Handwriting Poetry Mga Nobela at Kwento

“Can I see the letter she wrote?“ Massimo asked, Alex gave him the letter. He looked at it and a smirk pulled up on his lips. “We overlook certain details at times in life even though it is staring at us in the face with a bride smile.“ He chuckled, leaving Alex confused. “What does that mean?“ Alex asked. “Is this Laura's handwriting?“ He asked looking at the letter. “Yes, it is, there was a time she wrote a poem because Kimberly asked her to.“ …….Flashback….. Kimberly picked up a pen and paper and rushed to Laura's side, “Mummy let's write a poem together.“ She looked at her with puppy dog eyes. “I don't know how to write a poem, I have never liked that genre of literature.“ She carried Ki

Or maybe, she felt the line was worth giving a trial. “If you don't take caution, poetry will rot your brain. What do you think of things like this?” He peered at the paper again. “You really need to teach these new poets how to write poetry. Of course, not for free." He hefted another scrambled piece of paper in his hand with forced cheer. This one had almost nothing written on it except a painting of a tiny blue flower and a little girl in the field. She watched him as he continued to read the scrambled papers one after the other like an editor trying to make sense of an author's draft.

The right slab showed, "Barns and silos, side by side, with harvests bursting down." The meaning behind the poem was very easy to pick up on. Anyone who had gone through formal education would know what it meant. Moreover, the Prewetts were a family of entrepreneurs. The poem suited their discipline well. But then again, the thing that attracted Cassian's attention the most was the calligraphy itself. The words were scribbled onto the slabs in one go in elegant cursive that flowed like a never-ending river. To Cassian, the calligraphy was aesthetically pleasing to the eye. Most importantly, he could sense the writer's domineering personality behind the words.

It doesn't go easy; it goes fighting to curve the tips of my lips, every step of the way. "So you are one of these "O thy flowers are blue, O thy bum-bum is brown people" ". I laugh myself silly. "What was that? Please tell me you were trying joking. Please!" I beg. "Like it or not that's what you poets sound like to me." He smirks. "You poets? Seriously? So I am now part of "you poets". Heartbreaking." I say clutching my chest in mock horror. "Don't take it personal." He chuckles. Then he goes back to squinting at the next scrawl. It's a wonder he can even comprehend my handwriting. Aunty Seedy jokes that my writing is "fowl scratch". You should see hers.

"After encountering all kinds of difficulties and experiencing all kinds of hardships, at the end of the day we will see the light at the end of tunnel!" The handwriting was engraved on the black land that had not been thawed. The nicks were very shallow and the characters were almost invisible. There was a faintly dark silver flowing light between strokes. They seemed to be frost on the ground. The light was flowing among strokes, locking a mysterious power in the handwriting. And even the wild beasts and devils with the most sensitive ears and sharpest eyes could not perceive their existence. They were part of a verse inscription. That was Ding Hao's unique way of inscriptions.

I said. I read my mother's poetry book for three hours. Her handwriting was in the margins throughout it. Small notes beside lines that had meant something to her, single underlined words, the particular things she had wanted to keep close. Her version of a private morning. Her version of holding what mattered in a form that would survive her.

First line, I’m still on fire, but today I’m choosing which parts of me burn. I wrote until my hand cramped. Ugly words, beautiful words, truths I’d never said out loud. I wrote about Adrian’s hands, Mom’s laugh, the way love and poison taste the same sometimes. I wrote until the sky outside turned orange and the house smelled like tea and ink and cold air. Then I closed the notebook, pressed it to my chest, and whispered to the empty room. “This is still my house. This is still my body. This is still my life.”

Dean Priest had seen it--Mr Carpenter saw it when she smiled at him across her desk at school. "She's left the childhood of her soul behind, though she is still a child in body," he muttered. One afternoon amid the golden days and hazes of October he asked her gruffly to let him see some of her verses. "I never meant to encourage you in it," he said. "I don't mean it now. Probably you can't write a line of real poetry and never will. But let me see your stuff. If it's hopelessly bad I'll tell you so. I won't have you wasting years striving for the unattainable--at least I won't have it on my conscience if you do. If there's any promise in it, I'll tell you so just as honestly. And bring some

After a few attempts of scrubbing them off, she decided to give up. 'I will buy an acid for this, my floor is ridiculously ugly.' She finished her painting and faced her school works. While bitting her pen, and formulating the answer. Her hand find paper, a clean paper, and started scribing letters. 'Blood runs down your vein, Faith scribes on your palm, Even your body is full of numbness Life goes on when it seems lifeless.' The poem was fuel to her. Every poem she wrote was a hidden story she kept. To avoid it from building up, she let it out through the ink of her pen.

And I would go back to being the invisible ghost who cleaned up after their horses. ​I opened a blank document on my computer, my fingers hovering over the keys. I didn't write essays when I was stressed; I wrote lyrics. Raw, unfiltered, cynical poetry that I never intended for anyone else to hear. ​Tonight, the keys clicked with a rhythmic, furious pace. But the words that spilled out weren't about my anxiety over the school hallways. They were about him. ​Golden paint on a cracked foundation, You hold the room like an obligation.