Short Poems That Are Deep Novels & Stories

Raisa wrote a poem entitled in the quiet, she then reread her work. In a lonely corner of the silent night, I hug your shadow in this loneliness. The longing that slices the heart, Flowed with tears that did not stop. In every beat of my heart, There is your name that echoes sadly. The hope that used to strengthen, Now only a painful memory. I walk in empty hallways, Without direction, without light. All the promises you once made, Are now just shadows that disappear slowly. Time passes slowly and cruelly, Leaving deep wounds.

They both rode on a childish carousel, laughter blending with the music. My eyelids twitched, a sense of unease filling my heart. Mr. Jones' phone suddenly rang, making me jolt awake, and I stared at him in shock. The voice on the other end said, "The Young Master has been taken by a stranger at the kindergarten!"

When cities wear around their necksthe seethe of the cold, traffic slowsto the gutter the clambering freeze,and half a heart this rain touches our skin,mere stains we believe home recollectsmemories, drops of names unclutteringsuspiciously in the melting shadow,over the ice age of our singular breath,surface of things revives in the darkwhat is lost from a deep gorge of sleep,seconds on the side of water, more hope than hiding, beyond the evening light--there is a rustle of a long sworn word,a lonely song at the night’s heels, oh—but were you there to hear it?

"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."

I hide it so well, I smile my mind run miles, I speak no words my energy’s thought… I’m troubled. Can you see? My eyes wonder every path, My mind has wondered about, I wonder……’ ‘No, no, no. I cannot do this to myself. The moment I allow this thoughts, this poem conversion of mine to go on, I will go deeper. I need to stop thinking’

I will miss our trips to the nearby pool, We'd rather read books there and pretend to be cool, I want to say goodbye one more time and cry with one more kiss, Goodbye, my mother, it's you I will forever miss, When the storms fill my eyes, and all the feels make me cry, I'll remember your sweet lullabies as I say, 'Goodbye. Jeremy leaves the microphone, and everyone next to me pats my back. I never knew what to say at funerals. Poems were the only words that made sense to me. Of course, they don't make sense to other people, but to me, that poem wasn't for them. The sparrow in the tree spreads its wings and flies out into the clouds. I know deep down that's the last time I will ever see that

"I pray that this missive finds its way from tiny, mousey hands. To those who chance upon this plea, heed my desperate call, For trapped within these cryptic lines, lies a fate enthrall." As I read on, my heart grew heavy with each passing sentence, the weight of the writer's desperation pressing down upon me like a suffocating blanket. I knew this 'song and dance' as it were. Alpha Gonzales had thought me how to read and in the process had used a litany of poems to do so. This was a poem - a rather well known one.

I asked with concern. “Probably not. I don’t do it often, but it is nice. It’s a lot like this. Just you and the water and the moon. It really makes you feel at peace. The stress just melts away. I hate the noise of our world sometimes. I used to imagine running away and living like a hermit far away from everything. It always seems like there is noise somewhere. I think our world would be a happier place and we’d have a lot less angry people if there was more quiet.”

The poem goes like this: “They said you came looking for me. I didn't drown; I was the water." I don't know if that makes sense to you as much as it made sense to me. Nevertheless, it is a beautiful poem written by someone who understands human beings and life in a special way that I and you who has read the poem don't understand. I am not going to waste my time to talk about atheism or to debate about the loopholes of religion. I will leave it for a Sunday when I have the time and strength to actually put a lot of efforts in airing my view for all of you to be complacent with yourself while keeping in mind that my motives are purely intended to bring good and not to cause harm as some of yo

Miranda continued, "Not to mention Bob Frost's poem, 'Tea is a religion of the art of life,' and a verse by Emma Dickson, 'There is something in the nature of tea that leads us into a world of quiet contemplation of life.' "The poets of old have passed on, but we are still here. We gather here not just to enjoy the taste of tea but to find the reflections of life and the truth of existence within this activity. "Lastly, I leave you with this phrase, 'Life is like a cup of tea. It's all in how you make it.' May all of us learn to live life to the fullest! Thank you."