Pretty Ugly Poem Novels & Stories

He was about to curse himself when he found neat handwriting next to his poem. Rayven was confused, but his eyes followed the words, reading it to his brain quietly. Life is not a lot Life is just a thought As beautiful as I want Does not have to haunt It is full of ups and downs Of highs and lows of different towns With lights and nights of equal time You live and die for every dime I see the light that's not too dim I see that it is not so grim So, I try to light my world for me I try to listen; not hear from me

When I close my eyes I imagine your soft lips on mine A feeling so pure and divine I imagine our bodies intertwine Your soft body crushed against me As I give you immeasurable pleasure And raise passions and desires untold As your deep blue eyes stare into my soul I want you to be mine and only mine And I'll have you till the end of time. Damian read the poem again and nearly threw up. What kind of man writes poetry? To him, it was very unmanly. He looked down to see who had written it but the poem stopped there. He could find anything. No signature, no name, no pseudonym, nothing. He folded the abominable paper up and kept it aside away from his belongings. If writing poety was contagious,

asked harriet “ if we knew we wouldn’t be here” “ Be grateful what you have for Be careful what you wish for One wrong wish and fate could change The game of fate is not famous in good way Once it change get yourself use to it Don’t wish more or things would get messed up once again” “ woah…… I really wonder who is the poet? I really wanna know how can he write a poem this bad”

"No, they're not good. And they're more of quotes anyway, they're short." "Okay, so tell me one. Tell me your favourite one." I bit my lip and look at him, contemplating whether I should or shouldn't. I have one in mind, the most recent one. As I watch him driving, his brown curls not falling over his eyes for once because he gelled them, the poem comes out by itself. "She couldn't understand," I begin, whispering, and gulp, still observing him, "why she found comfort in the dark, when all her life she had a fear of darkness."

Sarah sat in her bedroom, surrounded by soft cushions and warm lighting, with Griffin's notes scattered across her lap. As she flipped through the pages, her eyes landed on a section filled with poetry. The words danced across the paper, written in Griffin's familiar scribble. At first, Sarah thought they were just random musings, but as she delved deeper, she realized the poems were about a person's beauty. The descriptions were vivid and captivating, speaking of sparkling eyes, radiant skin, and luscious hair.

No fun clothes anymore. No heels I could wear out. No friends to go out with. My crumpled, cheap underwear was a perfect metaphor for my whole life. Pale, unimportant, an afterthought-something dull and miserable and practical. With a pang, I knew I wanted...well, more.undefinedLife wasn't black and white. Either glamorous Cannes fantasy adventures or drab, never-ending diner shifts and household tasks. I didn't have to live the life my luck conspired against me.

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.

It came as a whisper, barely loud enough to be audible. "Am I that ugly? I'm not ugly at all, okay? Don't call me ugly again, or I'm going to be mad. I'm really going to be angry. I'm very pretty. Yes, that's right. I am very pretty. In fact, I've got some guys crushing on me. Let me count them on my fingers ... Oops, there's too many to count." Her voice was vague, but it also seemed especially clear.

Orian rolled his eyes and I frowned flipping him the middle finger before thinking of a poem and I was beginning to regret getting him flowers. "Shall I compare thee to the sun that rises on the morrow and the moon that graces thee with its light for thou hath diest thee on a feast for lovely wenches for what is a name if it isn't to be borne and thus, thou hath my grump, here are thy roses." I stretched them out with a smile on my face. "You are not very bright, are you?" He raised a brow collecting the roses and bringing them up to his nose to smell their fragrance.

Insecure shoes often obscuring the walls, the sonata of chemicals likens heads to garage tires you’ve spared for cool household principles. I bet you look down, look down so hard to catch the open light unfurling, like a beef falafel surprising schoolchildren from Bandra, Mumbai I earn a living by re-counting poetic lines and make them smell of cardamom. Carton-shroud livelihood makes a statement. To live comfortably is to fall in love with euphoria: 100%. Sweetheart of lies—