Amateur Poetry Novels & Stories

No savior complex. Their first project together was a poetry and performance workshop for young people impacted by exclusion and poverty. Amara handled the structure, writing prompts, small group sessions, and goal tracking. Liam brought the soul, open mics, rhythm, and rawness. He had a way of drawing stories out of even the most silent kids, not by asking questions, but by waiting long enough for answers to emerge on their own.

"This is where I come when the world gets too loud, when I need to remember there are still places where people think instead of just react." "You come here often?" I asked, grateful for the change in subject. "Every day," he admitted. "I'm a writer, or trying to be, and this place helps me think, helps me find the words when they won't come." "What do you write?" I asked, genuinely curious. "Stories about people who are lost," Amante said simply. "About people trying to find their way back to themselves. Depressing stuff, really, but someone has to write it."

He was silent for a while before starting to slowly swirl his head from side to side and reciting. “Drinking deep into Autumn's night. “Feeling like puking the next day’s light. “Though I was annoyed and bored. “I lamented.” The minute he finished, he anxiously asked Penny, “Gorgeous Penny, my poem is pretty meaningful right? Do you think I have hopes of becoming the champion?” At his words, Jewel could not help but spit the candy in her mouth out before smiling and said, “Haha! Mister, this man’s poem is interesting. He just did doggerel! Haha!”

#MarriedButAlone #IMarriedACheater #PagesI’llDeleteLater “What is this? A pity poem?” I spat with a scowl, “Who the hell wrote this?!”

And, if I’m being honest, a little conflicted. “Do you write poetry?” he asks, casually. I blink. “No. Why?” “It’s calming. I do it all the time. You should try. It’s like therapy.” My brows arch as I turn toward him. “You write poetry? Like modern day Shakespeare?” He shrugs, lounging deeper. “When you put it that way, not really .Just... whatever pops into my head. I mean, anything can be poetry.” I lean forward. “What kind of poems do you even write? It’s kind of hard to picture you doing something so... artistic.”

After the interrogation that day, fuck had a grown woman like me craving, but since there was no cock around and no vibrator, I had to use my fingers to oh yeah that's the spot. When I was done with the masturbation, just then on my phone, a notification beeped in on my Facebook. It didn't seem like me receiving my porn, instead, it was a poem from someone with no profile picture or picture on his wall. His username says Mr Romantic and his poem read, I can never look at a drop of dew in a buttercup without beholding shafts of love in the retreats of your eyes In you there is unity; your face and form is a blend of perfect line and contour

“Since you are going to be editing my crap anyway, you might as well have your own copy to work with.” “It doesn’t have to be a sappy love poem. It could be something that is personal to you. I mean there might not be any sexual poetry, but there might be one that compares a woman to a motorcycle or something,” Anna says with a soft smile and takes the poetry anthologies from him. She automatically opens the book to the table of content pages. Zack’s eyebrows raise at her suggestion, the idea of finding a poem that speaks to his rougher tastes suddenly feels more appealing. A motorcycle comparison– now that is something he could get behind. “You think there is poetry about motorcycles?” he a

“ You are a writer? “ “ I am. “ “ Playing a sex game? “ He arched a brow. “ My parents_ Jeane decided not to reveal the truth about her predicament to klein, she didn't want to seem like a beggar. “ Writing hasn't paid me yet, I wish to be famous for what I do. “ “ What do you write? “ Klein's voice came out with a deep longing. “ Fiction, poetry. “ “ Wow, “ Klein shook his head, although her funny song sounded beautiful, he wanted to hear more. “ Tell me something about myself, in a poem. “ Jeane was surprised by klein Macmiller's interest in art, was he into it perhaps? She looked into his eyes and began,

"That sounds like a worthy dream, Nimue." Encouraged by his attentiveness, I continued, "And… I write too. Poetry mostly. Silly, teenage girl stuff, really." "Let me hear one," he surprised me by saying. My cheeks flushed crimson. "No way! My poems are terrible. Trust me, you wouldn't want to subject yourself to that torture." He raised an eyebrow. "Try me. If it's a torture inflicted by you, I’ll find an oasis of sloppy pleasure inside of it. Somehow.”

I fill it with words, but none of them laugh like you. 🫖 I drink tea that tastes like the idea of calm. It’s not enough. 🫶 You’re the margin in all my paragraphs. They didn't always talk about big things. But every word was tether. One evening, Yam was asked to read during an open mic. He stood behind the microphone, palms clammy, crowd half distracted. He read: _"There’s a boy in Baler who builds crooked shelves and paints the truth onto walls too small for regret.