Poem Cliche Novels & Stories

Blessings, on the other hand, come with an expiry date; if you can’t perspire and get what you want within the expiry period, or else blessings too, turn into clichés… …well, see, how philosophical I’ve become as I tell you about the first triple ride on our brand-new bike in a chilly winter morning up on a hilltop temple. That’s what clichés do. They make a philosopher of you when you don’t really want to be one. The temple wasn’t open for morning rituals yet and so our idea of sitting inside the hall and warm ourselves up for a while was of no use. We went to the backyard from where we could have a view of the city. All we could see was a thick layer of white mist shrouding everything in f

that you and I were amazing yesterday! — You know, this is too cliché! You're like those guys in the movies, in the books, who, when they have sex for the first time with the girl, they get all mushy and careful... — Nate, don't you know how to be romantic? — I ask, and look at him in a serious way, and he smiles. — I don't want to sound cliché, because I'm actually a walking cliché, so I think you better get used to it!

He flips through the pages with a skeptical eyebrow. “Cliché number one,” he mutters. “Rain-slicked streets. Cliché number two, ‘Her scent reminded me of regret and cigarettes.’” He closes it with a snap. “You can do better.” “And here I thought you were going to defend your people.” “What, FBI agents with tortured souls?” “Exactly.” His mouth curves with half amusement, half something else. He reaches into the stack beside us, pulls out a paperback with a battered spine. “Here. Try this instead. And I quit remember? My soul is smooth as glass.”

"Sail onward, ships--white wings, sail on, Till past the horizon's purple bar You drift from sight.--In flush of dawn Sail on, and 'neath the evening star-- Trash--trash--and yet there's a picture in it-- Lap softly, purple waves. I dream, And dreams are sweet--I'll wake no more-- Ah, but you'll have to wake if you want to accomplish anything. Girl, you've used purple twice in the same poem. Buttercups in a golden frenzy-- 'a golden frenzy'--girl, I see the wind shaking the buttercups, From the purple gates of the west I come-- You're too fond of purple, Emily." "It's such a lovely word," said Emily. "Dreams that seem too bright to die-- Seem but never are, Emily-- The luring voice of the ec

I asked. "Well, if you look at the format, it's poetic and you'll notice it kind of mirrors itself. See here?" He pointed to the lines on his phone. "The phrase one birth starts and ends the poem." "It's a chiasmus," I said, remembering a lesson on ancient poetry in English class. "Yes," he said with surprise. "That's an archaic literary device. You've heard of it?" I rolled my eyes. "I may be young, but I ain't dumb." It was a line Ruthie liked to use and one side of my mouth quirked up imagining her saying it.

"Oh, please! I'm nothing like those sickly annoying cliches the teenagers fawn about. Tell me one thing that's cliche about me, I dare you." I smirked at him. "Hmm... let's see." I thought for a while and made a show of counting my fingers as I started listing out. "For one, you're that cliched youngest billionaire, the most eligible bachelor." I made finger quotation gesture at that. "And oh, how can I forget the arrogant, rude, ruthless, cold, stone-hearted, cru-"

DeeDee said, clasping her hands to her chest. Ryden twitched next to me and I fought the urge to look at him, because I was pretty certain I would start laughing and not stop if I saw the look on his face. It was obvious enough the poem was about him, wasn’t it? “Shouldn’t poems rhyme?” I muttered. Stu glanced at me, and the pity in his face made me want to deck him. But I didn’t. “It’s so cliché for poems to rhyme nowadays,” he said eagerly.

; Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there; I did not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond glints on snow. I am the sun on ripened grain, I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush, I am the swift uprising rush Oh quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there; I did not die. After the poem, I went on to give a speech about the people I had once called my family. As I spoke, my mind was invaded with several memories of our time together. I could almost see, hear, touch and feel their presence as I went off track.

As a student of the dark arts, I’d have to say it was a stunning example of psychological manipulation — or it would have been except the fucker actually meant it. The fight went out of Claire and she threw her arms around Maurice’s neck and buried her face in his shoulder. She mumbled something. I love you too, You complete me, You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, blah, blah, blah... I don’t know what exactly, I was too busy trying not to throw up. What is it about sincere emotion that makes people suddenly spout cliches? And for everyone else to act like they’re hearing the greatest poetry ever? Flossie looked fit to burst with joy and had Dudley’s hand so tightly gripped in hers he look

Dunley Lewin, a hero among men, stands unrivaled above the land! Cassian and Griffin exchanged a glance before turning away at the same time. "What do you think of my poem, Cassian?" Dunley asked. "Is it not as remarkable as the ones by the bards of yore?" Couldn't Dunley be any less shameless? Not only was his poem filled with cliches, but the last sentence was even more shameless beyond belief! What was this nonsense about him being a hero among men and standing unrivaled? Why would that apply to the likes of him?