Poetry Novels & Stories

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.

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

user"> *]:pointer-events-auto scroll-mt-[calc(var(--header-height)+min(200px,max(70px,20svh)))]" dir="auto" data-turn-id="request-69ca7292-6488-83e8-b044-fbf92d935f7e-3" data-testid="conversation-turn-202" data-scroll-anchor="true" data-turn="assistant"> Unlike ordinary seers, the God of Poetry’s prophecies did not contain errors. At most, he might see things indistinctly—but he would never be wrong.