Booktok Poetry Novels & Stories

“Did not I finish my poem for him the day when he and I met? I review my notes. My draft for my first book is almost done now.” She suddenly went to her table near the window overlooking the city of New York near the park, a 30-minute walk away from her school. She got her “My Poem Notebook 3”. “I was wrong, I finished the poem already. May I read it again?” She happily thought as she scanned the first few pages. When she found the page she was looking for, she sat in a comfortable position and read. My Shining Armor The cascade velvet fabric stood in the midst, Nodded the waves of breeze brought in every leaf,

she questioned and I cleared my throat trying my best to bury my rising arousal. "Yeah, I'm good," . . . . . . . . . Hope you enjoyed the chapter ❤️‼️ Thanks for reading ❤️‼️ I appreciate every read, comment and vote ❤️‼️ . NB!! If you want to support me as an author the link is below and it is also on my author page, any amount is appreciated. https://ko-fi.com/honesty577 . Also, all the poetry in the book is written by me and can be found on I*******m at Honesty.577 please support. .

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.

I read the marked page three times. It was a poem about the sea. About standing at the edge of something vast and choosing to stay on the shore not because the water was frightening but because the shore was where the person you loved was standing. About how the greatest distance was never the one between you and the thing you were afraid of but the one between you and the person you had chosen. I sat on the edge of the bed and read it three times and held the book against my chest and sat with the specific feeling of being understood completely by someone who expressed it through the margin of a dead woman's poetry book rather than saying it out loud.

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.”

The tension in the penthouse has become a palpable entity, a third twin born from jealousy and paranoia. The black orchid has wilted, but its toxic scent still permeates the air. Voronin has sown a seed, and I feel its roots sinking deeply into me, intertwined with those that Sasha and Niko have planted. Eva A week after the gallery, a book arrives. A collection of 19th-century French poetry, bound in worn leather. No card. I open it to a page marked by a black silk ribbon. The poem is "To a Passerby" by Baudelaire.

“Be real. Let her see you’re willing to show up for the hard stuff, not just the dinner reservations and the compliments.” I stared at the wall for a long moment. Then, without quite realizing I was moving, I picked up the notebook Kate had gifted me months ago. The leather bound one with the stitched spine. I hadn’t used it. Said I’d been too busy. But she bought it anyway, said I might want to keep something “just for me.” I opened it, fingers hovering over the blank page. Sophia stood, giving me a once over. “I’m going to pretend I don’t see you becoming a poet in real time.”

Maybe even… sad. I clutch my chest. Not here. Not now. “Albert?” I look up too quickly, heart racing. It’s not Edward. It’s just Emon. But his brow furrows as he walks over. “You okay?” I nod, but it’s a lie. He knows it. Still, he doesn’t push. “I found something you might like.” He holds out a thin book, hand-bound, no title on the cover. “What is it?” He shrugs. “Some indie press thing. Local poetry, I think. The owner said it’s about being lost in your own body.”

“Something real. Not a memory of a party or a name of a person we both hate. Tell me something you see right now.” I looked around the room. I saw the way the firelight danced on the gold leaf of the book spines. I saw the dust motes dancing in the air like tiny, silent stars. I saw the way the shadows made him look younger, softer. “I see the fire,” I said, my voice low and melodic. “It’s dying down to embers, a soft, glowing orange. It looks like the heart of a mountain. And the books… they look like a city of paper, all standing at attention, waiting for someone to listen to them. And I see a man who is far more than the darkness he’s been handed.”

Darren had once told me that reputations were fragile things—but they could be made stronger in the places where they had once cracked. I believed him now more than ever. I bought two baby books—one for names, one for poetry. I kept them tucked in the bottom drawer of my nightstand. Not because I was hiding them, but because they felt like promises still unfolding. Some nights, when I couldn’t sleep, I read aloud from the poetry book. Darren didn’t always respond. But he always listened. Even when his eyes were closed. One night, I stood by the window in our bedroom, the curtains pulled aside, the moon painting everything silver.