Poetry Novels & Stories

he ‘reminded’ me. "That, too." I laughed. Then I remembered his poem. "What's the meaning of that poem you sent?" "What did it mean to you?" "It meant nothing.” His hands stilled for a beat, and he sounded wounded as he said, "Then it means nothing." "I didn't mean it like that. It's just…" I paused, being sure to choose my words carefully. The man could be really sensitive at times. "Poetry’s mind-screwing. It's not straightforward and it never means what you think it means. Always something more profound. Requiring you read it over and over, disassembling and deciphering. I've never been a fan."

I took a sip from the glass of water on the left side of the table and then went back to writing again. To write poems is not just to write. You need to put magic in every word you'll write and you need to make sure that the readers will be in a different place with they read your pieces. Poetry is not just about rhymed words. It's about exposing the thoughts you can't speak. Writing is the only way I can let my self escape aside from its twin-reading.

Ok Dad, we're here. When Miranda took off the blindfold,he stood there in awe. All the memories came back and he fell to his knees crying out loud. Everyone stood still, no one knew what to do. Miranda quickly helped her dad up and gave him a chair to sit on. Claudia brought him some water to drink. After he calmed down, he smiled at his daughters who were sitting on both sides of him. He cleared his throat and said "Sorry girls,I got a little emotional, I really miss your mother and I can't wait to see her again. Even though she is not here with us anymore,she's still in my heart always, she still lingers in my mind I feel her with every beat of my heart and every breath I take reminds me

after everything I went through, still just insults I did my study on those creatures for years, and I can still remember some of my favourite poetry and poems I read as a kid A Last Word by Ernest Dowson Let us go hence: the night is now at hand; The day is overworn, the birds all flown; And we have reaped the crops the gods have sown; Despair and death; deep darkness o'er the land, Broods like an owl; we cannot understand Laughter or tears, for we have only known Surpassing vanity: vain things alone Have driven our perverse and aimless band. Let us go hence, somewhither strange and cold, To Hollow Lands where just men and unjust Find end of labour, where's r