Metaphores Stories

Across vast lands and quiet moments, his journey unfolds. This is a journey of something small, and the courage to begin.

A collection of poems about everything and nothing:)

"You don't build a future in a town you're passing through, Harry," she replied, her voice barely steady. "I'm not passing through." "You always are." Harry Styles was a man defined by the exit sign. Between the sold-out stadiums, the hazy recording studios, and a life lived through a tour bus window and private jet, he was a ghost in motion. He was the man who left; she was the one who stayed behind, rooted in the hills of Arezzo like the perennials in her garden, blooming in a cycle he never stayed long enough to see. . Exhausted by the glare of fame, Harry retreats to a quiet town on the outskirts of Arezzo, seeking refuge from the expectations that have defined his life. In a modest house with a serene, vibrant garden, he rediscovers stillness and simplicity, finding comfort in small routines and the quiet rhythm of daily life. But even in this hidden corner of Tuscany, human connection finds a way in, stirring curiosity, trust, and the gentle possibility of something more.

some songs i wrote sometime. this album is the middle, not the beginning nor end. please take it as such.

"You cannot grow a new life without getting your hands dirty in the soil of your past." 🌻 2026 Complete Collection 🌻 Woven with the dark elegance of traditional floral symbolism, this collection of poetry maps the lifecycle of emotional pain and the agonizing, beautiful process of inner growth. From the choked, unlit corners of childhood neglect to the sharp thorns of adult anxiety, the speaker navigates a fractured internal landscape. But a garden cannot stay frozen forever. Through rituals of grief, necessary goodbyes, and the hard work of tending to old wounds, these poems show that even the most toxic soil can eventually cultivate a quiet, unyielding freedom. For anyone who has ever been broken, buried, and forced to grow anyway. ⚠️ CONTENT WARNING: This collection contains deep explorations of mental health struggles, childhood trauma, emotional neglect, and family toxicity. Reader discretion is advised.

Some stories don't end - they linger, like April rain on quiet days. 𝑨𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒂 is a collection of moments that exist in the in-between - where beginnings feel uncertain, endings arrive softly, and emotions refuse to fade completely. Each poem captures fragments of connection, loss, growth, and quiet realization, unfolding like petals that never fully close. This is not a book of perfect endings. It is a book of almosts, echoes, and afterglow - of feelings that stay long after they should have left. Step gently into 𝑨𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒂, where every page holds a piece of something once felt, and never entirely forgotten. This collection contains poems written for Versification by Poetry Ambassadors profile @Poetry.

LIFE, It is a messed up thing but darling so are we, High on emotions, Lost in freaking dreams, Tied up with the idea of love, LIFE IS STRANGE, IT IS A MYSTERY, A QUESTION, LIFE IS YOU AND ME.

just a place where I express my words with literature

Every flower has a meaning. Some represent love. Some represent healing. Some represent remembrance. But in a small nursery called Valley Bloom, three flowers carry something deeper - the stories of those who survived dragons, storms, and war. And sometimes... the people who need those flowers most walk through the door. Three strangers. Three battles survived. A valley of fire, a storming sea, and a field of forgotten grief. Years later, fate brings them to the same quiet place... a small nursery where flowers carry stories of survival. Some blooms are more than just flowers. Sometimes, they are memories.

Some people love loud. I write for the ones who love by noticing. This is Poems by Revu Krishna, a garden of verses where petals unfurl slowly, rivers whisper secrets, and fragments align in someone's eyes. You can expect monsoon melancholy, soft romance, nature that feels, and the art of being seen without shouting. If you've ever been the wildflower in forest silences, this is for you.

"No one knows about the storm that exists only inside." What happens when the face you show the world is perfectly calm, but your interior world is collapsing? This collection is a surrealist, verse-by-verse journey through a metaphorical house of trauma and healing. From the exhausting effort of forcing a smile to the terrifying weight of a panic attack that feels like a heartbeat ticking inside the walls, these poems give a voice to the silent struggles we refuse to acknowledge. Step inside. Face the rooms. Confront the storm.

Poems I wrote when I'm bored. Feel free to read and join me in my adolescent years 😆

Short and instense passages of connections between nature, everyday objects and life. EJB -_- :)

Where the flower blooms, the butterfly follows. She blooms quietly, like a flower waiting for sunlight. He drifts through life like a butterfly-drawn to beauty, terrified to land. When their paths cross, something shifts: her kindness becomes pollen he can't help but carry, and his silence becomes the wind that stirs her petals. But even the softest connection can change everything.

"Excuse me, mister, but why did everything suddenly turn black and white?" A miserable adult who prefers to ignore everything, including their dying father. A concerned neighbor/friend/something more with curious connections. A taxi driver who doesn't bother to ask where the passenger wants to go. And a cat with unclear intentions. Where will this journey lead to, if anywhere? --------------------------------------------------------- • Based on prompt #9 of ONC. • Started: February 2, 2023 • Ended: November 15, 2023

I woke up in a hospital like room in a full fled panic and unable to do a thing about it because everything about me was paralyzed. My heart wouldn't listen and my breaths stubbornly decided to stay calm and steady. I was screaming at the top of my lungs, but my mouth became soundproof. Everything was paralyzed, including my mind, because I couldn't remember who the heck I am. I'm a jigsaw puzzle being thrown together in a rapid motion, but more than half of the pieces are missing and some aren't even mine to begin with.

found this in my old diary where I used to write erratic things like this 12 years ago. Thought it would make a good post after so long, enjoy reading this abomination, thank you

A love letter to my first love that ended improperly.

They said it was love. It was just pain in disguise.

"Pocket of Desire: Her Rule; His Game" is a sharp, rhythmic exploration of power, obsession, and the silent reversal of control, where the line between the hunter and the hunted blurs.