Broken Dreams Poetry Novels & Stories

And in the wind, I heard a voice, my son’s laugh, faint and distant. Waiting. I dreamed in pieces, not like before when dreams were just echoes of memory, soft and unfinished. No, these were jagged. Shattered. Flashing too fast to hold onto. Like someone had taken my soul and smashed it on a stone floor, and now I was crawling across the shards trying to put it all back together. A hallway, a child’s hand in mine, a golden room, a scream maybe mine. And always the Rift, pulsing like a heartbeat I couldn’t shut out.

Learning the rhythm of the house, the names whispered in the dark, the cracks in the system. I’m not broken. I’m patient. And when I move—when I burn this place down— I won’t be quiet.

But before he could finish his sentence, Christopher cut him off with an impatient tone, “It’s not her! She might be having the best time of her life with that man now!” Hearing him, I looked up into his eyes. Unsurprisingly, they were filled with nothing but hatred. I smiled bitterly. He wished for my death, yet I still had hopes for him. If he knew this body was mine, he would probably celebrate. Why did I still harbor such unrealistic fantasies? It was just like what Elizabeth said when she smashed my head against the floor while cursing: I was pathetic. My brother echoed Christopher’s words with a cold expression, “I agree. But Naomi is ruthless. Even if she’s dead, she deserves it.

My dreams become a realm of impossible freedoms, a contrast so stark against my reality that my heart aches. Yet even within those dreams, I’m running—running towards something elusive and undefined, something terrifying and beautiful. Freedom, maybe, or maybe just the illusion of it. But as my dream self breaks through the final line of trees and stares at the open sky, I know one thing for sure: I can’t stay caged any longer. And with that sobering thought, I drift into a restless sleep, caught between the world I know and the world I yearn for.

I no longer choose to dream because I start believing that it is absurd. Because what precisely is a dream? Is it like crumbled leaves and stems from a tree falling from the highest altitude and touched down on the rock bottom like shards of glass? I cannot put everything back together, having known that the coming years are a clouded reflection that I cannot seem to decrypt from afar as the fumes engulf me. But what must I do? In order to preserve your sanity, you must keep on dreaming. Unsurprisingly, I no longer have it. *** Unknown POV

My other self is walking towards me, about to crown my head with thorns of pain and beauty. Beauty through the pain, My other self is staring at me through a broken mirror. Mirror of my broken self, mirror of the broken soul She is screaming, Screaming silently at me for leaving her to decay. Leaving her lost, to burn To end. The end is walking fast. Moving like the wind Moving till I can’t see.

So honey I am now, some broken thing I do not lay in the dark waiting for day here Now my heart is gold, my feet are right And I'm racing out on the desert plains all night

Inadequate as you find me, this is my best, it is all that is left of a once a proud and strong soul - fragments on the floor, scared that the next wind will blow them away. Since your love turned to poison, my mind cycles through emotions faster than a kid flipping radio channels. I've gone from level to rocky - fighting a mixture of competing emotions, each of them vying for dominance. After the reboot of sleep I am calm, the day stretching ahead with possibilities - time to get jobs done, connect with friends, enjoy nature. Yet this coping is a thin veil over trauma and even the smallest of set backs change my emotional landscape. By evening the sadness wells up, uncertainty rushing to th

“Broken night?” Janice questioned. She had been led in as usual, and sat, still cuffed, across the table from Byron. “Hmm?” Byron looked at her, appearing confused. “That's what my mom used to call it when nightmares or something kept waking you up— a broken night.” “Oh,” now he began to understand. “Yeah, it looks like you had one.” “You could say that for sure.” “That's okay, I did too. I was dreaming about Lacey all night, Lacey and that damn snake.”

He froze, then looked down at his own feet. As if suddenly understanding, he took half a step back and scratched his head. “Oh... right. “I just wanted to learn how you talk.” Then he leaned his head forward again. “That way Victor won’t keep scolding me, saying I can’t even speak properly.” When he said it, there was no resentment in his eyes, only a little hurt. Like a puppy that had been kicked and still did not know what it had done wrong. Something in my chest suddenly ached. If Victor had not kept suppressing him all these years, Miles would never have been left with no way to rise.