Laughter Poetry Novels & Stories

She could feel them both like tides crossing, not drowning but deepening. His laughter surfaced for a breath, breaking through his intensity like sunlight through canopy. “I’m supposed to say something poetic,” he murmured, forehead resting against hers while his thumbs traced circles high on her hips. “Can’t think of anything except mine.” “That’s a poem,” she said. Her smile stung her cheeks. “You barbarian.” “Come here and teach me the stanzas,” he said, and then there wasn’t any more talking for a while.

"Would you like to take a walk in the garden? The greenhouse is nice, but the outdoor paths are open to us today." "I’d love to," I said, closing my book. We walked out into the sun-drenched gardens. The air was crisp, but the sun was warm on my shoulders. As we walked, Darian began to talk about Southern poetry. "In the South, we believe that words have their own scent," he explained as we passed a row of blooming lilies. "We have poets who spend their entire lives trying to capture the feeling of the first rain after a drought. They use a structure called 'The Golden Verse'. It’s patterned, like a heartbeat."

[haiku] i think i'm in love with a man drunk on the moon i think he's a wolf Continue reading... King Panda Aug 2017 pillow talk a crocus opens and closes with the stream of midnight moon. the playmate of exhaustion crosses the room in his heavy, black boots to close the curtains. goodbye, light. goodbye, pride of lions and boy transformed into a werewolf. a scratch of larceny, the cuddle of maple leaves rotting, the magnet spinning in rocket-ship orbit. all secrets held in feathers, in hair compounded

He sat feeling uncomfortable, he wondered what Sarah was up to. "Ryan, Incase I die, do not weep by my grave." "How...like what do you mean?" He looked at her perplexed. "Do not stand at my grave and weep I am not there; I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond glints on snow, I am the sun on ripened grain, I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning’s hush I am the swift uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circled flight.

Insecure shoes often obscuring the walls, the sonata of chemicals likens heads to garage tires you’ve spared for cool household principles. I bet you look down, look down so hard to catch the open light unfurling, like a beef falafel surprising schoolchildren from Bandra, Mumbai I earn a living by re-counting poetic lines and make them smell of cardamom. Carton-shroud livelihood makes a statement. To live comfortably is to fall in love with euphoria: 100%. Sweetheart of lies—

I sighed, searching through my mind on what Lazarus might like. Lila perks up, jumping on her feet with excitement. “I know, I’ll write him a poem.” Lila was a passionate poet, and I’ve read some of her poems, she was brilliant and managed to display the magic of lyricism. However, her poems about love were utterly abysmal. It’s clear that she hasn’t experienced love and therefore drew inspiration from what’s perceived on the outside instead of what she felt deeply in her heart. If she submitted her poem on love, especially for a man she didn’t like, she would be made into a mockery.

Larry's tender kisses in the morning light were not mere rituals but a proclamation of love, a promise that the dawn held hope even in the face of uncertainty. Their love, weathered by the storms of adversity, emerged not as a fragile blossom but as a resilient bloom that found strength in the most unlikely of places. Larry and Sophia, in the throes of life's unpredictability, discovered that the profound beauty of their connection lay not in grand gestures but in the exquisite simplicity of shared moments—moments that, like fragile fragments of glass, caught the light even in the darkest of times.

Clara’s POV The laughter stopped the moment I walked in. I walked to the desk and dropped my bag on it. "Good," I said. "You already know how to be quiet. We're ahead of schedule." Nobody moved. "Literature," I said, pulling out the poetry anthology. "We’re finishing the poetry unit. Lady Lazarus by Silvia Path." I placed the book on the desk and looked at the class. "Someone tell me what it's about." Nobody responded.

After the interrogation that day, fuck had a grown woman like me craving, but since there was no cock around and no vibrator, I had to use my fingers to oh yeah that's the spot. When I was done with the masturbation, just then on my phone, a notification beeped in on my Facebook. It didn't seem like me receiving my porn, instead, it was a poem from someone with no profile picture or picture on his wall. His username says Mr Romantic and his poem read, I can never look at a drop of dew in a buttercup without beholding shafts of love in the retreats of your eyes In you there is unity; your face and form is a blend of perfect line and contour

she quoted. Your voice is like a bird, but everyone’s ears are bleeding. From the inside, your house shines and shines, but from the outside, you can see it’s built from bones. From out here, it looks like a graveyard, and the garden’s all ash. And besides, your breath stinks. We’re through. She remembered a poem she read by Ross Gay years ago and burst out into laughter. " The last line always gets me." She laughed harder, almost falling off her bed.