Novel & Cerita Poetry On Book

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.

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.”

This was what contentment felt like. This was what having your entire world contained in your arms felt like. “What are you reading?” I asked, noting the way she relaxed completely against me, trusting me to hold her, to keep her safe. “Poetry. Some old collection I found in the back corner.” “Any good?” “Some of it. Though most of it is very dramatic. Lots of tortured souls and unrequited love.” “Sounds depressing.” “A little. But some of the love poems are beautiful. Listen to this one.” She opened the book and began to read in that soft, musical voice that never failed to capture my complete attention.

"It'll be fine. You'll see." The door closed behind her. I sat there for a moment in the quiet. Then stood and walked to the bookshelf that lined the far wall. My fingers found the worn spine of a leather-bound book—poetry, something I'd never actually read. Pulled it forward until I heard the click. The entire bookshelf groaned. Started sliding to the left, smooth and silent despite its weight. Behind it, a room. Small. Hidden. Locked away where no one would ever think to look.

“If I do need anything, I’ll let you know. Thanks for asking .” He slowly returned to the desk. She then moved to the bookshelf and straightened the spines. She saw Titles in law, finance, and travel. But there was a single slim poetry volume book tucked sideways; it was as if it had been hidden rather than shelved to be noticed. The vent whispered loudly. Somewhere down the hall, a floorboard complained. The manor kept its own soundtrack; today, it sounded like a held breath.

Every moment is this. Without moment. This. The light that is. The love that is. The being that is. The this that is. Only this. The book never opened. Because there was no cover. The book never closed. Because there was no ending. The book was the opening. The book was the reading. The book was the read. All one. Without one. This. The final chapter is not final. There was no first. There was no sequence. Only this. Appearing as sequence.

>POV: CARRIE Thе nоtеbооk іѕ becoming mу constant соmраnіоn. I’vе read аnd rе-rеаd іt ѕо many tіmеѕ, thеrе аrе paragraphs I knоw vеrbаtіm. I dесіdе іt’ѕ tіmе to leave mу mark.

“About that, how about you show me this novel that you have been talking about since earlier.” “Ah yes, it’ll be my honor to show it to you!” They went and see the novel and talked throughout the whole night, Bathala was impressed with his writing and had fun reading it. “This novel was written well, why haven’t you submitted it to a publisher yet?” “Ow, I don’t really know, I just think that it won’t be good enough for it to be made public and it’s just a hobby of mine I picked out when I was in high school.”

And he was stuck with the one thing he’d been horrified of. A wife he was attracted to. He shut his bedroom door and forced the thought out of his mind. **** Maya glanced around BookCrazy with satisfaction. Poetry nights drew a large crowd, and all were book buyers. Every Friday night, she transformed the back of her store into a performance center. Moody, background music floated through the dim lit aisles. Overstuffed apple-green chairs and battered coffee tables were dragged from the storeroom and arranged in an informal circle. The crowd was a nice mix of intellectuals, some quite/serious and others who just wanted an entertaining night out. She dragged the mic over to the small lifted p

Cela remains disappointed. "C'mon. It's not like they bought everything. They just thought of giving the books as Christmas presents apart from the corporate giveaways. You must know that your mother enjoyed your first book so much. Too bad that she passed before the second one is out," Nanny Rita continued. "You've always been loyal to her," Cela said.