Concious Stories

This poetry defines how we all have just forgotten ourselves. This poetry states how we all are just puppets because we are not free to do what we want to. We are " self concious" . We are "not sure" . We are "concerned". We are "insecure" . We are just "lost" . I think a poetry lover would love this cause a poem does not require a lot of explanations it just becomes deeper and deeper whenever you read it...💕 Enjoy!!

At an age when a women had a thought. The brightest thought.

Another Sequel Of What Makes Mangweqe's sun but now diving into his love Life...

This is my only escape. To write. A novel that is not a novel, composed of fragments of my wildest thoughts that run rampant in my brain. Copyright © 2020 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher. If so, it is an infringement of copyright and is punishable by law. All rights reserved to the owner and creator, Novus Scripturam (espritETame)

Let go of your thoughts and get a hint of my perspective, let my words touch your soul

The mind is a rough place to be

No one wants to be left alone

Guide for people interested in psychology 👤 This book may involve Jungian psychology, MBTI typology, personality psychology, self development, objective psychology, identity theories, neuroticism, anxiety conditions, hyper sensitivity & much more! Let's get into it 🤩

I'm no poet. I am not a fan of poetry. But sometimes you have those poems in the back of your head, the poems that can sum up your feelings. Sometimes you have poems that don't describe anything, but just came out as a beautiful cluster of words that you managed to glue together. You don't have to be a poet to write good poetry. As long as you get the poetry on paper, then by my standards, you have the potential to be a POET!

A collection of poems exploring Religion, Love, a Lust for Recognition, and more.

"everyone has anxiety and depression at some point , I might even have it" , at least that what my college friend said to me once , But as I watched her actions , the things she did and reacted to were way different from me. She could speak her mind without hesitation , while I couldn't get the first words out yet. At that moment I knew that those words she used to describe herself had a different meaning for me. MIA was back and she was going to me destroy once and for all.

Short poem, from the perspective of a 'caring' stalker.

This story follows Noah Neville-Tyrus Warren, nicknamed Hero. He's your regularly everyday guy. In the hood. Living with this sickly mother, and struggling with family issue, he comes across a substance that will change his life forever. For the better or worse? His racial identity, his character, his expression, and community is challenged.

Social commentary on the world first from the prospective of young man then the rebuttal by an old man. 1. The young man has the prospective that his vision is clear and sharp 20/20 vision while the old man is cloudy and has failing vision. 2. The old man was once a young man and so understands the prospective of youth but now has wisdom and experience.

Gustong gusto ni Star na makakita ng magic.what if,makakita siya ng totoong magic?anong reaksiyon niya? 99.9 percent will be Failed?? Subaybayan ang storya ni Star sa The Magic

AFRICAN BURDEN by the voice of the soul. They came in ships, cloaked in crosses and crowns, Not to pray with us, but to prey on us. Not to teach us Truth, But to tear it from our Tongues. Chains kissed our wrists like venomous lovers. They ripped our fathers, beat drums out of our mother's breast, and called it Civilization. We bled gold into their coffers. Our diamonds crowned their queens, Our cocoa sweetens their tea, And still they called us Savages. They took our children, not just from wombs But from wisdom - Cut the roots of our languages, burned the libraries in our stories, Then asked why we were silent. In Ghana, in Congo, on plantations from Mississippi to Mauritius, We did not break We bent. Bent under bullets, bent under boots, bent under borders we never Drew, but carry on. They mapped our land, not to understand, But to mine it, divide it, devour it. But listen - Our rivers still run with memory. Our mountains whisper names They tried to erase. Africa is not a wound. She is a warrior. And though her back is burdened, Her spine still sings. We carry Pain, yes. But we carry drums too. Songs still echo in our scars, And our tears water the roots of the generation unbroken.