Bpd Poems Novels & Stories

“I thought if I spoke, the world would break apart. Or I would.” The room was still. “But then I realized… silence was already breaking me.” A breath. A glance at River. “So here I am. Still learning. Still healing. But no longer silent.” She pulled out a crumpled page from her journal and read a poem she’d written years ago in the shelter—the one about sleeping on metal and dreaming of paper wings. When she finished, there were no cheers—just reverent quiet. And then, one by one, people began to clap. Not politely. Not as an audience. But as witnesses.

“Let’s see it.” I turned the paper over, and revealed the poem scrawled in pencil on the back. Down the streets of woodland black I wander, earth to hearse In every tree I see a wave A looming tidal curse On the cusp of something greater Stood ankle-deep in floodwater Stagnant pools of brown and red The onslaught is coming; I dread For each dark night and each pearl day The mist does clear too soon The floodplain is drown’d again The water, torn from its ocean womb

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.

"Every now and then I have these melancholic moments that are not good for my spirit, not right now. Luckily, I’m able to pull myself out of this state of mind thanks to my writing. Pouring my heart into my poems, writing about my pain and my anger, makes me feel good, it purifies my tortured soul. It gives me back the courage that I lose every time the only person left in the world who should love me, treats me as if I were a stranger, an instrument to achieve his goals." Under these words, Shawn saw one of Belle’s poems: If I was a simple candle, capable of gradually melting from one end to the other, without second thoughts, touched by some strange magic, I'd like to see my head melt firs

Here is a poem dedicated to this story by my friend, A piece of memory, a piece of my part, a piece that filled my empty heart. From getting bullied, to building my courage From leaving home to walking through the empty doors. Growing bit by bit, From step to step, Learning to live again by fulfilling my dreams, I say Years left by… Leaving my sight Never doing any wrongs Why the hell am I always wronged? Trusting you again Leaving the pains Why not getting it back in return Why am I always in the fault?

Could it be that he got fed up with me or he lost interest in me but there again if my own family left me why won't someone I met not long ago. Thinking of this I did not realize the droplet of water that flowed through my eyes . You never really know how much someone means to you until you loose that person . There is a pain within this heart, My pain within my sadness through my eyes, My eyes are like a burden that you can see right through, No pain I ever felt was that single broken heart that, There is way out of this pain but somehow I can't see it , See the light , the hope ,the happiness I once wanted to feel , Now I ever feel is this saddness , this pain, this heartache, A pain withi

Could it be that he got fed up with me or he lost interest in me but there again if my own family left me why won't someone I met not long ago. Thinking of this I did not notice the droplets of water that flowed through my eyes . You never really know how much someone means to you until you loose that person . There is a pain within this heart, pain within my sadness through my eyes, My eyes are like a burden that you can see right through, No pain I ever felt was that single broken heart that, There is way out of this pain but somehow I can't see it , See the light , the hope ,the happiness I once wanted to feel , Now I ever feel is this sadness , this pain, this heartache, A pain within t

As I scrolled down, I came across a photo. Her account was mostly filled with videos of her singing. She rarely shared photos. In this one, she was sitting at a table, hand on her cheek, gazing out at the sea. My eyes drifted to the caption underneath: They do not know, those who do not live alone, What fear silence brings to a person; How a person speaks to themselves; How they run to mirrors, Longing for a soul, They do not know. She’d shared a poem by a Turkish author.

Not blueprints,not classified files. He liked poetry. He said it made violence sound like a memory instead of a tool. One night, he read aloud: “We are not what we’ve done, but what we choose not to do again.” I kissed him softly,it was a toothless one. We don’t sleep with weapons under the bed anymore and Brio joins us on the bed now,he sleeps in the middle, snoring like an old man who once fought a bear….maybe he did. Some days we don’t speak at all until afternoon. It’s not silence, it’s peace. The kind you don’t want to break just because words are free.

"Now, can you answer my question?" "What is it?" Abby asked, shifting her head to look at Maria. "Have you ever read footprints?" "Footprints?" Abby's face shrank. "Yeah! It is a lovely poem. It is about God. I like the poem because it is nice and it speaks to me in a way that no other poem I have read have spoken to me. It gives me a sense of assurance that I am not alone and it comforts me and gives me security to know that i am never truly alone."