Novel & Cerita Poetry On Book

Her work at the local bookstore, once a mundane routine, now felt infused with a sense of meaning. She found herself drawn to the poetry section, her fingers tracing the spines of books she had never explored before. She discovered the delicate beauty of Emily Dickinson's words, the raw emotion of Sylvia Plath's verse, and the lyrical prose of Langston Hughes. Each poem, a window into a different soul, resonated with her own experiences, her own struggles and triumphs.

she questioned and I cleared my throat trying my best to bury my rising arousal. "Yeah, I'm good," . . . . . . . . . Hope you enjoyed the chapter ❤️‼️ Thanks for reading ❤️‼️ I appreciate every read, comment and vote ❤️‼️ . NB!! If you want to support me as an author the link is below and it is also on my author page, any amount is appreciated. https://ko-fi.com/honesty577 . Also, all the poetry in the book is written by me and can be found on I*******m at Honesty.577 please support. .

To her dismay, Jane found herself walking down the hall to English with Lucy by her side, still talking, talking, talking. "I didn't know you were such a big reader, Jane," Lucy said, smiling at her. "I guess because your book-report books are always so short. But length isn't what matters in a book. I love a lot of short books, too. Just look at poetry. A poem can be any length. There are millions of wonderful poems that are only a few lines long. Like Emily Dickinson's poems. She can say more in two lines than most people can say in a hundred pages. What part are you up to in A Tale of Two Cities?"

Something he regretted immediately again when he found himself liking the way she smelled. Why was her scent on his book? Rayven stiffened, realizing what this could mean. Did she read the book? Did she see his poems? Feeling a little panicked, he opened the book to see how bad his poems were and how horribly he had described the truth about himself. If she read it, she must have been revolted by him if she wasn't already before. He scrolled through the pages and found the first poem he wrote. He was about to curse himself when he found neat handwriting next to his poem.

A young girl, not quite tall enough to reach the sorting tray, was assisting in piling up the warm pages. "They sound like poetry," Lia whispered. "But with directions." She wasn't addressing anyone specifically, but the man folding pamphlets at the next table inclined his head. "That's the idea," he said. "Poetry endures. So does purpose." Outside, a cart of snacks rolled past—kutsinta, banana cue, rice cakes in banana leaves. The vendor paused, glancing in through the window. “You’re printing the memory books?” he asked. “Yes,” Lia said. “Want one?”

It came as no surprise when he expressed wishes of becoming a writer and being the supportive sister I was, I always loved reading his short stories. Anything he wrote, I read. Standing up, I opened the box to be met with the sight of books ranging from Virginia Woolf to Maya Angelou. Sifting through the books my hand immediately stopped once I caught sight of a bundle of pages joined together haphazardly that had the words Tim's Poetry Book written on the first page. I never knew he wrote poems and this had me intrigued as I retook a seat on the bed. Planning to flip through it, the knock on the door halted any further movements on my end as I looked up to find the smiling face of my mother

Rozy urged. "I was in a small bookstore in Florence, tucked away in an alleyway. I couldn't reach a first-edition poetry collection on the top shelf. Suddenly, this tall, shadow-like man reached over me and pulled it down. He didn't even hand it to me at first; he just read a verse aloud." Rozy stopped her work, her mouth slightly agape as she gushed over the narrative. "Oh, stop! Poetry? In a bookstore? He READ TO YOU??My heart can’t take it."

A solitary pedestal, alone in the room. And on it........ A BOOK

"Good night." He went home. He put his three books on the shelf in the order he intended to read them. He stood in his living room, which felt occupied again in the way it had begun to feel occupied since last Wednesday, and thought about side-by-side versus face-to-face, and a poetry section, and when prose feels like too much scaffolding for the thing being said. He took the poetry collection off his shelf — he owned one, had owned it for years, had read it twice and not returned to it — and sat on the sofa with it for the first time in a long time and thought about how some things required less scaffolding.

I was about to turn away—honestly, I’d already proven my point by existing in here—when something caught my eye. A book. Not just any book. It had a dark velvet cover, stitched along the edges, with delicate silver embossing. Fancy. A little dramatic. Totally Sebastian. I picked it up, flipping it open without a second thought. He should’ve hidden it better if he didn’t want anyone snooping. The first page stopped me cold. A poem. Not the gross, rhyming kind either. It was... good. Too good. The kind that actually made you feel something.