Online Poet Novels & Stories

My chest tightened as I watched Flora walk away. Then, I straightened my outfit and went to my mother's company. That afternoon, I had plans with a few classmates to go back to my previous school and visit our teacher. While we were talking, I happened to scroll past a new post from Sean on his social media. "Walking around campus with my love again feels like I'm being given a second chance to clear my regrets for not being with her during senior high." When I saw the familiar background, my heart skipped a beat, and I left in a hurry.

Not as kids you'd like to insult or punish for not knowing Behind every poem lies a story and a great take on the challenges Life offers the Poet. Through his poems he shall speak of truth and hope. In every magnum opus is a deep never-ending well of doubts, curiosity, fear and mission to be heard and seen. If you must write a poem, you must always take it easy, feel the atmosphere before you go ahead. If you are reading one now, I hope you could find answers beneath your questions, answered wishes and a person to talk to.

"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.”

It's been written to death. "No, June is immortal," cried Emily suddenly, a mutinous sparkle replacing the strained look in her eyes. She was not going to let Mr Carpenter have it all his own way. But Mr Carpenter had tossed June aside without reading a line of it. "'I weary of the hungry world'--what do you know of the hungry world?--you in your New Moon seclusion of old trees and old maids--but it is hungry. Ode to Winter--the seasons are a sort of disease all young poets must have, it seems--ha! 'Spring will not forget'--that's a good line--the only good line in it. H'm'm--Wanderings--

You should see hers. He reads it out, in a voice worthy of Television, as though he were standing before an audience. The poet can be poem-less. The writer, word-less And the warrior sword-less. With you, I am not lovel— "Okay, " I say "that's enough for one day.".

Her tears at that time falling for me felt like a huge universe gifted my way which I was ever ready as I could be to grasp tight. I was a fucking moron to hurt her time by time. I wanted her with me. Her heartbeats to synchronize with mine. She was it for me and I wanted myself to be it for her. But not anymore. \'''If I were a poet I would write sonnets Dedicating to your beauty with utmost honest! If I were a priest! I would preach your love with utmost sweet! But Alas! I'm none of the above In your world, I am just a wild beast!'''/