Sad Things To Write Novels & Stories

They will be happy to be your safe place. I started to write poems and stories when I was eight; being very shy as a kid I used to write a lot. Writing down my feelings gave me happiness. My diary was my very first friend, one who would never judge me but will always be there to listen when I pour my heart out. A very wise woman once told me that, there would be times when I may feel very lonely between people and won't be able to figure what I want. At these times, I'd find home in my words, in my writings. When everything around me gets darker and the reality starts to bite, I tend to write stories and create characters and weave a beautiful, happy story with my words. I'd give it a happy

I know this is just a letter you’ll never see, but I need your approval. As I sat in front of the typewriter, I took a moment to reflect on the letter I had been writing. I stopped typing and read it through from beginning to end. It was a recount of my life story, and as I read, I felt a sense of sadness wash over me. Most of the content was quite gloomy and unfortunate, narrating the loss of my family and the struggles I faced in the years that followed.

LEVI’S POV Before You Go by Lewis Capaldi “I fell by the wayside like everyone else. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, but I was just kidding myself. Our every moment, I start to replace. ‘Cause now that they’re gone, all I hear are the words that I needed to say.” I was singing while I was breaking the shell of an egg. I was cooking some sunny-side up egg, fried rice, and hotdog for breakfast.

Deep breath in, deep breath out. I tried like hell to calm myself, I have been shaking non stop since I left the club. I couldn't breathe, just breathe. I cried all the way home. I can't believe what I just did, why do I keep doing this to myself. Why do I keep getting myself in situations like these. I struggled to sleep throughout the night, I suffered from insomnia I barely slept and when I did I had severe night terrors. Waking up screaming, crying. So I would stay up and write some songs, or busy myself with art.I walked around my apartment, I love my place. It might be small, but it's always filled with laughter. I learned quite early in life that it's not the size of the house it's th

Now I'm sensitive, worn out, and covered in cum. Best birthday ever!

I thought and it was true but still I was thinking if I was back there maybe it never happened, a girl can only hope. I said down on my desk and opened a random book, I wanted to write my feelings down but I just couldn’t I don’t know why. I pick up my pen and tried writing something, anything to stop my self from thinking about my past, those happy memories, I could not take it. After some time I put my pen down a saw what I wrote, there were four simple lines, it said: I am a mess In my mind Trying not to stress About the things, I left behind.

Burn it down and make sure no one has the right to cover it up. I clicked send then closed my l aptop... and waited for Leo's kingdom to burn but why the fuck am I feeling this stupid tiny guilt at the depth of my heart

Later that evening, I found her sitting on the porch swing, that same letter folded and sealed, a single word scrawled on the front: “Someday.” The same word I’d once written on my own envelope all those years ago. We were building our own time capsules now. Little pieces of hope, hidden in plain sight. Carrie – POV The new cohort at Rewrite was young. Teens and early twenty-somethings. Some just barely old enough to drive. They came with backpacks instead of briefcases, trauma wrapped in TikTok references and bravado. But when they wrote? It was electric. One girl wrote about losing her mother to opioids, comparing grief to a haunted vending machine—you keep putting things in, hoping for so

I finally asked. “Nothing!” both said in unison. I shook my head, knowing that both would be too stubborn for me to squeeze anything out of. And so I turned my focus on Nicholas who seemed still soundly asleep. He looked so peaceful, so innocent. If I had my work with me, I’d scribble a few sentences together to capture just how beautiful he was. And as I thought about writing, a sore sadness arose in my chest. All of my work, had burned to a crisp in that house. Years and years of writing on my pages completely down the drain, and with it all the dreams I’d once had. Of course I could start anew, but the new versions would never be the same as the old. The thoughts and feelings put into the

I wish I was just a lake. Could somebody please tell me how to not be sad knowing you wanted to follow your old man’s footsteps but you were not that good enough to do that? And one more thing; every thing I had been feeling all this time, were these just bits and pigments of sadness brought by the demises of the victims, or was I just really depressed with everything that had been going through? I could not figure which was which. Can somebody please do it for me?