Poet Stories

❝𝐇𝐞 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐁𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐞 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐎𝐰𝐧 𝐇𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐈𝐭 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐇𝐞𝐫❞ Book One Of Obsession Series 𝐕𝐞𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐡 × 𝐈𝐫𝐚 𝐕𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬.𝐁𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐚𝐥.𝐔𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞. This is what they call him, Veeransh Thakur, a 30-year-old businessman and a Mafia. He rules with power, where life and death mean nothing and enemies only make him stronger. He rarely shows emotions, and when he does, it's never without meaning. For four years, he has been in love with his best friend's sister silently, dangerously. But, Veeransh has one rule: never get attached. Yet the moment he truly lets himself feel, the line between control and obsession begins to blur. _______________ 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞.𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐦.𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭. This is Ira Rajvansh, a 22-year-old second-year college student. Soft-hearted and kind, she is good at everything except cooking. She dreams of becoming a dancer and opening her own dance academy one day. She has never been in love, never even had the chance until she meets him. But her world shifts when she realizes the man she feels drawn to is her brother's best friend and the most dangerous man she could ever fall for. Their worlds were never meant to collide one built on power, danger, and control, the other on dreams, warmth, and quiet strength. Yet fate pulls them closer. Where he sees a weakness he cannot afford, she sees a man no one else tries to understand. And somewhere between fear and desire, they become each other's greatest weakness and the only place that feels like home.

"I'll be fine as long as I keep hearing your heartbeats against me, Bambi." "..." "I hear you, don't worry. Even if you can't voice yourself out, I still hear you. And I love you." In which their story begins like a fairytale, and ends like a Greek tragedy. OR In which Chan accidentally finds a girl, untouched by the harshness of the world, and falls head over heels for her. Seeking the perfect love with the perfect girl, for a brief moment, everything is a dream... until reality calls for them again, and the dream shatters. - a Bang Chan fanfiction - romance + angst - slice of life - yes, I'm deranged enough to do this to you (and you'll see exactly why)

poetry :))))) ( but I suck mb g)

🍷 Welcome to the AMUSE BOUCHE CONTEST! 🍷 An amuse-bouche is a small bite offered by the chef to showcase their style before the meal begins. This contest celebrates the literary equivalent: opening lines, first paragraphs, first chapters, summaries, and covers that leave readers hungry for more. Whether you write poetry, fanfiction, or original works, this is your chance to prove that first impressions matter. Captivate us. Intrigue us. Tempt us to keep reading.

A series of poems that I wrote from the bottom of my heart and I hope that it resonates with you.

A cathartic poetry collection.

Bad Poetry Society Please give it a try.

. ۫ ꣑ৎ . 𝗔 𝗿𝗲𝗽𝗲𝗿𝘁𝗼𝗶𝗿𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝗿𝗵𝘆𝗺𝗲𝘀 𝘄𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗻 𝗯𝘆 𝗺𝗲 𝗶𝗻 𝗺𝘆 𝟮𝟬𝘀. ִ ࣪𖤐.ᐟ 𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼 🐢 Rankings: #10 in poetry (out of 345K stories) #7 in poem (out if 212K stories) #1 in poembook (out of out of 18K stories) #1 in poemcollection (out of 11.9K stories) #2 in poetrycollection (out of out of 37.6K stories) #2 in freeverse (out of out of 8.03K stories) #3 in prose (out of out of 9.88K stories) #4 in lovepoem (out of 8.84K stories) #4 in rhyme (out of 6.17K stories) #5 in poet (out of 18.9K stories) ────୨ৎ──── 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗼𝗼𝗸 𝗰𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗮𝗿𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗯𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗲𝗱𝗶𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗺𝗮𝗱𝗲 𝗯𝘆 𝗺𝗲: @𝗸𝗼𝗼𝗯𝗶𝗲𝘀𝗯𝘂𝗻𝗯𝘂𝗻 All images/gifs used in this book belong to the original owners. No copyright infringement intended. ©️ 𝗸𝗼𝗼𝗯𝗶𝗲𝘀𝗯𝘂𝗻𝗯𝘂𝗻 𝗗𝗼 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆, 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗻𝘀𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝗼𝗿 𝗿𝗲𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗱𝘂𝗰𝗲. 𝗦𝘁𝗿𝗶𝗰𝘁 𝗹𝗲𝗴𝗮𝗹 𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗯𝗲 𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲𝗻. 𝗣𝗹𝗮𝗴𝗶𝗮𝗿𝗶𝘀𝗺 𝗶𝘀 𝗮 𝗰𝗿𝗶𝗺𝗲.🚨

A collection of journals written in the quietest hours, during the loudest cries no one ever hears. Bleeding ink flows from her heart, engraving pain with every stroke on the page. Page after page is marked with stained tears, a signature of unbearable sorrow. Every fragment of memory is preserved, never forgotten.

