Beautiful Poetry Books Novels & Stories

Russell Samurai and Other Stories by William Meikle Stuck On You and Other Prime Cuts by Jasper Bark Poetry collections: WAR by Alessandro Manzetti and Marge Simon Brief Encounters with My Third Eye by Bruce Boston No Mercy: Dark Poems by Alessandro Manzetti Eden Underground: Poetry of Darkness by Alessandro Manzetti If you’ve ever thought of becoming an author, we’d also like to recommend these non-fiction titles: The Dead Stage: The Journey from Page to Stage by Dan Weatherer

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.

It was too late for them. There are weeping willows whose branches dip into the blackness of the water. All the leaves have been dropped into the slime that used to be clean water. Everything looks poisoned by this evil magic. I'm weeping myself for all the useless loss of life. I can feel it now. The source of all this rot. It's deep in the water. And there is only one thing for me to do.

I had gone there to get away and smell the aroma of bygone eras when nobody gave a damn about my last name. She waited in the poetry row, her hand sliding over a battered Neruda volume. Something inside of me stopped when I saw her before she saw me. Her beauty was compelling, like a flame that didn't need to roar to burn; it wasn't noisy. A ferocious yet frail face was framed by her dark hair falling in untamed curls. Sharp lines were cut by high cheekbones, which were softened by large, vibrant lips that trembled with ideas she didn't express.

Books that cost more than most people made in a month. But what struck me was not the expense. It was the attention. The fact that he had listened and remembered and cared enough to track down each specific title. I picked up a leather bound copy of my favorite poetry collection and found a note tucked inside. "For the moments when you need to remember that beauty exists even in pain." My vision blurred. The thoughtfulness was overwhelming in its sincerity and I felt my carefully constructed walls beginning to crack. A knock at my door made me jump. I opened it expecting Dante but found Catherine instead, her face grave.

“What do you read when you’re not being paid to alphabetize it?” “Receipts,” I deadpanned. “And warning labels.” He laughed. Not loud. Real. It landed in the center of me and spread warmth in all the places hunger liked to live. “Poetry,” I admitted after a beat. “The kind that cuts and then kisses the wound. Histories written by the losers. Field guides for plants that are trying to kill you.” “Useful,” he said. “Necessary,” I corrected.

I didn’t hesitate. I pulled Fifty Shades of Grey first (cliché, yes, but I needed an entry point), then The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty by Anne Rice, Story of O, a slim volume called The New Topping Book just to balance it out, and two anthologies with titles like Bound Hearts and Surrender to Me. The stack felt heavy in my arms, like contraband. I carried them to the my corner and hid them under the table. I sat down, and opened the first book.

"Show me. Show me who you are when you're not being perfect. When you're not trying to prove anything. Just you." He's quiet for a long moment. Then he pulls away. Goes back to the chair. Picks up the book again. "Sit," he says. I sit. He opens the book. Finds a page. Starts reading. His voice changes. Softens. Like the words mean something. Like they're important. It's poetry. Old. Beautiful. About wolves and moonlight and bonds that transcend death. I close my eyes. Let his voice wash over me. Let myself just feel.

I make my way through the aisles, my fingers trailing along the spines of books, until I reach the poetry section. I don't know why I'm drawn here. I just am. My body moves like it knows something my brain doesn't. I walk through the poetry section, line by line, shelf by shelf, until I stop. My hand freezes mid-reach. 'Pablo Neruda.' A whole row of his work, lined up neatly, my fingers pause over one book in particular. 'Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair.' I pull it off the shelf slowly, like it might bite me. The cover is worn, soft under my fingers, like someone's held this book a lot and loved it.

was lost in his own realm of words and wonders. The world beyond our little cocoon ceased to exist, leaving just the three of us enveloped in the fragrance of well-loved books. Yet, my gaze remained tethered to her, drawn by an invisible thread that wound its way around my heart.I couldn't help but wonder about the adventures unfolding within the pages of her book, mirroring the uncharted territories of my own heart. The tale was a dance of heroes and heroines, of love blooming amidst fantastical landscapes. It was a dance that echoed the silent rhythm of our own souls, an unspoken harmony that resonated in the hushed breath of the room.And so, I sat there, a silent observer of this symphon