Pretty Ugly Poem Novels & Stories

He recited the poem to Juste and Chastine, all from memory: “root of red, drool of flesh, tall as pillar stem of brown, crown of thorns, revealed on pyre leaf of green, thick of water, at one’s behest petal of white, rise of giants, at peaceful rest seed of black, depths of earth, one in all.” Maxill slowly opened his eyes. He saw Juste and Chastine’s face, who were both amazed and fascinated at Maxill’s recitation of Juste’s mom’s poem. The bloodhunt quickly flicked his finger so the two would break free from their mesmerizing spell.

He played with some strands of her straight hair and began, "Okay, so the poem is named I USED TO BE COMPLETELY CRUEL AND HEARTLESS. And it goes like this: I used to be completely cruel and heartless, Using girls, then tossing them aside. I used to feel an angry, bitter hunger, Not knowing why, nor looking much inside. I used to think the goal of life was pleasure: My own, of course, whatever that might take. A woman’s feelings had to be her problem. Self-sacrifice was always a mistake. And so, with just the slightest twinge of conscience, I hunted for my lonely ecstasy; And even when I wanted a companion, The only one I cared about was me.

"A sinful remedy, An evil enemy that grants false clarity. Once you start, it grips your soul, You cannot escape; it's in control. life's problems disappear, The world becomes a paradise, free of pain and all fear, Sedated under a spell as you drift away, Forgetting the fact that there's a price to pay Your bodystarts shaking, your beart's now aching: Your bead starts spinning, the world turns blurry, Limbs go numb, and you start to worry, You scream and cry, but no ones near, motionless, overwbelmed with Endless fear. you fade away and see the light, addiction claims your soul tonight" Zack starred at me, almost like captivated by my words. I could feel how touched he was by the poem. "That

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.

Stacy remembered a poem she learned in her literature classes back in senior secondary. Unparalleled beauty, worth the praise a maiden,resembling a starry night beautiful to gaze,forbidden to touch a deadly weapon, to the mankind But in this case it was not maiden,but a man . Whose beauty was intoxicating,like a thousand old wine.This beauty was hers. Here's to corrupt,hers to own,here's to possess,hers to dominate and she couldn't be any happier.

Glowing their crimson, gloomy glimmer in the dark Red flowers, red flowers… The new end, the new beginning, they mark I saw a creature in the dark. It looked like a live skeleton. There, in the corner of the dungeon, sat a young boy, I would say that he is no older than six. His clothes was in tatters, and he was swaying back and forth, reciting the poem as a mantra. His bony hands clamped on his ears. His eyes were milky white, his alabaster hair long and matted to his waist. The boy is blind, malnourished, to say at least and with layers of stark dirt on his face. The sight hit me like a ton of bricks, tears which got out of nowhere, welling up in my eyes. No child should be here. No child

Because of your beauty, my soul is brightened. After handing Raisa a bouquet of flowers, Nazril suddenly recited a poem, leaving Raisa dumbfounded and surprised by his superior's thoughts. "Did you just do a poem?" asked Raisa stupidly. Her innocent face blinked several times. Making sure she didn't hear wrong. "I'm sorry if my poetry recitation style is too stiff," Nazril said, rubbing the back of his neck and feeling embarrassed.

"Quite the opposite really. Your poetry was the best by far." Confusion tightened on my features, consuming me until I spoke up. "Then why give me a B?" His fingers drummed on the desk, irritating me. "Because it was awfully presented. The paper was dirty and ruffled in many places. Yes, your words were touching but anyone who reads it can tell that the author didn't feel the emotion they tried portraying."

“Yes, those were other times; now we can make men suffer in other ways; we make traps made of kisses, impregnating them with perfumes to make them fall in love, and when we have them under control, we will throw them into a well of tears of rejection.” “I'm fascinated by your poetry; I'll keep telling you about it; Mr. Pearl was very attentive; although you know he's not nice; his beauty is strange; his face is brusque; maybe he's pretty on Mars; I don't know; the fact is that he was very tender and servile; besides, you remember what I told you about Herring?”

I'm also impatient, so I grab it and turn it over. The sketch is beautiful. A woman holding her heart in her hand. As I look at it, I tilt my head, her body appears to be melting in some ways. She looks beautiful, but like she is hurting, holding her broken heart in her hand. I begin reading the poem. Shattered reality A broken vision Sees imperfections Flaws and disfigured Beauty is the truth Truth is lost Bound by the words Fear that cripples Shattered reality Broken vision Unable to see the beauty