Love Poetry Novelas e Histórias

my poem reads thus. ....... A LOVE POEM BY FETTY... I use to think love was an illusion and an overrated feeling of hopelessness I had this notion of how much of a hyped feeling this abstract thing was Infact, I downgraded this magical feeling and made it a foot mat Until I fell.... Falling completely in love with you made me realize every possible assumption of love is a reality And this magical feeling is taking me round the world in an instant You are the abstract fabric that kneads every bit of my heart and make melodious symphonies out of my heartbeat

HEER "I don't know what love is but what has happened to me, I swear I won't be able to live without you." God, if this is love then I would like that love should never happen to anyone. If it is really so painful, then I ask why these moths of flame give themselves pleasure in pain like this. Love is really like a burning flame that keeps wandering moths around itself. Get restless and burn in sorrow. I don't know why they let themselves feel this.

Nothing can ever change my love for you! Your love attacked my body and melted my soul. If ever two were one, then I plus you will be one. Your love gives more me more delight than a whole bag of gold. I will love you forever. Your love makes my world glow. It makes the sunrise, wi to blow and the r fall. This love is beautiful because even if the sun rises, the wind blows and the rain falls on me, my love will forever be yours. Your love sneaked up sleeves. Without any direction, it tiptoes gently, sl, owly and straight to my heart.

and if that isn't magic then I cannot say what is. Love is sweet, yet more as fresh fruit than candy or confectionary. Love is colourful, yet more as summer blooms than the neon lights of frenetic city streets. Love is steady and forgiving, yet more as the wise mother than the servant in chains. Love hears and speaks with the wisdom of the heart, with a sense of the soul of the other. In love we have our "forever home" and it gives us the ability to fly so freely, joyfully returning when each heart calls for the other's touch.

‘I will write to you,' she muttered briefly, Tilting her cheek for a polite kiss; Then walked away, nor ever turned about. ... Long letters written and mailed in her own head – There are no mails in a city of the dead. Robert Graves[6] Poets make maximum use of the language to achieve an emotional and sensory effect as well as a cognitive one. To create these effects, they use rhyme and rhythm and they also apply the properties of words with a range of other techniques such as alliteration and assonance. A common topic is love and its vicissitudes. Shakespeare's best-known love story Romeo and Juliet, for example, written in a variety of poetic forms, has been performed in innumerable theate

Forever bound by Tuberose's art, In the Fragrance of Love, we'll never depart. As I finish reciting the poem, my heart is filled with a profound sense of connection and appreciation for the words that have touched my soul. At this moment, I realize the power of Tuberose's poetry to capture the essence of love and evoke emotions that transcend time and space. With the book held close to my heart, I continue to delve into its pages, immersing myself in the fragrant world of love that Tuberose has created.

I lie here awake but I’m not one to pray, everything’s changed but now I’m okay. I’m rattled this time, can someone lift my chin, keep my head above water before I’m too deep in. I’ve never had problems, where do I begin, but it’s not a problem because I’m just being human.’ I had always liked poetry and this particular one actually got to me because I felt I could relate to it in a weird kind of way. “Poetry is light, poetry is love. That’s a poem written by an anonymous poet on i*******m. Pstar7….”

When our lips finally met, it was a collision of contrasting forces. At first, his kiss was measured, careful—like a formal obligation rather than an outpouring of desire. But then, as if driven by a hidden surge, his lips pressed closer, deeper. For a long, suspended moment, I lost track of time. His hand slid around my waist, pulling me in until I felt the solid warmth of his body. I could taste the faint bitterness of his aftershave mingled with something I couldn’t quite place—a complexity that might have been passion, or perhaps regret, or even sorrow.

"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."

He pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook, worn with age. He handed it to her without a word. She opened it. The pages were filled with handwriting, his, she realized. Neat, precise, but with a fluidity that spoke of passion held in check. Poems. Dozens of them. About light on water. About the curve of a woman’s neck. About the sound of rain on a tin roof. About grief that felt like drowning. About love that felt like coming up for air. She looked up at him, her throat tight. “You never stopped.”