Bpd Poems Novels & Stories

(don't) I wanted to apologise for the short chapters lately, just been so so busy But I promise you all that would soon change ,I'll probably post like 2-3times a day So just bear with me for a while okay? And if you liked those poetries I posted and searched for days and night (I just googled it but what the heck) Here are is one I found you'll really love Fragment of a Ballad by Elizabeth Siddal Many a mile over land and sea Unsummoned my love returned to me; I remember not the words he said

“They’re about private wounds.” Franc nodded, understanding etched into his features. “But shared healing.” They curated a small chapbook: “Places Silence Shaped Us.” Thirty pages. Each with a poem, a sketch, a truth. They didn’t distribute widely. Just copies in the studio, tucked among supplies and leaning against chipped mugs filled with dried brushes. One guest read the poem about Yam’s panic attack, fingers trembling slightly as they left a note: “Your chaos matched mine. I don’t feel like a puzzle piece anymore.”

The audience gets quiet, waiting to hear what I’m going to say. “This poem is called Unapologetically Me. We go through different things in life that cause us pain. We have people in our lives, who make it their mission to break us or destroy us, but we are stronger than that. So, I dedicate this to all of us who have ever been through heartache and survived.” Unapologetically Me By Lotta Patterson © 2021 You tried to break me, But I’m unbreakable. You tried to shake me,

I have reached a point where I no longer desire anything because I have everything I have reached a point where I can no longer move anymore because I moved everywhere I have became a pain to my flesh and a torn to my loins because of the curse I wear around like a cloak I am a Beast. I still don't understand how the old man's poem relates to Nigerian-Biafran war. He must be really sick in the head.

I guess I can't judge him right now because I don't know him at all. *** "Hey, Lizzy!" I open my eyes and see Soul at the end of my bed with a tray filled with food. My mouth waters at the sight and smell of the pancakes. I quickly sit up carefully and dig into my meal. I've been in bed for about four hours now, writing poems. My father wrote my mama a poem when she died. That's what got me started. Poems let you express your true feelings, but in a way that is so...unique. I wrote my poems ALOT when the abuse got worse through my teenage years. I used to cut myself, I used to totally hate myself. But as I got older I realized how everything I believed about myself was a lie. Caroline wanted

Just something to cool this fire in my chest. Downstairs, the kitchen is still and dark. I flick on the light, open the fridge, pour myself a glass of cold water. I’m just about to take a sip when my phone buzzes. Cass. Of course. She sent a poem. A screenshot of a tweet she posted, knowing I’d probably see it late. I open it. “You are not a vessel. You are the sky. You are the universe, and not just the broken stars in your womb.” “You are not your pain. Not your prognosis. Not the people who have tried to rewrite you.”