Poems For Him Novels & Stories

For me you are just ordinary, not a romantic figure Not a single poetic figure When I'm by your side I feel comfortable When you go there is a little miss that fairy For me, you are a friend, a friend in times of joy and sorrow Your presence makes me smile, all tiredness and confusion in the chest are gone You are a simple person, face the day with a smile 1000 prayers for you my love, healthy body, healthy also your sustenance Choose you with prayer, string hope with bismillah Wading together, getting to know each other from time to time, both in joy and in sorrow Love poetry will not be able to say, love poetry will flow by itself. SINTIA

He gave her his widest grin and pecked her lips this time around. "Hmm, lemme pour my own new poem for you. It's a lonely night Silently watching the heaven above that has no gap Quietly wishing it also has the small crack That is separating my heart from being one and whole The stars are getting acquainted to each other Helping the other twinkle And I wish they'd look down at me and flicker the dying Light in my soul and bring it back to life Still watching as the old dry palm branch shaped moon Slowly drifts down to the appointed term

I say, my voice still thick. He grins. “Mechanics aren’t just for fixing engines, you know. I did go to uni once. Dropped out halfway, but I wrote a lot back then.” I chuckle softly. “You? In uni?” He leans closer and points at one of the poems. “This one. I wrote it after I heard you crying in your room the night after your first chemo.” He starts to read. His voice is untrained, but there’s something gentle about it.

Really looked. “I wrote them so I wouldn’t forget who I’m promising to love. Not who I imagined. Not who I remember. But you, as you are now. The version who sometimes cries at movies. Who holds her son like he’s the last star in the sky. Who forgave me before I forgave myself.” I leaned into his shoulder. “And I love the man who wrote those words. Not for the poetry. But for the truth.” He wrapped his arm around me. We didn’t speak again for a while.

Damian's meat soup was very appetizing, Sira shamelessly added more portions and made Damain even more happy because he had succeeded in making Sira recognize his meat soup. The poetry accompanied by the rhythm continued to chant, making everyone immediately carried away by the atmosphere. “Together we face time, Stormy waves, and the noise of the world, You are the harbor of my heart, Where my soul always feels at home. Every second beside you, Is a priceless gift, I want to frame each of your smiles, In an eternal memory, in an unraveling mind. Under the secretive night, We carve endless stories, With love as ink, And heart as sacred paper.

“You don’t know who you’re talking to.” “Oh, I know exactly who I’m talking to,” she shot back, her lips curling in disgust. “Sweet Poison. The girl who records lecturers, frames them, and laugh while their careers burn. How many have you destroyed already? Five? Six? And now you’ve moved on to my fiancé?” Fiancé.

The heat of the afternoon sun was nothing compared to the slow-burning fuse lit deep within Orion’s chest. As he navigated the manicured lawn, his presence acted like a tidal wave, parting the sea of socialites and businessmen. People reached out to touch his sleeve, to offer a handshake, or to pitch an idea to the youngest CEO to ever dominate the national market, but Orion moved past them with the single-minded focus of a heat-seeking missile.

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."

I walked towards him and gave him a hug, “He’ll be fine soon. Don’t worry.” “A-are we?” he asked, a bit hesitant. “Yes. Don’t worry,” I said. He hugged me back. I missed him and I want to think that he hugs me back because he misses me too but I couldn’t take off the thought that this is for his father. I shouldn’t hope for us. I should be content that I can love him this way. I should be fine even though he would never see my love for him. Maybe, this is enough and I shouldn’t complain. Maybe.

said he, low and rough around the edges. I blinked, caught off guard. "Yes, and you are?" He gave a small, humorless smile. "Just someone who admires your work. I've followed your art for years. Controversial stuff. Lust. Desire. Sin. You paint what people are too afraid to say." There was something about the way he spoke that always seemed to tighten my chest. He was not flattering me; he was confessing. "Thanks," I muttered as I finished yet another drink.