Poem About Me Novels & Stories

Not as something other. I believe there was a poem like that, by the same writer whose book I read at the pool last summer. I don't remember anything else about it. But it had to do with a desert. I wouldn't mind a desert swallowing me. I don't fear that oblivion, that edge of the horizon. "I highly doubt it," I reply flatly. Jack and Ves look hurt. But I'm not going to lie and say maybe. I am a liar. So maybe I should lie? But I have no integrity because I'm evil. So I don't have to be cohesive.

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?

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 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.

“That’s mine. Where did you get it?” “You left it. In the garage. During the tour.” "Give it back."My voice comes out strangled as I speak. "I read it," he says quietly. My face goes hot. Then cold. Then hot again. "You what?" "I’ve read your poetry, Soren." I want to die. Sink into the floor and cease to exist. Those poems are private. Personal. Some of them are about things I've never told anyone. About what I yearn for. About feeling invisible. About craving someone I shouldn’t want.

"He'd better! If he's unhappy with you, I'll stop calling him my brother, too." Jack quickly stopped her and said, "Stop saying such nonsense..." Finally, my appetite was gone as I put down my fork and knife. In my previous life, I had been physically abused, and I had been starved to the point of becoming a bag of bones. Now that I finally had a warm meal in front of me, I could not help but eat a little more. If I had known this would happen, I would have gone to the company with my mother earlier. "I'm full. Enjoy," I said.

If you can only remember everything your family said to me, that was nothing. But after years of focusing on the things that made me sane in this insane world, I'm still not good enough for you. Well, I will never be enough and deserve you. You are Elroy Santos. You ought to do great things, while I am just a nobody writer with her imagination as her weapon.

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?

"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.”

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.