Novel & Cerita Poetry About Books

I wanted to be a writer when I grow up. The books wait to speak their words, their ink on papery leaves that would always stay even though centuries may pass. They invite a conversation with the thoughts, one unspoken and kind - for one could always walk away from a book if one chooses, and return when ready. In a way, they were the legacy their author's thoughts, preserving ideas that would otherwise be as fleeting as the song of a bird.

And just as I lunged at him with the broom, he swiftly ran away. My nostrils flared with annoyance. "That jerk! A womanizer, an immature brat. He'll pay for this later!" I resumed my cleaning task. I continued sweeping the floor and then proceeded to arrange the books scattered and piled up under the coffee table. Books about music. How to compose a song? The influence of music on poetry. Although the books were outdated, the faded pages hinted at their long history of use. Perhaps they belonged to a master musician or Fiore's ancestors who had resided in this place. These books were meant to inspire and create music that would never be forgotten.

The little old librarian with white curly hair, rimmed spectacles, and flowery dress smiles at me warmly across the tables when I pass her by and leaves me to browse. I must admit, I love the smell and aura of ancient books, the feeling of being surrounded by old, treasured pages. Back home my own library is my favourite place to spend time. Books retain some sort of presence from past readers, and it can be felt in the air all around me because I’m sensitive to energy vibrations in all things, be they living or not. A warm familiar sensation comes from books, like a gentle breeze on a hot day, or a soothing hug when you need it most, and that relaxes me. It’s because books are beloved thing

I opened the book and let my eyes roam over the pages, drinking in the words and letting them transport me to another world. As I read, I felt myself becoming lost in the rhythms and patterns of the language. The words danced in my head, painting pictures and evoking emotions that I had forgotten existed. It was like a breath of fresh air, a reminder of the beauty and wonder that still existed in the world despite all the darkness and despair. As I read, I felt my mind starting to calm down, my worries and fears slowly dissipating like mist in the morning sun. The poetry had a way of soothing my soul, of reminding me that there was more to life than just the struggles and battles we faced ev

"Nature has a way of grounding us, of reminding us of the simple joys that often go unnoticed." Wanting to prolong the magic of the moment, I reached into my bag and pulled out a book of poetry. Flipping through its pages, I found a passage that resonated with me and began to read aloud. My voice mingled with the gentle breeze, the words caressing the air as they danced between us. Dante listened attentively, his gaze fixed on me as if I held the secrets of the universe in my voice. The words weaved their magic, painting vivid pictures in our minds and evoking emotions that words alone could not express.

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

he questions. I nod my head. "Yes," I say again. "I've always loved reading." "Book," he says in a gruff voice. "Liffatin. Can you repeat that back to me?"Liffatin," I repeat. "That's a beautiful word. You know, back in my kingdom there was a little shop called a library and it harbored many, many books. Some were sad, some were happy, some were full of action and tales of courageous princes and princesses, fictional tales of fire-breathing dragons and fairies and demons. A book is where imagination takes flight."

I didn't expect that. "That's a really sad book," I say. "You've read it," she straightens up a little. I nod. "And the other one?" "My mom gave it to me," she tightens her hold on it. "Poems, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Ernest Hartley Coleridge. Do you know him?" "Yeah. No man was ever yet a good poet, without being at the same time a profound philosopher. I read Poems for an assignment in school," "You went to school?" she all but shouts. I'm taken aback by her outburst.

The smell of old leather-bound books mixed with the faint scent of the underground air, creating a unique atmosphere that felt like a secret garden of stories waiting to be explored. She could hardly contain her enthusiasm as she approached one of the shelves, running her fingers over the spines of the books. Classics, contemporary bestsellers, and hidden literary gems beckoned to her. The titles and authors seemed to come to life, each one a portal to a new world, a new adventure. Ashley pulled out a novel and marveled at the weight of it in her hands, as if she were holding a piece of literary history. She was surrounded by the works of revered authors, stories that had shaped cultures and

The warmth from the fire didn't really ease the uneasy feeling growing inside me. Taking a deep breath, I opened the book. Each page turn felt like stepping back into a past I wanted to forget. The flames continued to dance, casting a flickering light that seemed to play along with the emotions swirling within me. I turned another page, the words becoming guides through a landscape of recovery I wasn't sure I was ready to navigate. Memories, like shadows, crept in as the fire crackled. Each sentence seemed to awaken echoes of my own experiences. It was as if the library held its breath, waiting for me to absorb the weight of those stories and somehow find my own path within them.