Online Poem Writing Novels & Stories

Sitting in the garden for hours and Vastria was only able to write a couple of poems she thought long and hard about. The first one she was inspired by the cool wind that kept blowing through the trees and flower bushes. She also thought about the element of earth and its connections. She then remembered the class she was in the middle of taken before being brought into this new world. It was an advanced nature/environmental writing and literature course. She wanted to finish the course, but now she could not. She still continued to write, nonetheless. The wind poem she came up with was written as such:

"Something you want but cannot have." Mr. Vance wrote it on the board in clean, unhurried letters, then set the marker down and turned to face us like he had just said something completely ordinary. He had not said something completely ordinary. "That is your prompt for the next two weeks," he said. "Two pages minimum. No genre restrictions. Fiction, personal essay, prose poetry — the form is yours. What I am looking for is honesty. Specifically the kind most people spend their whole lives learning to avoid."

This poem is titled Blossom. "The recklessness of youth led to the missed opportunities with the ladies. How I long to seek love, but there are no longer blossoms to be had." Smiling, he asked everyone, "Don't you think it's an excellent poem?" Griffin was sorely tempted to smack Dunley. Like hell it was! Just moments ago, he'd been deeply worried that an enemy was approaching. Who would've thought that Dunley simply wanted silence so that he could come up with a poem?

He gestured to the door. "I'm sorry sir, I promise to be focused." I whispered but I knew he heard me everybody did. By now everyone was whispering in the class about how I'm probably going to fail his course and all. "Better. We have twenty five minutes more before class ends. I want you all to write on a piece of paper a short poem, something short but with a lot of meanings." He said. Poem? I can't think straight right now, how am I supposed to come up with a poem within Twenty five minutes. Regardless I picked up my pen and started writing, I couldn't afford to fail this class.

By the time I walked out, the tension in my chest had started to ease. I didn’t want to go home right away. Instead, I headed to the small coffee shop just off campus. It smelled like vanilla and fresh pastry. I walked in and the barista grinned. "The usual, Nova?" "You already know," I said with a small smile. I took my latte to a seat by the window. The light hit just right there, and the table had this quiet energy. Like it wanted me to write. I pulled out my notebook and pen and just let the words come. No plan. Just lines that felt right. A poem started to form. Something about masks. Something about wanting to be seen.

"That sounds like a worthy dream, Nimue." Encouraged by his attentiveness, I continued, "And… I write too. Poetry mostly. Silly, teenage girl stuff, really." "Let me hear one," he surprised me by saying. My cheeks flushed crimson. "No way! My poems are terrible. Trust me, you wouldn't want to subject yourself to that torture." He raised an eyebrow. "Try me. If it's a torture inflicted by you, I’ll find an oasis of sloppy pleasure inside of it. Somehow.”

The night sky stretches above, clear and star-studded, a canvas of serenity that contrasts with the chaos within me. I've always found comfort in writing, and tonight is no different. The words flow from my fingertips onto the screen, a form of therapy that helps me process the storm of emotions raging inside me. As I jot down a few lines about my situation, the poem takes shape, capturing the essence of my pain and confusion. It's a bittersweet creation, a reflection of the tangled web of emotions I find myself trapped in.

'Really, I think there are people who want to reach immortality, or have it accepted. 'Well, all those shouldn't be your reasons. The companion has come closer, expressing your-self. The only reason you should write is because you need to. You know what Bukowski said, 'Don't do it.' The poem or story has to be for you without caring what anyone says.' I began to see nodding faces, including those of my two unexpected visitors, who were perhaps surprised at my approach. 'Okay, what topics is the poetry about?' A brainstorming followed, where some of the most typical ones emerged: human nature, love, death, the passage of time, suffering. In some cases it was pointed out that any element of th

"Which is exactly why I need to see your weak points so we could come up with a solution to help you get better." His blue-eyes scan the room. "Lost, love, hope. Good poetry isn't what we think, it is what one feels. You can't write a piece if it doesn't move you, make you feel. When it does-" For a shocking second Mr. Boyds lips tilted into a smile, as though recalling a good memory in his head. "Then that's good poetry."

He asked, looking at the booklet confused. "I was wondering if you could assist me with my poetry assignment, it's due tomorrow and I have no idea what to write." I muttered. "Of course, I will help you. What is the poetry about?" He asked, looking at me eagerly. "Anything. The professor didn't give anything specific, just that he wanted us to write a poem on anything." I answered. "Alright, let me come up with something quickly." He nodded and opened the booklet to begin writing. I sat beside him on the bed, anticipating the moment he would start writing so I could read it.