Prosepoetry Histoires

A speaker wrestles with longing, grief, and thwarted devotion. Night, rain, and burning waves mirror an ageless heart consumed by passion and sorrow. Questions of worth and purpose arise-a humble steed seeking redemption, a maestro fearing the loss of his song and belonging, a woman bound by a path shaped by stolen prayer. An unsung hero, wordless with rage, is lost between life and death, propelled only by the hard "steel" counsel of his father-now entombed-that both burdens and guides him. Overall, it's a meditation on love, loss, and the struggle to find meaning under the weight of fate and memory.

What do you do with a truth that has no voice? Smeraldo explores the fragile boundary between memory and numbness. In this collection of prose poetry, the questions don't demand answers, and the pain doesn't move. There are no grand resolutions here-only the quiet, heavy reality of the things we bury in order to survive. A deeply personal, confessional journey through the thoughts whispered only in the dark, capturing the heavy weight of a silence that refuses to lift.

"Some people are like the moon-far away in distance, yet never distant in feelings." 🌙 Still Breathing is a collection of prose about unspoken love, fading memories, midnight thoughts, and the quiet ache of longing. These pages are for the hearts that loved in silence, waited endlessly, lost pieces of themselves, and still chose to keep breathing. For the hearts that broke softly... yet kept breathing. 🌙

Some people leave. Their words don't. Letters I Never Sent is a collection of intimate poems and prose about the kind of love that refuses to disappear long after goodbye. Through unsaid confessions, quiet heartbreaks, memories that linger, and emotions too deep to speak aloud, these pages explore the letters we write in our hearts but never have the courage to send. For anyone who has loved someone they couldn't hold onto, missed someone they couldn't reach, or carried feelings they never found the right moment to express - this book is a reminder that even the words left unwritten have a story. A journey through love, loss, healing, and self-discovery, Letters I Never Sent gives a voice to the emotions we keep hidden and the goodbyes we never truly say.

a short collection of scattered imagination verbalised into words. a love story in different parts. ©️ all poems belong to me. - cover: honeysuckle illustration from vectorstock - i do not own any of the pictures in this book. HIGHEST RANKS - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 🌼 #1 in puisi 🌼 #2 in poesie 🌼 #7 in sajak 🌼 #8 in prose

They Say... Is a collection of prose pieces that takes familiar sayings-and asks whether they were ever true to begin with.

This is a collection of all the words I couldn't say and hidden away in the dark. I hope that you find the exact lines that speak to your own feelings and emotions.

*FEATURED by _ShortStory_, dystopianapocalypse, Fright, and 4 others (all honors inside)* An enthusiastic fetus, a rebellious hound, an android child for sale, 'rain' that brings Happiness, a game that claims to be the key to world peace... the connection? Cavemen. Perhaps, humans have never left their Cave. Perhaps, Humanity is doomed to witness the same woes, the same horrors, not in a world of stones and bone spears but of androids and artificial rain. Deeply metaphorical, this story collection explores the immutability of human nature. Through cross-section story pairs, it draws parallels between snapshots of the Past and Present ("Cavemen" section) and of the Future ("Androids" section). Start date: February 23rd, 2019 End date: May 14th, 2019 Unpublished due to evolving creative interests then republished for personal reasons in 2026

One day they'll know you by your dreams and not your fears.

This book holds no rhymes, but rather fragments of worlds, tactile textures, and scenes painted by the mind with eyes wide open. Each chapter is a coordinate for a new memory, a glimpse of the scent of a farewell...

prose poetry about life. And I apologize if I made any mistake, english is not my first language and so I still do make mistake, just tell me and I'll correct it right away. there is a french version of the poems in another book (with the same title)

i think better than i write, i write better than i speak. the versions of me that learned how to exist only in sentences, and the thoughts that refused to leave even when i tried to outgrow them.

A collection of poems romanticizing the trivial and finding beauty in the simplicity of life.

From high above the world, a bird watches a species unlike any other. They build, they destroy, they love, they grieve, they gather, and they scatter. Unable to understand the contradictions of the creatures below, the bird begins a lifelong search for the meaning hidden within humanity's fractured flock.

A suite in progress. Some movements are written in certainty and others are written in the middle of the storm. This is not a story with a plot, nor a memoir looking back with crystal clarity. It is a collection of movements composed in intense yet complex feelings at the moment, each preserving a season exactly as it was lived. A prelude of identity, a scherzo of pressure, a fugue of unraveling, a lament of unanswered prayers, and whatever comes next, hence modulations... Written without the privilege of hindsight, these pages explore ambition, faith, grief, perfectionism, music, family, financial hardship, and the quiet fear of becoming someone you no longer recognise. Each movement remains a snapshot, a timestamp of a mind trying to make sense of itself while life continues to modulate around it. Perhaps there will one day be a final movement. Until then, the suite remains unfinished. P.S Look out for the stylistic contrasts between the different movements, some are more poetic and prose-like, whereas some are lyrical or perhaps descriptive.

The initial darkness transforms into an abyss of water. I no longer see the bathroom; only a deep blue, almost black, plunging downward without end. Gray shadows drift around me-perhaps predators, perhaps mere illusions. It doesn't matter. In the midst of that vast nothing, I hear the beating of my heart, a loud, stubborn echo I don't understand why it keeps insisting. Then, the body disappears. I try to move my arms and legs, but they no longer obey me. They are no longer flesh; now they are thousands of loose threads, fine filaments of crystal that unfurl and float in the current. The pain dissolves. I feel nothing. I forget how to breathe. I try to scream, I try to name the sad beauty of this emptiness, but the words no longer emerge from me. I float. I let myself drift. The blue grows denser, darker, but it never becomes absolute black. It is only a constant flow. I don't know if I have finally become a jellyfish, or if I am simply dreaming again tonight. Perhaps tomorrow I will wake up and the torment will continue. Or perhaps, even if only for a few moments, I have found the peace I have been searching for in this eternal shipwreck.

secrecy flows through you, a different kind of blood.

Not a story, just a bunch of stuff at night in my notes app when I felt like experiencing an existential crisis wasn't enough. I just write when I'm bored 🥱, so don't expect to read peak writing.

Some rooms are loud enough to make a person disappear inside them. This is a quiet, lyrical story about emotional exhaustion, the words we swallow to keep the peace, and the small return to ourselves that begins when we stop mistaking numbness for calm.