A Poetry Book Novelas e Histórias

It no longer felt like hiding; it felt like breathing. She met him at a small independent bookstore in Al Quoz—a converted warehouse with high ceilings, exposed brick, shelves that reached toward skylights. She was in the poetry section, running her fingers along spines of Warsan Shire and Safia Elhillo, when a voice—low, calm, slightly accented—came from the aisle behind her. “You read her like someone who’s lived every line.” She turned.

Even if this is all I can offer, I hope it brings them peace. I push my magic forward, imagining a small blue fire consuming the poison cursing these poor animals, breaking them free of their bodies they're trapped in. They are nothing more than zombies trapped where they lay. They had been doomed to stay inside decaying shells and never be free, and I refuse to let that happen.

It came as no surprise when he expressed wishes of becoming a writer and being the supportive sister I was, I always loved reading his short stories. Anything he wrote, I read. Standing up, I opened the box to be met with the sight of books ranging from Virginia Woolf to Maya Angelou. Sifting through the books my hand immediately stopped once I caught sight of a bundle of pages joined together haphazardly that had the words Tim's Poetry Book written on the first page. I never knew he wrote poems and this had me intrigued as I retook a seat on the bed. Planning to flip through it, the knock on the door halted any further movements on my end as I looked up to find the smiling face of my mother

But my hand closed around empty space. My heart thudded so hard I thought it might crack a rib. I grabbed the poetry book and tossed it onto the bed, pawing through every page, every bookmark, hoping I’d misplaced it. Maybe I’d hidden it between pages, paranoid someone might find it in the drawer. Maybe— But page after page, there was nothing. Just dry printed words about love, death, betrayal and spring. Words that mocked the churning horror blooming in my chest.

The crackling fire spat, dawning in me the realization that even in the stillness of the night, there was still warmth to be found. I involuntarily walked towards a certain shelf containing a familiar row of books, my hands scaling slowly through the books there. It was poetry,my favourite while young. back then it was an old friend, a comfort whenever I come to the library after a long and tiring day. I fell in love with poetry, and it fell in love with me. As I opened the book of poetry that night, I scanned through the pages of the book. It all seemed to come alive as I stood there,the large book on my arm.

She walked in with the reverence of someone entering a place that mattered to her and immediately disappeared into the graphic novel section without another word. I wandered toward the poetry shelves, drawn to them without quite deciding to be, and ran my fingers along the spines until one caught my eye. A slim volume with a navy cover and gold lettering. I pulled it out and opened it to a random page. I carry your heart with me (I carry it in my heart)... I smiled. E.E. Cummings. I had read this before, years ago, and forgotten how much I liked it. "What are you reading?"

Most were about history, leadership, strategy. But there were a few that surprised me. Poetry. Classic literature. A worn copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. I smiled despite everything. Xavier reading poetry felt… unexpected. I pulled the poetry book out. Flipped through it. Some pages were dog-eared. Lines underlined. “The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” My throat tightened. I put the book back so fast you would think it burned me. Then I moved to his desk.

that's literally just milk and cereal in separate bowls. "Revolutionary," he deadpans. In the poetry section, he stops and pulls down a slim volume with a worn cover. Flips through it slowly until he finds what he's looking for. "Listen to this." His voice drops lower, intimate in the quiet space. He reads a poem about two people finding each other again after years apart, about second chances and choosing love despite fear. The words are simple but devastating, made more so by the way he reads them—slow and deliberate, like each line matters.

The bell jingled as she stepped in. A tall man behind the counter greeted her with a polite smile. “Looking for anything specific?” She shook her head and answered back, “Just browsing.” The store smelled of paper, dust, and old stories. She ran her fingers along the spines of the books one by one. She enjoyed this feeling—soft and real, nothing like that glowing cursed journal that had once haunted her. After a few minutes, she halted in front of a book of poetry. On the front cover, there was a note written neatly: “For whoever finds this, may you remember that pain doesn’t mean you stopped living.”

Arian's pov The atmosphere was bubbling with excitement as the reading festival began in the grand hall. Bright decorations adorned the walls and pillars, infusing the space with an air of excitement and creativity. Shelves behind the main hall overflowed with books of every genre: fiction, non-fiction, poetry, and more. The colors and titles of the novels seemed to dance on the shelves, inviting attendees to explore their stories. New generation authors and readers mingled, their faces lit up with enthusiasm as they discussed their favorite books and writers. I should have been floating with pride but my stomach was knotted, my palms damp with sweat.