Booktok Poetry Novels & Stories

"What do you enjoy reading, Lord Pembroke?" "Well" He paused to think as they both studied the titles stacked neatly on the shelves. "I like a bit of everything. It's good to be well versed in many things, but I suppose I like a bit of poetry most, aside from novels." "Poetry?" Miss Beaumont's blue-gray eyes grew wide. "Most gentlemen of my acquaintance have no patience for poetry." "A pity for them. Poetry is a window to a person's soul. With just a few words, a great writer can move mountains. I read it when I need to find a place of strength." He realized he was revealing far more of himself to this woman than he had intended to.

The Duke wished for a simple conversation, an honest one, that was all. Beth sat at the table, holding onto a book of poems she had brought with her, absentmindedly flipping through its pages. The burning candle illuminated a part of the room with a faint glow and the fireplace kept it warm. It was nice and comforting.

Forever bound by Tuberose's art, In the Fragrance of Love, we'll never depart. As I finish reciting the poem, my heart is filled with a profound sense of connection and appreciation for the words that have touched my soul. At this moment, I realize the power of Tuberose's poetry to capture the essence of love and evoke emotions that transcend time and space. With the book held close to my heart, I continue to delve into its pages, immersing myself in the fragrant world of love that Tuberose has created.

‘Most likely he was a friend to Kelly, that’s the reason he didn’t ask for taxi fare,’ she answered her question. After a hard time trying to gather the pieces together, she got her only copy of Captured in a rucksack and refreshed her memories with her debut book. She read through the first eight poems before opening one on the twenty-third chapter. We are a group, a group of charlatans Far we came, and yet our destiny is certain; Such a long time our tears dried before they could be seen Those who saw them thought we were celebrating Yes time for eating and dancing is not afar off or lays in the distant imaginable;

It was the best kind of job for me, I loved it and I got paid weekly, enough to eat, after my first paycheck, I had spent a full week starving, I tried to ask for my money beforehand but my boss who’s the meanest person ever, said no. How could such a cold hearted person be responsible for one of the best places in the world! There was no sleeping with a storm outside, I was up most of the night, I was up early and ready to go to work, I was slipping but pushed it down as I got out of her car and quickly walked over to the bookstore. I walked over to the children's books area, I was thankful no one was around as I sat down in a beanbag after grabbing a few books to read.

“Mind if I read to you, princess of pain?” “Only if you feed me chocolate between stanzas.” He grinned. “Deal.” He sat beside me and opened the book with a kind of reverence that didn’t match his cocky voice. The poems he read weren’t romantic. Not exactly. But they had teeth. Rhythm. Rage. And something underneath it all that felt like devotion, buried deep. I listened with my eyes closed, breathing in the sound of his voice, the scent of tea, the ghost of Luca’s touch, the fading warmth of Nico’s fingers.

“ Okay,’’ the teacher signaled the people who were clapping at her poem before handing over my book. DEMI GOD Ye god of beauty, Ooh Israelite god lost in earth Ye is full of walking metaphors and perfections Your breath oozes love and makes beautiful flowers to blush Like a virgin caught in a midnight dance with bachelors Thou eyes glow like molten lave and hot coals, healing broken hearts. The girl finished reading my book and the whole class kept quiet, this was a big disappointment. The poem was only supposed to be one stanza, about love. The bully turned around and looked at my seat with a blank expression, he seemed confused, wasn’t it obvious, it was a poem that I had written for him.

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.

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.

I wandered between the shelves, fingers grazing titles I didn’t know, but somehow felt familiar. “You look different out here,” Nick murmured, his voice low. I turned toward him. “Different how?” “Lighter. Like you’re not carrying the whole world on your shoulders.” His words caught me off guard. I looked away, swallowing hard. I held up a small poetry book with a soft leather cover. “This one looks nice.” “Then get it,” he said immediately. “My treat.” I shook my head. “You don’t have to do that.” “I want to.” His voice was firm but soft. “Let me do this for you.”