Spoken Word Poetry English Novels & Stories

She looked at him dumbfounded, but he was looking ahead at the road. Did he realize what he just said? She wanted to ask but didn’t really know how. Maybe he didn’t mean it. It was just a figure of speech. It didn’t take long for them to reach his apartment, but it felt like hours of excruciating silence to Kiara. She was not one to dwell on words and feelings, but then again, she was not used to those particular ones.

I remembered how Edwin used to talk, so I stood up for my mother-in-law, "Edwin, you can't be so unkind. Your mom is only trying to help you. She's your mom; she wouldn't hurt you on purpose, right? "She worked so hard to raise you. She's always been careful with money, and she didn't mean to make a mistake. Can't you be a little more understanding?" I used to hear Edwin say those things when I was sick or when Teresa went to the hospital because of expired formula. Now, I was using his own words to see if he really was the devoted son he claimed to be. My words made everyone in the hospital ward look at Edwin, and they were all watching to see what he would do next.

Few minutes later, nineteenth-century Romantic poetry class had begun. Professor Dylan’s deep, commanding voice rolled through the room as he paced slowly in front of the projector screen. “Wordsworth believed that poetry should capture the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings,” he said, gesturing to the lines displayed behind him. “But notice how he tempers that emotion with memory and reflection. Take this stanza from ‘Tintern Abbey’…” The words coming out of his mouth thinned, and all I could hear was the bass from his voice sending ripples of pleasure to my bare aching pussy. My hands drifted beneath the desk, hidden by my notebook and the low edge of the table.

You should see hers. He reads it out, in a voice worthy of Television, as though he were standing before an audience. The poet can be poem-less. The writer, word-less And the warrior sword-less. With you, I am not lovel— "Okay, " I say "that's enough for one day.".

When you awaken in the morning's hush, I am the swift uprising rush Oh quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there; I did not die. After the poem, I went on to give a speech about the people I had once called my family. As I spoke, my mind was invaded with several memories of our time together. I could almost see, hear, touch and feel their presence as I went off track.

The most astonishing thing was that every title tried to minister to me so much more that I was confused. There is a poem titled 'HOPE', there was 'VAGUE AS AIR', 'DEATH AND IT'S PEACE' and other incredible poems all written by Trevor. I read each poem and felt as if he was talking to me directly. His choice of words, sentence construction and presentation of life scenarios embedded in words is just beautiful. Now this guy was not just a devilishly handsome man with a great sense of humor but a writing god. Then I came across the piece I termed my best. I read it over and over again muttering each line. The poem is titled 'SPEAK TO YOURSELF' and it reads thus...