Trash Book of Extra.
- LETTURE 1,125
- Voti 23
- Parti 85
Completa ven, ott 1, 20212h 41m
Warning: I am a weirdo.
This will contain some thoughts of mine, some poems, some deep shit, some thoughts I have as I go through the journey of self-exploration, lmao.
Some chapters may be seen as too controversial but whatever you know. I mean, reading this is your choice. You don't have to. I mean, I'd like you all to read every chapter but it's not a story book so you may skip some chapters you don't like and read the ones that you do like.
P.S. I do not deny that my thoughts are somewhat influenced by my environment and experiences.
Also, this is the real me.
Some people think I'm quiet and cold-hearted but on the inside I'm actually a big softie with feelings. To be honest, it's kinda my fault since I hate revealing my emotions to other people or even asking for help until I have to. And even then, I start hating myself for being such a weakling.
That is a major character flaw of mine that I must overcome!
Tutti i diritti riservati
#203
poetry
Entra a far parte della più grande comunità di narrativa al mondoFatti consigliare le migliori storie da leggere, salva le tue preferite nella tua Biblioteca, commenta e vota per essere ancora più parte della comunità.
Potrebbe anche piacerti
Blood in the Margins: a collection of different poems, unfinished potential
FINISHED AND COMPLEATED. Just poems, I suppose. Or maybe a scrapbook of scars. A chaotic collage of half-born stories, abandoned plots, and feelings too loud to ignore. This isn't a novel. It's a graveyard of unwritten books- stitched together with ink and impulse. A little trauma here, a little heartbreak there. Addiction. Bad parents. Dangerous love. The usual mess. I never claimed to be a poet, but pain has a way of teaching rhythm. And when the stories in my head refused to become chapters, they became verses instead. My father? A ghost in flesh. A man who cradled needles more tenderly than he ever held me. He is an addict. A lover of oblivion. And I, the daughter left behind in the smoke of his escape. Does that make me a girl with "daddy issues"? Or just a girl still learning how not to bleed from wounds she didn't choose? This book is for the overthinkers, the almost-authors, the ones who feel too much and write too little- until the words finally spill out like blood on the page. Welcome to the ride. There's no exit. But there's poetry in the wreckage. Author's Note I didn't set out to write a book. I set out to survive my own mind. This is what happens when you have too many stories, too many ghosts, and not enough discipline to finish a single novel. So instead, I wrote poems- or something like them. Fragments. Feelings. Flashbacks. A scrapbook of the soul. Some of these pieces are fiction. Some are memory. Some are just what happens when you stare at the ceiling too long and let your thoughts rot into poetry. If you've ever had a thousand ideas and no idea where to start- if you've ever felt too broken to write but too full not to- this is for you. Thanks for riding with me. There's no map. No neat ending. Just the wreckage, and the words we make from it.Completa
Shit Happens
This is for anyone that can't put there thoughts and feelings into words. Whether it be at your best, worst, most beautiful, or most tragic times. These poems will remind you of them. Or so I hope. Because I mean Shit Happens. What you should expect from this book: I am not trying to make excuses for why I push so many people away, I am not trying to make excuses for my actions, I don't get excuses, not anymore, No, I am merely providing explanations, If you don't like them, If you don't except them, If you just don't care, Then that's on you, Because I will not answer the question why anymore, I will bare my soul to you in the folds of these pages, Not saying a word, These are my explanations, These are me, Do with them as you will. And I mean, just don't be an asshole. Thanks. Kisses <3Completa
"It didn't have to be this way"
There is a world out there where I could have been happy. Where we could have been friends, and you could have benefited from what I know. Unfortunately, we don't live there. This is not a romance novel. Do not think this is a romance. Not all mobile devices will be able to show all the text accurately, as I use fonts as a conveyer of mental health. Warning Every warning you can think of. There will be gore rape torture and what is worse. Also, I make stories by writing the story plot and everything, and rewriting it to fit in the small details. The chapters all the final ones but the story itself has been finished.
Resilience
I never planned on telling my story. Truth is, I've spent most of my life holding it in, swallowing the pain, laughing off the shade, putting on a mask when deep down I was fighting battles no one could see. But the older I got, the more I realized silence can eat you alive. And if I don't tell it raw and unfiltered, then who will? This book isn't polished for perfection. It's not sugarcoated, it's not dressed up to make anyone comfortable. It's me, The struggles, the lessons, the laughter, the embarrassing moments, the heartbreaks, the love, the shady comebacks, the nights I thought I wouldn't make it, and the mornings I woke up ready to fight again. I named this book Resilience because that's exactly what my life has been about. No matter how many times I was knocked down by people I loved, by family pressure, by toxic love, by my own mistakes, I got back up. Bruised, maybe. Bitter, sometimes. But never broken. So if you're holding this book, know this is, you're not reading some perfect fairytale. You're stepping into my world. One filled with chaos, comedy, culture, love, and pain that shaped me into the person I am today. And maybe, just maybe, you'll find pieces of yourself in these pages too. This is my story. Raw. Real. Resilient.
