Poems From Books Novels & Stories

He’d been curious and engaged, and I’d lost that forever. He’d thumbed through my books, taking note of the dog-eared pages and reading their titles aloud. On the bed, I’d crept close to him, tucking my head beneath his chin as he read poems that I’d never been interested in hearing before, left abandoned on my shelves since school. In his voice, his chest rising and falling with the patter of the passages, the words had become art.

She asked as she opened the book – not understanding a word it says. “Poetry,” He answered. Faith raised her eyebrow and flip through the pages to learn, that it indeed was written in a way poetry is often printed. Something about the font suggested to her that it was handwritten. She couldn’t tell properly, but it was – then whoever wrote it had such beautiful and curvaceous handwriting. It makes her want to read it.

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These good hours that he/she would invest in a good read would leave a little smile on their everyday gloomy faces. After reading the whole series of Harry Potter I was aspired to be one of their kind. I even put the protective charms outside my room, to keep away all the evil and I believe it sort of worked. I grew up reading Shakespeare, Conan Doyle, Ruskin Bond, Agatha Christie, Jane Austen, William Wordsworth, John Green, Lemony Snicket and many such marvelous writers and poets. Though one may not be able to create stories or write poems, one can always entertain themselves by reading the enriching literature that lets you explore the world, without having to move your feet.

Lin saw many interesting books ranging from history, politics, poetry, postcards, etc. Lin was really wonderful of the capacity of collecting so many books in this book shop. When Lin looked at the owner, he noticed that the owner was a nice fellow. Lin started the conversation after browsing some of the book shelves. “Do you have any other books written by this author?” Lin showed the poetry book to the owner who looked at the book which was shown by Lin. He scanned it with his eyes, and said, “C. J Richards? Just wait. I think I have one. But it’s in the pamphlet series.”

I wasn't even able to see any particle of dust there. The carpet on the floor was so beautiful too. "What types of books you are reading?" I shivered as I heard Ibrahim saying while entering from the door. I smiled. "I am not reading anything now," I said. He nodded and said. "I was looking for you and one of your attendees said that you are here. So, I came here too." "Ohh," I said and asked him. "Can you suggest to me some poetry books?" He nodded and we both started exploring the library.

Damn… I couldn’t help but feel a little excited and nervous all in one go but ohh goodness help me! “Um Yea sure, you can hang for a bit if you want." I opened the door wider and moved for him to come in, then shut it and locked it behind us. I sat back on my bed and grabbed my book as he sat beside me "what you reading then?" "well… it’s actually a book full of romantic love letters and poetry that lovers would send to each other during the war but the way they speak to each other, the love and feelings that are put into each letter, It’s amazing, like no matter how far away they are or how long they have to stay away... it’s like they know that no matter what, their love will bring them b

The cover is worn and the leather is pealing off. I open it. Each page is all crinkled as if it's been used a lot. I look through the book. Poems? Each poem is so meaningful. Did she write this? INNER DEMONS: It's like a shadow in an eternal night It does not let you free it does not let you live in the light It takes you deeper into an endless tunnel It ensnares you with chains It pumps it's venom into your vains The darkness does not let it's prey go easily

I asked, watching her. “Poetry?” she said, glancing up. “Yeah. It’s like someone put all the things you feel but can’t say into words for you.” I raised an eyebrow. “Sounds deep.” “It is,” she said, smiling as she slid the book back onto the shelf. “But I get it. Not everyone’s a fan.” “What about this one?” I picked up a different book, its cover adorned with an abstract painting. Rosa took it from me, flipping through the pages. “Hmm. Not bad. Maybe you’re learning.”

I make my way through the aisles, my fingers trailing along the spines of books, until I reach the poetry section. I don't know why I'm drawn here. I just am. My body moves like it knows something my brain doesn't. I walk through the poetry section, line by line, shelf by shelf, until I stop. My hand freezes mid-reach. 'Pablo Neruda.' A whole row of his work, lined up neatly, my fingers pause over one book in particular. 'Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair.' I pull it off the shelf slowly, like it might bite me. The cover is worn, soft under my fingers, like someone's held this book a lot and loved it.