Poem From The Outsiders...nothing Gold Can Stay Novels & Stories

"I am going to recite it now. I have never really understood the meaning, so you should take an attempt. As I spread my wings to the widening chasm below With the crimson and maroon plumage scattering low, It burst forth, and molten gold opened the jaws wide And swallowed up its home, burning down its side. Looking at the broken shards, that broke, as I fell, It reflected my vessel, red, maroon, and well, it was a patchwork, of broken fragments of skin And feathers, not much, and not looking akin And bold hues, and shallow, I know not what to think I have no home, I did, it went down in a blink. It hurts no less than had I been in there It hurts, where I stand, it kills me over here. I feel

Ask yourself it’s your employers. ...... I stepped out to the still night, inhaling the tangy scent of the beach. The quietness sent trembles in my innards only adding to the hunger I was feeling. The emptiness inside me was being transformed into emotions I rather not feel. I was outside in the world, free as a bird to the onlookers’ eyes but the truth was, I would never be again. I would be forever tied on an invisible collar.

His hand moved across the strings as he murmured words into the empty room: “You’re not a spotlight girl, No diamonds in your hair. You’re the quiet in the chaos, The truth in thinner air. Not glitter — gravity — Pulling me where I should be.” He froze. That line. Not glitter — gravity. He hadn’t meant to say it aloud. It had just slipped out of him, like the universe had tugged it from his throat. He wrote faster, breath unsteady, each lyric pulling the next one forward. “You don’t dazzle — you anchor, You don’t fade — you stay. You don’t shine to be noticed, You shine in your own way.” Images came to him: Jayla behind the counter wiping down the machine. Jayla’s hands placed gently around

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--

Maybe one day my talent will get me somewhere better in life. Ah ,grief, I should not treat you like a homeless dog, who comes to the back door for a crust,for a meatless bone , I should trust you. I should coax you into the house and give you, your own corner,a worn mat to lie on, your own water dish . You think I don't know you've been living under my porch. You long for your real place to be readied before winter comes . You need your name, your collar and tag, you need the right to warn off intruders, to consider my house your own and me your person and yourself my own dog . A poem by Denise Levertov.

He sat feeling uncomfortable, he wondered what Sarah was up to. "Ryan, Incase I die, do not weep by my grave." "How...like what do you mean?" He looked at her perplexed. "Do not stand at my grave and weep I am not there; I do 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 uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circled flight.

Later she would think it was both at once — the kind of thing that has no initiator because both people arrived at it from the same direction at the same moment, which was the truest thing about them, which had been the truest thing about them from the beginning: they kept arriving at things at the same time, from different routes, to find each other already there. The workshop was cold and smelled of sawdust and the chair stood in the morning light and outside the bright November day went on — the blue sky, the serious cold, the silver maples dropping the last of what they had to drop — and Eleanor Ashford stood in a workshop behind a gas station in a town she’d found by running out of gas

"Where are you going? We're departing tomorrow. How are we supposed to leave when you haven't packed up for us?" "Do you have no hands, or are you just useless? Even a three-year-old would know to take care of their own business—don't you understand it?" I replied. Mom choked. By the time she wanted to reply, I had already put on my shoes and walked out of the house. Since they liked Madeline so much, I'll let her have the role of the daughter of the Lewis family. They could deceive my emotions, but not my money. I would be a fool to let them take my money to support someone else.

**“The storm howls across the sleeping village, wind clawing at fragile wooden doors. Yet inside, a single lamp glows warmly, a quiet home untouched by the rage outside. The kettle hums gently upon the stove, and laughter lingers like a fading song. Who would step into the storm, when the hearth burns bright and kind? Who would leave the comfort of home, to wander beneath a sky filled with thunder? But beyond the hills, the banners of our country tremble in the wind. The land that raised us, the soil beneath our childhood steps, the rivers that carried our dreams— They call to us. Even when the storm roars, even when fear grips the heart, someone must step beyond the warm doorway. Someone mu

“I still have to find a way out of this place.” The words felt heavier than before. Because now… Escape felt harder. How do you run from a cage made of gold? How do you leave when everything around you tries to make you forget you’re trapped? I pressed my forehead against the glass. “I won’t forget,” I whispered to my belly. “I promise.” Because no matter how beautiful this prison was… It was still a prisoner. And I was still planning my escape.