Poetry At Its Finest
Hi guys!! My name is Nyia and I'm kinda new to this "author" and "publishing my own work" type of thing. But a good friend and of mine and fellow Wattpadder (by the name of AshleyPCole if you don't know her go follow and read her works as well) convinced and inspired me to post my own works so that's what I'm here to do. You've read poetry, you've heard of Spoken Word, but you've never felt MY poetry and heard MY words. There's emotion (tons of that to be quite frank), there's lyricism, there's basically something in my writing for everybody and I'm sure you'll find it and fall in love with it. Plus, no one has really known about the pieces that I am about to share with you, so consider yourselves some lucky readers . As I previously stated in my opening, I am a new author/writer, this is my FIRST Wattpad book, and I hope you enjoy. Please vote and leave comments/feedback everything is big help believe me. Love, NyiaCompleta
Petals of my moonflower
Red isn't always romance, sometimes it's blood, Moon isn't always for lovers, but sometimes for secret cries, Flowers aren't always for marriage, but sometimes for grave, Petals aren't always soft, sometimes they prick the soul. No plagiarism/No hatred plz. Also some things might contain mature contents like self harm. I want to say those kinds of suicidal poems are not to inspire anyone to self harm. I'm strictly against self harm myself. Those thoughts are just a means to release myself. Started writing this book around 25th June, 2021Completa
Live Outside
*COMPLETED* Over the years, I'd written many pieces of writing, and shared barely a fraction of them here. As of 2022, I found myself back here again, and in dire need of somewhere to write, and somewhere to share it. This is a collection of poems covering various states of emotion throughout a journey of healing, along with a few of my best from years before. I hope you all enjoy the journey I took through writing all of this.Completa
healing is not linear - A Memoir by Frances Edelstein
FINAL VERSION NOW AVAILABLE ON AMAZON: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0846QJQ86?ref=knfdg_R_twm_yes No one's life is perfect--and mine is no different. On the outside, you might see me as a young woman that was raised in the most perfect life; both parents, an upper-middle-class home, a safe neighborhood. This is all true, yes, but the worst of my struggles were things that many people didn't see: my mental health. In this book, I share all my struggles with my eating disorder, anxiety, depression, and the things that go along with it. My goal in writing this is letting you know that you, the reader, are never alone. There are people like me that care about you, that understand how hard it can be. Hopefully this book with give you clarity about some things you've been dealing with, and maybe give you some peace of mind and directions on how to navigate through these hard times. Please, keep fighting. We need you. Much love!Completa
FINISHED AND COMPLEATED. Just poems, I suppose. Or maybe a scrapbook of scars. A chaotic collage of half-born stories, abandoned plots, and feelings too loud to ignore. This isn't a novel. It's a graveyard of unwritten books- stitched together with ink and impulse. A little trauma here, a little heartbreak there. Addiction. Bad parents. Dangerous love. The usual mess. I never claimed to be a poet, but pain has a way of teaching rhythm. And when the stories in my head refused to become chapters, they became verses instead. My father? A ghost in flesh. A man who cradled needles more tenderly than he ever held me. He is an addict. A lover of oblivion. And I, the daughter left behind in the smoke of his escape. Does that make me a girl with "daddy issues"? Or just a girl still learning how not to bleed from wounds she didn't choose? This book is for the overthinkers, the almost-authors, the ones who feel too much and write too little- until the words finally spill out like blood on the page. Welcome to the ride. There's no exit. But there's poetry in the wreckage. Author's Note I didn't set out to write a book. I set out to survive my own mind. This is what happens when you have too many stories, too many ghosts, and not enough discipline to finish a single novel. So instead, I wrote poems- or something like them. Fragments. Feelings. Flashbacks. A scrapbook of the soul. Some of these pieces are fiction. Some are memory. Some are just what happens when you stare at the ceiling too long and let your thoughts rot into poetry. If you've ever had a thousand ideas and no idea where to start- if you've ever felt too broken to write but too full not to- this is for you. Thanks for riding with me. There's no map. No neat ending. Just the wreckage, and the words we make from it.
Più dettagliLinee guida sui contenuti