My 7th poetry book. My heart's contents poured out before your very eyes. 27 March 2026 - The Present

My adolescence poetry collection

Grave of Unsaid Words is a collection of poems born from the silences I once carried. The conversations that never happened, the confessions that never crossed my lips, and the feelings buried. This collection is an invitation to walk among those memories, to revisit what was cherished, mourn what was lost, and find beauty in the things that remained unfinished.

Enjoy a private glimpse into my mind, which is not given even to those closest to me. I hope you can find a friend in the words on your screen. I don't have an upload schedule; it may be a long time between uploads. I'm just writing when the inspiration hits. Some of the earlier poems are kinda shitty (Like really bad). They are some of my first-ever poems, so please don't judge based on the first ones. They get better, I swear. 😭 P.S. Feel free to correct any grammatical errors in my writing. I am by no means a professional, and I'm sure I have made many mistakes.

In Observation of Motion is a body of poems that wrestles with the act of being alive in a world both mundane and surreal, where grief and bureaucracy, faith and futility, intimacy and absence blur into one another. These pieces move like witnesses: they catalog the ordinary and then peel back the veneer to reveal what lies underneath - rot, ritual, memory, God, and the absurd machinery of human systems. Structured as fragments of testimony, prayers, and stage directions, the work explores how the personal collides with the institutional. Grief is itemized like a bill, death is announced in boardroom chants, and survival itself is measured in "resources." Yet within this indictment lies tenderness - apples falling, seeds bursting red, children shadow-kicking, stars stitched into constellations by invisible thread. The voice in these pages is restless and searching. It questions authority while laying bare the internal monologues of guilt, hunger, and longing. It does not seek to resolve contradiction but to hold it - to witness motion, even in stillness. In Observation of Motion reads like both an elegy and a performance - it insists on remembering what systems erase, and on naming what is often left unsaid.

i never felt special at all, just a ghost in the silence, waiting for an end to crawl. © Trinauthentic_2024

𝐁𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐧 𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝘏𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦. 𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘮 𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨. He said it wasn't love. Just lust. Just skin. Just sin. But the way he looked at her told another story, one written in bruises, bitten lips, and poems he'd never let her read. Nathan was supposed to die. scarred lungs, fractured soul, and a life stitched together by betrayal. But death didn't want him. So now he's cursed with time...and her. Aylin was never meant to see him again. Not after that night, 30,000 feet in the air. Not after he tasted her, claimed her, and disappeared. But fate is cruel. And Nathan? Even crueler. Now they meet in the dark. No labels. No promises. Just heat. They're not in love. They don't do love. They do bruises and breathless nights, sharp tongues and softer lies. They do madness. She secretly wants to fix him. He openly wants to break her. And neither of them can stop. This isn't a love story. This is a slow, exquisite destruction. And neither of them will survive it whole.

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.

in times like these it's how it has to be

كعـجاجٍ على الطّلـل، ويبَابٍ معِ الوَهن. يا نفسُ لا تناجِي إلّـا لتتلاعجِي، ولا تَطربِي إلا لتذرفِي. يا ابنـةَ الأرضِ رفقًا حتى لا يضطرمَ السّـدم، ما ألفَى الإنسُ من وجودهِ إلا القـتَم. نوائبُ الدَّهر ما ثنَت اليراعَ، كمدادٍ بسطَ سلطنتهُ على الصَّحيفةِ والورق. «ما يُـنشر ليسَ محرِّضًا أو ليكون مُخِلًّـا بالدين والأخلاق، بَل كُتبَ ليكونَ مليئـًا بمَا استعصَى على محدودِ الرؤيـةِ فهمهُ.» التصنيف : خـواطِر

The storm said to the wall, "I rage to give you purpose." And then the storm said to me, "I rage to give you life."