Chaotic Poetry Novels & Stories

"Would you rather slow death through crystallization?" "I'd rather controlled chaos, not living randomness we can't predict or direct." "Contradiction," human Luna sang in mathematics. "Controlled chaos isn't chaos. It's pattern pretending." The creative force's prison shuddered. Through cracks that existed and didn't, we glimpsed what stirred inside—raw potential without direction, imagination without restraint. It had been imprisoned precisely because it couldn't be controlled, only channeled or contained. "If it escapes—" "When," human Luna corrected. "When is now. Now is then. Then is never-always."

"Look at you! You're... you! All tall and broody with those villain-in-a-romance-novel cheekbones and that morally ambiguous bank account!" He looked amused. "And you?" "I'm chaos in heels, baby!" she shouted, standing too fast and immediately gripping the back of the chair to keep the floor from flipping her off. "I am unfiltered Black girl magic with a highly suspicious sense of timing! I insult people by accident! And on purpose! And I have been kicked out of not one but two group chats for 'disruptive energy.'" Ren chuckled. "You say that like it's not exactly why I like you."

I watched as every member of Chaos’ family cut their palm open and make a trail of blood from where they stood to where the urn was placed without a hitch or pause in their chant. I felt the moment when a change occurred to the power flowing around and saw the exact moment when the urn went up in flames. The brighter it burned, the higher the chants went and the more it rattled. I held my breath when the lid of the urn flew right off of it as if kicked before it burst into pieces. Its bursting did not shock me as much as the phoenix that emerged out of it with its flaming wings wide spread and its head thrown back as it let out what sounded very much like a battle cry.

Sacha swore she could feel his abs through the layers of fabric tighten compensation to keep him upright. She wouldn’t have minded if it was not so hot, and she was not wearing full black and if he was not burning up himself on fire from the fever he was getting from the poison. A vulture hovered over head and Sacha could not help but think it was waiting get them. Waiting for her to collapse from heat and him from poison. Then it would swoop in for its feast.

It wasn't a fancy invitation but rather it was an invitation to dig deeper into the lane that led directly to the very core of the cruel and brutal world I had grown and lived in. Its appearance had drowned and distinguished any and every fire that had begun to ignite in my life. It was a rainy evening. Droplets of rain scattered across the windowpane and the rooftop like drum beats threatening to crack open my rooftop just as my bleeding heart threatened to break free from its cage rib. The rain, they felt my aching heart and troubled mind and I felt theirs. Each tap added its own rhythm creating songs of chaos but as it sang, so did my mind. Both mirrored the chaos that it had to offer but

Everyday that I see the sun rise is torture to my soul. Every morning that I wake up without Don by my side tears my heart into a million pieces. I don’t know where life ends and where death starts. They’ve both become the same to me. It has made me prisoner in this dark perilous place called my mind. I sit by the window every night and wait for the morning never breaks, but that even is too much to ask. This is my own hell. This is my own home.

He chuckles, picking up my hand he places it on his soft mouth and kisses my finger. “Is it okay that we’re so different?” I ask as he drives, “That we each have our own flavor we use to compliment each other? That you’re the calm in my otherwise chaotic life??” he asks, breaking into a Cheshire grin. I smile at him. “You have a way with words, and I love that so much.” Only he would turn a simple question into such meaningful, poem that brings ease to my mind instantly. “That’s reserved for you, baby. Just you.”

“But it was alone. The chord is complex. It has tension and resolution. It has a story. Which one feels more like life?” The crowd was silent, considering. “They are asking us to defend chaos,” Lyra said. “And that is hard. But we are not defending chaos for its own sake. We are defending the potential within chaos. The potential for new stories, new songs, new ways of being. The Pattern offers you a finished, perfect painting. We offer you a blank canvas and a set of brushes. It’s terrifying. But it’s freedom.”

she muttered to herself and then felt a pang of anxiety and sadness about her cousin's fate again. Cassandra leaned over the side of the boat and listened, too tired and befuddled to think or speak, the earth-dweller told her about the Chaotic Zones. How they blossomed suddenly when the deep core magic found its way to the surface of the World Beyond, bursting through faults to form Whirlpools of Chaos. How the Chaos spread in all directions from a whirlpool, which glowed in a multitude of harsh colorful light, and how it receded every so often only to burst forth again and flood the area anew. Sometimes, the Whirlpools left something strange and beautiful, precious gems and gold and rare po

Let the chaos of the night sweeten sin with a patchouli-embracing smell no dandier than a whispering ruba’i. Nobody has got this matter straight— Life... oh it’s the magical mystery kind! In the desert I could die loving the sand, the voice that touches the voiceless in every particle of dust, composed and collected, like the Eternal Painter. Where we come from and where we got to The Master of Fate wraps myths with the moon's squeaky hush, and sound to sound the rains of Iran shower