Poem About Me Novels & Stories

Just something to cool this fire in my chest. Downstairs, the kitchen is still and dark. I flick on the light, open the fridge, pour myself a glass of cold water. I’m just about to take a sip when my phone buzzes. Cass. Of course. She sent a poem. A screenshot of a tweet she posted, knowing I’d probably see it late. I open it. “You are not a vessel. You are the sky. You are the universe, and not just the broken stars in your womb.” “You are not your pain. Not your prognosis. Not the people who have tried to rewrite you.”

The Poem When I unfolded the paper, I gave them the theme of the poem, which was "SORRY." Then I continued with the recitation. "Sorry, Do you know that I have been wondering? Yes, I have been wondering what my world would be like If I didn't have you in it. Now, it has become a reality that you, Yes, you—my beloved Cynthia—might be mad at me. Come on, Cynthia, you don’t have to be mad at Damian.

MASTERPIECE I'm not sure, What this is. But I write, Because it's to me, An escape, From reality. Believe in the stars, See yourself in the clouds. You're the most beautiful being, In your universe. You're the light, The one that overwhelms darkness. See yourself through the mirror, Of my eyes. You're the radiance, The stunningly extraordinary, The one often called ordinary. But you're different, Can you feel it?

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.

His voice had the quality of someone who had been sitting with very large news and still wasn't sure how to hold it. "You wrote twelve poems about living," I said. "About coming back to yourself. About what rooms feel like when they become yours." I held the phone. "Of course it was shortlisted." "I don't—" He stopped. "I'm not sure how to feel about people outside reading them." "What does it feel like," I said. He was quiet. "Like letting someone into a room," he said. "Not a room I'm afraid to show. Just — a room that's mine." He paused. "And people are coming in and they're — careful with it."

Tossing the covers off my lower body, I lift my body off my bed into my chair, settling myself correctly, unlock the brakes before wheeling myself into my bathroom to perform my morning routines. I guess I should introduce myself. My name is Jace Martin, I'm a 17 years old senior in high school. I'm the second oldest child of my parents five children. My parents are not together any longer, they went their separate ways when my mom walked out of our lives when my youngest sister Amelia was only 4 years old.

He will come again. I didn't know what to do, should I be happy because my other personality came out and now I can get a proper treatment or should I be sad because my other personality has found himself a mate. And I don't know anything about her. I need to go to the bank to get the money my dad sent me. I am working as a freelancer but I am also getting money from my dad because of my expenses and treatment.

Of growing up. Another poem-briefing came up when I found myself working from home for a period. How tiring. I'm so bored. What a sea breeze. Lucky I had a red wine. Well, the character in my poem, one of my most present alter egos, was not so lucky. She had children. Alexa, is that you?

The woman slammed her walking stick ones on the ground, bringing complete silence. “Pe mito mba’éichapa jaju, oguereko heta versión iñambuéva, ha katu pe añeteguavéva ha’e ñande jajejapo hague ñañorairõ haĝua peteĩ mba’evai ndive, pe mba’evai tuichavéva - añakuéra. Mávapa ñandeapo, ha’e pe ja’éva lobo sy. ha katu añetehápe ha’e pe tekove voi ñanemoheñóiva ñañorairõ haĝua ñemano ndive, ha katu ko’áĝa pe ñemano oguejyta ko yvy ape ári voi oipe’a haĝua opa tekove ha ha’e ñande profecía ñañorairõ haĝua lobo sy ndive peteĩ última vez.” The lady spoke.

She said in a sober mood. "Thank you? What for?" "For everything; for still being by my side even when it seems like the whole world is against us." She blinked repeatedly, pushing back the ocean of tears that clouded her eyes. "When I wake up every day and realize that I have you by my side, I muster the energy to keep fighting. Your love for me grows stronger each day; even when I don't deserve it, you still love me…"