Love Poem Books Novels & Stories

An hour later, after searching for anything to help us within books that ranged from brand new to hundreds of years old, I huffed with disappointment and decided to stretch my legs; my pale finger trailed over the spines of books, dust painting my fingertip. Once I reached the poetry section, I smiled brightly. All around me were books from Silvia Plath, Edgar Allan Poe, Emily Dickson, Robert Frost, and many others that were like my old friends. Taking a random book off the shelf, I flipped through its contents. "(...) Sing your death song, and die like a hero going home." ~ Tecumseh "You enjoy poetry too?" A familiar voice spoke behind me, making my heart speed up as I jumped slightly. Turn

To her dismay, Jane found herself walking down the hall to English with Lucy by her side, still talking, talking, talking. "I didn't know you were such a big reader, Jane," Lucy said, smiling at her. "I guess because your book-report books are always so short. But length isn't what matters in a book. I love a lot of short books, too. Just look at poetry. A poem can be any length. There are millions of wonderful poems that are only a few lines long. Like Emily Dickinson's poems. She can say more in two lines than most people can say in a hundred pages. What part are you up to in A Tale of Two Cities?"

The observation hung between them, raw and unspoken. Clarisse plucked a slim volume from the shelf—Sappho’s fragments, its cover worn soft by time. "My favorite," she said, tracing the spine with that finger. "She wrote about love in broken pieces. Like us." She didn’t look at Amara, but her words landed like stones in still water. Like us. Amara reached for a book on her own—Machiavelli’s The Prince, the Italian edition she’d read on the jet. Her fingers brushed the scar on her wrist as she opened it, the silver line catching the dim light.

I noticed he had categorised his books according to genres: Fiction Politics Classics Poetry History Romance Wow! I hadn't imagined him to have such a wide variety of books. It seemed like he was an avid reader. My fingers brushed against the leather-bound spines of the books. Most of them appeared to be limited editions from their paper and bindings. I passed through the poetry section. Selected Poems by John Keats Tennyson’s Poetry So many classic poetry books. I continued forward. Lord of the Rings War and Peace Frankenstein

The cover is worn and the leather is pealing off. I open it. Each page is all crinkled as if it's been used a lot. I look through the book. Poems? Each poem is so meaningful. Did she write this? INNER DEMONS: It's like a shadow in an eternal night It does not let you free it does not let you live in the light It takes you deeper into an endless tunnel It ensnares you with chains It pumps it's venom into your vains The darkness does not let it's prey go easily

She stole my breath away at that moment. She picked up the phone at the other end, her eyes urging me to do the same. “I’m planning on writing a book,” she whispered, still maintaining her friendly face. “Writing a book? Bitch, what the hell do you want?” I yelled, my eyes blazing with fury. What did her writing skills have to do with me? “The book is about failures. Guess who would be on the cover? You,” she said, her lips parting as laughter escaped them. I stared at her with rage, different methods of turning her instincts flickering in my mind.

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.

That she was just tricked by the Yamato's team. Well, though the truth transpired it was too late now, Clench never regretted to be with her in death. Well, it seems that it was already written on the book of life, where the love story they once built and was broken into pieces, reconnected again, between the tragic of Love and Death.

5 years ago, I was blessed to open a publishing house as well. E.H. Publishing has had success with multiple top-selling books, and awards. I am grateful for my success, and the benefits packages that accompany it but, were I being honest with myself, I feel empty. It has been several decades since I felt a woman embrace. I have tried, I have tried to move on but, soon all becomes dust in the wind and I have yet to find someone who touches my soul just as my sweet Eliza did. I will never again be able to see her, feel her again.

COWRIE He brought me a book the morning after our wedding, something bound in cracked leather, old pages smelling like salt and coal smoke. “It’s from the southern coast,” he said, brushing dust off the spine. “I thought you might like the poems. They’re written in three languages—two I know, one I don’t.” His voice stayed soft, hopeful. I nodded once, took it with both hands, placed it on the windowsill. The wind howled against the glass. I rose, smoothed down the folds of my robe, walked past him without a word, my footsteps slapping against stone.