Poem About A Book Novels & Stories

Rosemary’s Pov “I will eat later…” I say softly , offering him a smile. He exchanges a look with Xavier , but I do not stay for the lectures that I know is coming. Instead I walk to the entrance and sit on the floor in a crossed legged position – my eyes fixated on the fiery red flames that almost touches the sky. I sit out there for a while , enjoying the peace of being alone. At this moment , all I ever want is to be alone. I would often feel my stomach kick me with hunger , as my nose smelt the food that was cooking but I easily turned my attention back to the burning kingdom.

The cover is worn and the leather is pealing off. I open it. Each page is all crinkled as if it's been used a lot. I look through the book. Poems? Each poem is so meaningful. Did she write this? INNER DEMONS: It's like a shadow in an eternal night It does not let you free it does not let you live in the light It takes you deeper into an endless tunnel It ensnares you with chains It pumps it's venom into your vains The darkness does not let it's prey go easily

I force my feet to move towards the desk, where in the drawer I keep the box with all the notes. I pull it out and let all the notes fall to yhe ground next to me, as I try to gather them to form the complete poem. She smelled of books and stories Of all the worlds she'd lived within As though the ink had left the pages To find a new home in her skin She didn't quite belong here Lived a life within her head Like she'd slipped out from the covers Of a paperback instead And I'd see it in her eyes That they were deeper than a well

I pee a lot, and smelling and seeing things that are sensitive to my body makes me puke. "Liam, just leave the poor girl alone." Sydney stepped in and pressed those breasts of hers on Liam's arm. "Come on. The book is a room. So we are going to have loads of fun." Loads of fun, indeed. "Just give me a minute," Liam brushed Sydney off, making her pout. "Lily, are you okay?" I scoffed.

Sometimes, I driven by my own fear—unlocking everything away from what I should supposed to do, but I think fear will always exist in our minds and may ruin what we have. I suddenly remember that one book I read online few months ago. It’s a book that talks about the life of a high school girl who seeks thrilling experiences and confessing to her crush is the shameful guts she had in her life yet also the best one. She always sends him poems and I really like how her poems describes the man and her love for that man. “I think I saved few poems right here.” I murmured to myself, feeling the need to read I once again.

The librarian, a wise old man with spectacles perched on his nose, had greeted them warmly and invited them to explore the dusty shelves filled with ancient tomes. As Scarlett's fingers grazed the spines of the books, a particular leather-bound volume caught her eye. Its title, "The Prophecy of the Shifting Stars," called to her with an inexplicable pull. She plucked it from the shelf and dusted off its cover, revealing faded golden letters etched into the leather. Curiosity burned within Scarlett. She opened the book and began to read aloud, her voice barely above a whisper. The words flowed like poetry from her lips, resonating deeply within her soul.

The beautifully written paragraphs painted vivid pictures in my mind, allowing me to momentarily forget my own worries and immerse myself in a world of love and possibility. The book weaved a tale of sacrifice, forgiveness, and unwavering belief in the power of love. Each turn of the page brought me a renewed sense of hope, reminding me that even in the darkest of times, love had the ability to heal, to mend broken hearts, and to bring joy back into the world. As hours passed, my heart felt lighter, and the weight of my concerns seemed to fade into the background. The library had become my sanctuary, serving as the bridge between the harsh realities of life and the enchanting realms of imagi

Tendrils of flame, interwoven with threads of shadow, danced up the spine and around the back. There was something about the book—something unusual. It hummed in my hands, almost as though the pages themselves were vibrating, teeming with a life of their own. Reading had never been my thing, but I was desperate to think about something else—anything else. There was a cushy bench pushed against the window, topped with plush pillows that invited me in. I curled up against the cool glass, surveying the garden down below, as I cracked open the book. The words, ‘Property of Ismene’s Library’, were stamped on the very first page.

I asked, watching her. “Poetry?” she said, glancing up. “Yeah. It’s like someone put all the things you feel but can’t say into words for you.” I raised an eyebrow. “Sounds deep.” “It is,” she said, smiling as she slid the book back onto the shelf. “But I get it. Not everyone’s a fan.” “What about this one?” I picked up a different book, its cover adorned with an abstract painting. Rosa took it from me, flipping through the pages. “Hmm. Not bad. Maybe you’re learning.”

“There’s something calming about being in here at night. Like the books are whispering stories only the moon gets to hear.” That made me smile a little. She had such a sweet way of seeing the world. Then her gaze landed on me again. “What about you? What brings you here this late?” Panic rose in my throat again, but I pushed it down. I couldn’t tell her about the book. I couldn’t tell anyone—not yet. Especially not when I didn’t know what the book truly was or what it meant for me. So I smiled again, forcing my voice to stay light. “Same as you. Couldn’t sleep. Just figured I’d look around. Maybe find something interesting to read.”