Maybe A Spoken Word Poem Novels & Stories

I took a sip from the glass of water on the left side of the table and then went back to writing again. To write poems is not just to write. You need to put magic in every word you'll write and you need to make sure that the readers will be in a different place with they read your pieces. Poetry is not just about rhymed words. It's about exposing the thoughts you can't speak. Writing is the only way I can let my self escape aside from its twin-reading.

I said in rhetorics with a smirk flickering on my features. "And isn't poetry a phantom script that measures and unveils the camouflaged," he added as we walked, our concentration rapt solely now in the discussion. "Ah! Now you're clearly just rigmaroling with your hefty words," I voiced and the faint rumble of a laugh rising heartily from my chest was not far off. "But Lade jokes aside, what motivates the need to be treading this line if you're not even facing the struggle and fighting the avalanches relentlessly?"

“Spout poetry ? You don’t think very highly of poems” “I have a difficult time following them. Words don’t always mean what they are supposed to mean. They are not always in the right order. They circle about”. “You prefer things straightforward”. He gives a slow appreciative nod. “I do”. “I enjoy poetry. Even when I can’t figure out exactly what the poet is saying, I like the way the words flow, especially when read aloud. I believe poetry must be read aloud in order to be truly appreciated”. “Perhaps if you read it to me I will grow to appreciate it”. He says softly.

You cannot encounter disharmony that no one can speak, but you can pass by unaffected. This is our dream. This is our belief. Remain silent in speech. Let words think deep. Speak to the storm. Let there be then a war between you and disease. You win, you win. You for cannot give in. You for cannot doubt yourself. Even if you know you have a real limit, you need to shine. Shine is also of the bread that speaks little but fulfills life need.

had crafted a peculiar poem that, in its eccentricity, managed to evoke a faint smile from Maddy. "A bear hugging a jar of honey flies surrounding a pile of dung, you are the most beautiful pearl in the world, I have been peeking at you as a dung beetle since a previous life, without you, I wouldn't know what beauty is, you are the treasure that makes a dung beetle delusional." The whimsical nature of the poem provided a momentary reprieve, a diversion from the heartache that lingered in the room. However, the distraction was short-lived as a video call invitation from this peculiar "Annoying Genius" appeared on the screen.

“I'm in second grade and I'm here to showcase my writing talent.” “I wrote a poem about my mom. She's my first love and my best friend. And though she's not here yet, I want to recite this poem I wrote about her to you all so you all could see just how wonderful my mother is”, Noah said, his tone laced with slight disappointment. The audience exclaimed, “Awwwww” in unison, touched by Noah's sentimental opening speech. “This is for my mom”, Noah said, lowering his gaze to the script in his hand, ready to read the contents out for all to hear.

that's literally just milk and cereal in separate bowls. "Revolutionary," he deadpans. In the poetry section, he stops and pulls down a slim volume with a worn cover. Flips through it slowly until he finds what he's looking for. "Listen to this." His voice drops lower, intimate in the quiet space. He reads a poem about two people finding each other again after years apart, about second chances and choosing love despite fear. The words are simple but devastating, made more so by the way he reads them—slow and deliberate, like each line matters.

She crouched, touching a glowing letter. It pulsed once beneath her fingertip, warm and alive. > “The world’s writing poetry now,” she murmured. > “Or asking questions,” Adrian said behind her. He knelt, studying the lines. “They’re fragments. Conscious thoughts trying to connect.” > “Like a baby’s first words?” > “More like a symphony learning its first note.” The words kept appearing, vanishing as soon as the rain touched them. > “It’s thinking out loud,” Mira whispered. “We made a world that dreams.”

Those forgotten whispers Whose are they? She smiled as she read through her own poem. She could have used it for one of the assignments she had in the course, but now it will just sit in her laptop. She looked through her laptop and saw an assignment she never got to submit. She read through it and sighed. It was about environmental poems. Stating that environmental poetry is to influence and force the reader to imagine and feel the words on the paper in relation to the environment.

I titled the piece "SPEAK TO YOURSELF. " The article reads thus.......... SPEAK TO YOURSELF How often do you converse with yourself? How often do you speak to yourself? How often do you listen to yourself when no one is speaking? How often do you minister to yourself? How often do you truly embrace yourself, your pain, your flaws, your truth, your fears... SPEAK TO YOURSELF Say to yourself.... "Though I am shattered and bereaved and I might wither with the wind but like seeds, I can sprout out of the ground, new and better. "