Handwritten Poetry Novels & Stories

Napatingin ako sa bintana ng lumakas ang hangin. Sobrang tahimik ng gabi at tanging ito lamang ang maririnig. Nagtagal doon ang paningin ko bago ako napabuntong-hininga at ibinalik ang tingin sa papel. Hinayaan ko na kusang gumalaw ang mga kamay ko. Kybelle the poet, was just blown by the wind. Kung noon tuwing gabi ay nagsusulat ako ng mga poetry, now I'm writing an article.

"That sounds like a worthy dream, Nimue." Encouraged by his attentiveness, I continued, "And… I write too. Poetry mostly. Silly, teenage girl stuff, really." "Let me hear one," he surprised me by saying. My cheeks flushed crimson. "No way! My poems are terrible. Trust me, you wouldn't want to subject yourself to that torture." He raised an eyebrow. "Try me. If it's a torture inflicted by you, I’ll find an oasis of sloppy pleasure inside of it. Somehow.”

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.

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.

"Today will be a truly inspiring day. I'll be having the privilege of witnessing incredible performances that celebrate cultures from around the world." He pauses, scanning the attentive faces before him. "I want to share something personal with you all," Ryan continues. "Consider it an inauguration. I have always had a passion for poetry. It's a form of expression that allows me to delve into emotions and stories in a way that connects deeply with others." Whispers of interceptions ripple through the audience as Ryan opens up, his words genuine and heartfelt. "Writing poetry has been a source of solace and inspiration for me. Today, I'd like to share a poem I wrote, inspired by moments of r

I propped myself against the headboard, switched on the small bedside lamp, and opened the first letter again. His words hit differently in the dark, with no other sound but my own breathing. …I think about the night you read Neruda aloud in the dark and I understood, for the first time, what poetry was actually for. I closed my eyes and tried to picture it: a woman, Clara, soft voice, reading love poems to a man who listened like the words were oxygen. I imagined Noah’s face in low light, the way his eyes would have tracked her mouth, the way his hand might have rested on her thigh, thumb stroking absently while she spoke of bodies and longing.

From what I picked up she is really into poetry as a way to express herself. I have collected about 100 poems that I have suspected were written by her because of the penmanship. But because the topics were always different and weren’t related to one another it never made sense. And now that I am looking at it from a point of view of this whole reincarnation it might make sense. Every poem is based on the lives she lived every time when she was reincarnated. Obviously somehow she might have picked up on a few things and left clues. In one of the poems, she left behind there was a riddle behind the paper.

Adrian read aloud from a well-loved paperback filled with poems she discovered beneath forgotten journals. The poems were archaic, formal in tone, yet they resonated profoundly with both of them. Occasionally, Adrian would pause—not to turn the page, but to simply gaze at her. There was no calculation in his look, no worries—only awe and a quiet sense of gratitude. She remained silent, intertwining her fingers with his, allowing the lines of the poems to express what needed no words. As evening approached, the house glowed once more. The sun sank low in the sky, casting warm golden rays through the nursery windows. Dust motes spun lazily in the air, catching the light like the tiny constella

"It's not as organized as yours." She signed: "Can I read it?" He looked at the notebook for a moment. Then he passed it across. She read. His handwriting was smaller than she expected — compressed, the letters efficient rather than expressive, the handwriting of someone who thought of writing as a container for content rather than as its own kind of expression. The entries were dated but not regular. Some months had nothing. Some had several entries in the same week. The content was honest in the way she recognized as the mode he used when he was writing for himself rather than communicating — no performance, just the unmediated thought.

Her work at the local bookstore, once a mundane routine, now felt infused with a sense of meaning. She found herself drawn to the poetry section, her fingers tracing the spines of books she had never explored before. She discovered the delicate beauty of Emily Dickinson's words, the raw emotion of Sylvia Plath's verse, and the lyrical prose of Langston Hughes. Each poem, a window into a different soul, resonated with her own experiences, her own struggles and triumphs.