Maybe A Spoken Word Poem Novels & Stories

"Today will be a truly inspiring day. I'll be having the privilege of witnessing incredible performances that celebrate cultures from around the world." He pauses, scanning the attentive faces before him. "I want to share something personal with you all," Ryan continues. "Consider it an inauguration. I have always had a passion for poetry. It's a form of expression that allows me to delve into emotions and stories in a way that connects deeply with others." Whispers of interceptions ripple through the audience as Ryan opens up, his words genuine and heartfelt. "Writing poetry has been a source of solace and inspiration for me. Today, I'd like to share a poem I wrote, inspired by moments of r

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#MarriedButAlone #IMarriedACheater #PagesI’llDeleteLater “What is this? A pity poem?” I spat with a scowl, “Who the hell wrote this?!”

She couldn't believe how childish she was to be doing something so superstitious. " It's a surprise." Mr Theo teased. " Tomorrow it will be announced." The whole class booed him but he did not care. "Open you books to page thirty five." Mr Theo instructed. " Today we will be doing a poem . It's called petals. Ella please can you stand up and read the poem."

“When the city is quiet like this. It’s a good way to… think.” “Think?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “About… life, routines, things that get lost in the week,” he said, shrugging slightly. His voice was casual, but there was a softness to it, an unspoken invitation to notice him paying attention to more than the surface. I looked down at my shoes, suddenly conscious of my own movements. “I usually just walk to get coffee,” I admitted. “Maybe pick up groceries. Nothing poetic like thinking.” He smiled, and I caught it. It was the kind of smile that doesn’t need words to make you feel acknowledged. “Poetry can happen anywhere,” he said.

“Since you are going to be editing my crap anyway, you might as well have your own copy to work with.” “It doesn’t have to be a sappy love poem. It could be something that is personal to you. I mean there might not be any sexual poetry, but there might be one that compares a woman to a motorcycle or something,” Anna says with a soft smile and takes the poetry anthologies from him. She automatically opens the book to the table of content pages. Zack’s eyebrows raise at her suggestion, the idea of finding a poem that speaks to his rougher tastes suddenly feels more appealing. A motorcycle comparison– now that is something he could get behind. “You think there is poetry about motorcycles?” he a

------------ "And I pick myself up And I dust off the words You tried to stick me with 'Cause I know words are words Angry little vowels And conscientious letters Surrounded by derogatory question marks And accusatory exclamations. And at the end of the day I remember words are power (But only power if you believe them) So I pick my vowels and my letters And I stick myself with my own word: Strong I am Strong.." -----Raven White

; Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there; I did 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 uprising rush Oh quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there; I did not die. After the poem, I went on to give a speech about the people I had once called my family. As I spoke, my mind was invaded with several memories of our time together. I could almost see, hear, touch and feel their presence as I went off track.

The poem is titled 'SPEAK TO YOURSELF' and it reads thus. ******************************************************* 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. "

She looked at him dumbfounded, but he was looking ahead at the road. Did he realize what he just said? She wanted to ask but didn’t really know how. Maybe he didn’t mean it. It was just a figure of speech. It didn’t take long for them to reach his apartment, but it felt like hours of excruciating silence to Kiara. She was not one to dwell on words and feelings, but then again, she was not used to those particular ones.