Amateur Poetry Novels & Stories

I lie here awake but I’m not one to pray, everything’s changed but now I’m okay. I’m rattled this time, can someone lift my chin, keep my head above water before I’m too deep in. I’ve never had problems, where do I begin, but it’s not a problem because I’m just being human.’ I had always liked poetry and this particular one actually got to me because I felt I could relate to it in a weird kind of way. “Poetry is light, poetry is love. That’s a poem written by an anonymous poet on i*******m. Pstar7….”

I looked down at my hands, tugging at my fingers, trying to fight the small smile that desperately wanted to appear on my lips. He liked my poetry. “I’m not much of a poet,” I confessed. “But it helps to get things off my chest.” “I’ve written some poetry as well. There’s nothing wrong with that.” I rose my gaze to his, surprised. I never read any poetry from Joseph Evergreen or Christopher Moore. I wondered what kind of poetry he had written. Was it fantasy stuff? Or maybe it was more serious? I have to admit, I was curious. “I didn’t know you’ve written poetry. Any published work?” I asked.

“You know, I'm not much of a poem person. In fact, not one at all.” She watched him speak. “When I say at all, I mean at all at all. When I see that shit come up as an ad on YouTube, I skip them as fast as I can. I always think of it as this boring thing. Like why just sit and write a bunch of stuff that you want people to hear but complicate it so that they won't understand it?” “You're blabbering, just get to the point.” She told him with a straight face. “Uh...” Hunter turned his body towards her to make his point. “But I heard you read your poem in there, and for the first time I understood poetry. I think that was beautiful.”

“Yeah… I*******m. She commented on one of my poetry posts…something sappy about stars and longing…and I replied, and then we just…kept talking. DMs turned into late-night voice notes, sharing lines we loved, stupid memes about writers’ block. We clicked. Hard. Over poetry, mostly.” He tilted his head. “You like poetry?” I don’t even know any single poet or any line whatsoever. I had no idea where that even came from…it was literally the first thing that popped into my head…but I rolled with it. “Yeah. Absolutely passionate about it.” Total lie. I could barely remember the difference between a haiku and a limerick. “Anyway…since I came here. To be your… slave bride…” His fists clenched so tig

‘‘Slow down, it’s just a question, why are you so nervous,’’ he asked. ‘‘I am not nervous; I am trying to….’’ ‘‘Okay,’’ ‘‘ I like sleeping, its my first hobby and the only thing I do on my free time, I would also like to write poems and novels, with a pseudo name because I am sure no one will read if it is written by Perez, and I want just that, I try to write poems when I’m free and sometime back, I used to draw too,’’ I explained. No one had ever given me a platform to express my views and opinions so candidly, no one listens to what I say, or reads between the lines and beyond the lines of my words.

“Forget it. Are you going to read tonight?” Maya nodded. “I better get back. I’m usually the last one. Go ahead and look around.” He watched her go back to the crowd and wandered through the shelves. He listened absently to the next poet, who recited lines through the muted wilderness music, and wrinkled his nose. God, he hated poetry. The spilling out of emotion, messy and unbridled, for any stranger to pick up and share. The convoluted comparisons between nature and rage, the endless clichés, and the confusing imagery made a man question his intelligence. No, give him a good biography or a classic like Hemmingway. Give him the opera, where within the fierce emotions there was control.

Because that was the thing about Amara now she was learning that not every truth needed to be delivered. Her poetry had started gaining attention online. It wasn’t intentional. One night, she’d posted a short piece something about grief wearing perfume and by morning, thousands of people had shared it. They said it felt “real.” She smiled at that, because it was. Every word she wrote now came from a place of quiet reclamation. Still, there were things she didn’t post. Words that stayed tucked between her heart and the notebook beside her bed. Words like his name. Like “still.” Like “almost.”

I raised a teasing eyebrow at that defensive excuse. " Against my better judgement!" Amanda hastily added, her cheeks increasingly flushed you'd think I was accusing her of selling amateur porn videos, starring her. " And I must say, literature is dying if that's what people are reading nowadays. I mean, why not write about world hunger or global warming? But what do we get instead? We get a whole trilogy of sadistic-masochistic sex. " " There's nothing wrong with masochists and sadists, Mrs Dawson,"

The night sky stretches above, clear and star-studded, a canvas of serenity that contrasts with the chaos within me. I've always found comfort in writing, and tonight is no different. The words flow from my fingertips onto the screen, a form of therapy that helps me process the storm of emotions raging inside me. As I jot down a few lines about my situation, the poem takes shape, capturing the essence of my pain and confusion. It's a bittersweet creation, a reflection of the tangled web of emotions I find myself trapped in.

"Today will be a truly inspiring day. I'll be having the privilege of witnessing incredible performances that celebrate cultures from around the world." He pauses, scanning the attentive faces before him. "I want to share something personal with you all," Ryan continues. "Consider it an inauguration. I have always had a passion for poetry. It's a form of expression that allows me to delve into emotions and stories in a way that connects deeply with others." Whispers of interceptions ripple through the audience as Ryan opens up, his words genuine and heartfelt. "Writing poetry has been a source of solace and inspiration for me. Today, I'd like to share a poem I wrote, inspired by moments of r