Short Poem About Myself Novels & Stories

"Shoot me," Kim muttered under her breath as she stared blankly at him addressing the students. Maybe she was hallucinating, she raised her finger to her skin and pinched herself hard in an attempt to snap out of her trance, but he was still standing right there in his glory, his plump pinky lips moving perfectly like it's being automated by a system or something. Never have she seen someone that complete before, he had the look of a fallen. angel. Kim could hear the other students gasping and gushing over his magnificence.

She glared at me, her voice dropping to a threatening whisper, “Don’t lie to me. Tell me all the details.” When she threatened to cut off my mother's medical treatment, I had no choice but to spill the truth. [Flashback] The memory of that day remained crystal clear. The rainy season always was pervaded by a lingering and inescapable scent of rust. I sat by the floor-to-ceiling window, unconsciously twirling a scalpel in my hand. Outside, the neon lights blurred into colorful patches in the curtain of rain, reminiscing about the peach blossoms shattered upon the river's surface in New Valetta that year.

Trembling, I clutched the front of my dress tightly to keep it from slipping down. An overwhelming sense of humiliation nearly choked me. I bit my lip as hard as I could to keep myself from crying out loud. "So, you do know it's impossible to live without a single cent to your name. But you're wrong. Even though I grew up in the mountains, I'm not as shameless as you think. I just don't understand why you always assume the worst of me." Mom and Dad didn't bother giving me an explanation. Instead, they just shoved me into the detention room on the third floor.

Just something to cool this fire in my chest. Downstairs, the kitchen is still and dark. I flick on the light, open the fridge, pour myself a glass of cold water. I’m just about to take a sip when my phone buzzes. Cass. Of course. She sent a poem. A screenshot of a tweet she posted, knowing I’d probably see it late. I open it. “You are not a vessel. You are the sky. You are the universe, and not just the broken stars in your womb.” “You are not your pain. Not your prognosis. Not the people who have tried to rewrite you.”

Caspian’s confession didn't just break the ice in my heart—it shattered the very foundations of my reality. He hadn't just found me in this life. He had hunted through the corridors of time to find the version of me that survived. "You came back for me," I whispered, my voice trembling against his lips.

I will write a poem and I'll read it to Mom tomorrow," I answered. The days arrived calm and breezing, Everybody was bustling from travelling, Then you came to me without and hesitations, Giving me friendly and adorable expressions. The days were bright and shining for a while, And here you are looking at me with a smile, You always make me a way to catch my attention, Congratulations! You are now my immersion. The days proceeded moody and leaves were falling, Yet you are still there to keep me aspiring, Those sleepless nights that you showed my worth, I thought you were truly down to earth, The days come cold, Same as your heart's constantly changing, You eventually manifested your true col

I don't care if their burdens transfer on me, as long as they're happy. "By the way, I want to show this short poem that I wrote last night. Let me know what you think." He handed me the crumpled piece of paper from his bag. I was reincarnated because of your eyes Forest under eyelids The ember we lit in February Remained in my heart But how long do I have to hide? How long will it take for me to finally say the words? The words that swirl on my lips Waiting for other lips to free them The rivulet on your palm

Heartbreak was poetic. Whoever said this was a total loon and had never took a journey of ugly pain. Heartbreak wasn't poetic. You couldn't write words on it or even think of the rhyming words because all your mind could see was the intense pain swirling in your fragile heart. It wasn't about being awake late, thinking how to express your pain in words or music. No, it was being enclosed within four walls, and having that ugly cry, and blaming yourself where you went wrong. It was having fun with your friends and then out of nowhere feeling this ache in your heart and loosing interest.

I titled the piece "SPEAK TO YOURSELF. " The article reads thus.......... SPEAK TO YOURSELF How often do you converse with yourself? How often do you speak to yourself? How often do you listen to yourself when no one is speaking? How often do you minister to yourself? How often do you truly embrace yourself, your pain, your flaws, your truth, your fears... SPEAK TO YOURSELF Say to yourself.... "Though I am shattered and bereaved and I might wither with the wind but like seeds, I can sprout out of the ground, new and better. "

She whispered clearly as she frowned. "Ma'am, please help me!" I begged. "Help?" She said and narrowed her eyes, she looks like she was inquisitive about it. "Yes, ma'am." "What help and why me?" She interrogated. "Because you might know about it," I seriously look at her eyes. "Know what?" "Your poem entitled 'I'm sorry,' ma'am. Isn't it's about a man who lived in another world?" I said and I examined her emotion, her eyes widen in horror and chaos.