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The religion of the heart is as intimate as a wish breathed to the night sky.
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I make no apology about stirring the depths - every human longs to swim under water and see what lurks beneath
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When we perfect 3-D copiers and they reproduce tissue, we'll have a million Marilyns walking around with no souls.
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Freshly cut Christmas trees smelling of stars and snow and pine resin - inhale deeply and fill your soul with wintry night.
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When I think of you it's with tears, because no one else has such delicate hands that can reach into my soul and calm my fears.
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Authority is the unmistakeable tone in the voice of a true writer.
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Some people won't even own a dog for fear it will die - you can't bubble-wrap your heart.
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I pray this winter be gentle and kind - a season of rest from the wheel of the mind.
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Here's what I've learned - people will hurt you, but you don't have to respond: Not every mean comment or cruel act deserves to be noticed.
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I hear the sounds of melting snow outside my window every night and with the first faint scent of spring, I remember life exists
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December's wintery breath is already clouding the pond, frosting the pane, obscuring summer's memory.
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Each heart is made of a different stone - no two feel alike nor break the same way.
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