Novel & Cerita Handwritten Poetry

“Let’s see it.” I turned the paper over, and revealed the poem scrawled in pencil on the back. Down the streets of woodland black I wander, earth to hearse In every tree I see a wave A looming tidal curse On the cusp of something greater Stood ankle-deep in floodwater Stagnant pools of brown and red The onslaught is coming; I dread For each dark night and each pearl day The mist does clear too soon The floodplain is drown’d again The water, torn from its ocean womb

Confused, I rolled my eyes and placed my phone on the dresser as I started to decide what to wear; pulling on one of Emrys’ tee shirts, that were long enough to kiss my mid thigh, I decided to waltz downstairs and helped myself to a bowl of bubble gum ice cream. Time flew by as I found myself getting lost in a collection of poetry by Sylvia Plath, her words of sorrow, shame, death, and self guidance clouding my own thoughts, making my mind dance with new ideas of what to write, and with sudden inspiration, I jumped up from the couch and sprinted into one of Emrs’ downstairs library. Passing rows and rows of books, I made myself comfortable at one of his desks and began to write. ~Touch my ha

He didn’t care whether he was capturing the appropriate photo or not. “How many poems have you done??” I asked. I reached for the paper where he had written his poems. I wanted to see it myself. “4 poems. 24 stanza,” he replied. “Wow!” I diverted my gaze to him, amazed. “Is this all you have done?” “Hmm.” “You’re fast! We haven't even written an hour!” I arranged the papers where he wrote his poems. “How ’bout you?” I looked at the paper where I composed mine. “Let's see how many I’ve got. . . ” I counted how many stanzas I wrote. “10 stanzas.”

"I pray that this missive finds its way from tiny, mousey hands. To those who chance upon this plea, heed my desperate call, For trapped within these cryptic lines, lies a fate enthrall." As I read on, my heart grew heavy with each passing sentence, the weight of the writer's desperation pressing down upon me like a suffocating blanket. I knew this 'song and dance' as it were. Alpha Gonzales had thought me how to read and in the process had used a litany of poems to do so. This was a poem - a rather well known one.

But when she slid the letter out, it wasn’t academic. It was poetry. Handwritten. Ink slightly smudged in places, as if whoever had written it had pressed the words too hard, or maybe their hands had trembled. She read it once standing. Then again, sitting on her couch. By the third time, her heart was pounding. There once was a girl made of moonlight and scars, who wandered too far from her garden of stars. She met a beast cloaked in thorns and fire, whose voice was rage, but whose heart… desire.

Darryl smiled as he walked toward the huge stone pillar. The nearly three-meter-tall pillar which had the words, ‘The Poetry League—meeting friends through poetry!’ Darryl held the brush as he waved and wrote his next poem on the stone pillar! “What are you doing? Security! Someone is causing…” Penny yelled but then she stopped abruptly! Someone from the crowd yelled, “This dude’s handwriting is great!” Darryl’s artistic and exquisite flowy handwriting was as good as a professional calligrapher. His family hired a calligrapher to teach Darryl when he was still in school. He had not written for a few years but could get back the momentum and writing feelings when he picked up the brush.

My tears rolled and crept down my face and landed between the pages beneath and on my chest. I take the corner of the cover carefully and hold it between my finger and thumb. I open to a blank page. I then keep on going and I see writing on all pages. "Poems." I breathe. Most are written in blank ink, some in pencil. All of them are drawn with a careless yet wispy style of writing. His writing. I keep on turning the pages in awe. My eyes can't keep up with the endless stream of words. I reach the end of the book.

Nova's Pov His grin widened at my challenge, predatory and full of dark promise. He pulled his hand from between my legs, fingers glistening, and brought them to his mouth, licking them clean while holding my gaze. The sight made my core clench around nothing, aching for more. “You taste like sin,” he rasped. “And I’m going to devour every inch of you.”

Never once saw her write in it when we lived under the same roof. And maybe that’s why I opened it because I had to know who she really was when no one was looking. The first few pages were harmless: sketches of our mother, pressed flowers, notes about full moons and favorite songs. There were passages about Pack ceremonies, her dreams of being Luna, and even a half-finished poem about Tyler’s smile that made me sick to my stomach and ache all at once. But then I flipped deeper and the handwriting changed. It became sharper, rushed, less romantic and more deliberate. Like her thoughts had become too heavy to dress in pretty language anymore.

' If he hadn't read this with his own eyes, he really wouldn't have been able to imagine that the aloof and finicky wife of his would be capable of writing something so cheesy. All the same, he was heartened by this. After he read the love letter, Nathan was on cloud nine. He thought things over before looking for a pen and paper to carefully craft out a reply. His handwriting was like lines of soldiers, all straight and orderly. Poise seeped through the paper, making his handwriting very recognizable. He carefully printed each character in his reply. 'I am a light that has come from the cosmos light years away. I departed far in the past, braving thousands of years of changes in seasons, cr