Poetry Novels & Stories

“Well, I guess you get really hot and turned on, and you recognize your mate. Do you know who he is?" I moan. “If I knew who he was, I’d know that I was in heat.” There should be a class on this at the Academy. I can solve for X, and I know that iambic pentameter has ten syllables made up of alternating stressed and unstressed syllables, and that each of these pairs is called a foot, and each foot is called an iamb, and the opposite of an iamb is a trochee, but my body is burning up, and I have no idea if it’s heat, and I don’t even write poems.

God! I have been reasoning for quite some time now, putting pieces in place once again as I have done before. I don't know if I should just cage the real me and bring the characters inside me to revolve round and paint colors to the world with the help of poetry. Poetry? What poetry? I have no idea what poetry means because when the real me starts writing, I feel wild and untamed. Nah... I feel up and down. I feel am on top of the moon. That is not supposed to be me. That is not supposed to be how I feel. That is not supposed to be how things should be. Who is God?

Like the prosody. “The study of poetic sounds and rhythms is known as prosody. Music is poetry. It is also the stress and intonation patterns in a language. This essentially means, ‘does everything fit together?’ Everything in your song should serve the same purpose. It is to express the essential emotion, central idea, and vital purpose of your song. Aristotle first expressed the impression of prosody when he said, “Every great work of art exhibits the same characteristic.” Julian’s lectures, as usual, have a way of grabbing your attention. All he has to do is stand there, and everyone will listen. His lessons are simple to grasp because he does not simply re

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.

Napoli "Poetry is derogatory. Poetry has no failure, only personal wins. There was no F in poetry because not coming in a poetry. But getting an A in poetry was a masterclass achievement that appeared on your final score sheet when you are done with a degree, that's the only course that actually makes it out into the paper. So be creative, don't do poetry." God bless her soul But right now, I was seriously trying to make sure that My mother read the message instead of being petty and dramatic. We didn't

It was surprising our Alpha and Luna had let her move there, considering she was very much human. Mrs. Juniper absolutely adored poetry, mostly the classics. I’d never forget the endless headaches I suffered trying to decipher what Shakespeare, Robert Frost, and Alfred Tennyson were trying to convey. Why poets had to make such simple lessons so confusing was beyond me. Why did they have to use pretty words to convey truth? ‘This doesn’t seem to be so hard.’ Rayna countered, murmuring the words to the poem in my head. ‘It mentions beasts twice, which has to be the bulls, right?’

"Writing poetry has been a source of solace and inspiration for me. Today, I'd like to share a poem I wrote, inspired by moments of reflection and the beauty of. . . Love.” Taking a moment to centre himself, Ryan begins to recite, his voice carrying the rhythm and cadence of his verses: "Not my acrostic smudges; Darkness is running towards me. I am running away from me. A universe is so huge. In just depths of my eyes, The universe is Too vast to fit. I am Asking myself;

Vess's laughed, and yeah I also laughed with her After all that name was given by me. It's like all the tension has suddenly flown away. But who knows? Maybe this is silence before the storm? Or maybe it is nothing and I'm overreacting like I always do. *** "Where the hell is Cole?" Dylan muttered under his breath in literature class. We all are here in the English literature class listening to whatever Mrs Bitwick was explaining about the depth of words and how we execute them with one particular feeling in poetry. "Poetry is like an art, as an emotion, like energy given by the words to the soul of body------" she was explainin

Bernice cried, "Mom and Dad are gone." "It's impossible!" Dylan exploded in anger. He denied it as he rushed from room to room, shouting, "You're all just pretending! When I left, Mom and Dad were perfectly fine. How could they suddenly be gone?" Bernice shook her head. "Why don't you believe me? Mom and Dad are truly gone. They were poisoned to death. The doctor said that they kept calling our names before they passed. We're not worthy of being their children." Andrew and Sally were the best parents in the world and had devoted everything to Dylan and Bernice.

The night sky stretches above, clear and star-studded, a canvas of serenity that contrasts with the chaos within me. I've always found comfort in writing, and tonight is no different. The words flow from my fingertips onto the screen, a form of therapy that helps me process the storm of emotions raging inside me. As I jot down a few lines about my situation, the poem takes shape, capturing the essence of my pain and confusion. It's a bittersweet creation, a reflection of the tangled web of emotions I find myself trapped in.