Novel & Cerita Handwritten Poetry

Frost whispered to Ethan. Once again struck by disappointment, Ethan tossed the fan to Betty and left. Frost took out his phone and found a photo to show to Mr. John. It was a small calligraphy work that Bianca wrote when Frost was at Bianca's house. The few words written on the small piece of paper were two lines of Shelley's poem: My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair! The characters were very delicate, although the skill was not deep, and it could not be called a specific style, yet it looked pleasing to the eye, with a leisurely air, and a quiet mood.

“Your question is a little silly. You may ask the people in the entire world of America. How many of them can’t write?” Alex said, “Writing words is not a big deal, but it’s a great talent for being to write poetry.” Eastern Emperor Mooncrate asked, “Can you write as well?” Alex was helpless. “Fine! I’ll write a few words and show you!” He did not use a pen, but he wrote words in the air with his finger. He wrote the strokes elegantly as his finger moved. “Most of the righteous ones are ordinary people engaged in lowly occupations, and those who act against their consciences are mostly intellectual ones!”

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.

The way the strokes bled just a little too heavily at the ends. My own handwriting. Lyra’s handwriting. The air vanished from my lungs. My knees weakened beneath me. I couldn’t breathe

Some were new, but most were very old. I pulled out a book at random. It was a collection of poems. As I opened it, a small piece of paper fell out. I picked it up. It was a drawing. A simple sketch of a young girl sitting under a tree. She looked happy. She looked free. On the back, there were some words written in elegant handwriting: *For my little flower. May you always find your way home.* The handwriting looked familiar, but I couldn't remember where I had seen it. I felt a strange pain in my chest. I didn't know who the "little flower" was, but I felt sorry for her. In this house, nobody was free.