Story cover for The Book by DeadButPleased
The Book
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    Parts 18
  • WpHistory
    Time 56m
  • WpView
    Reads 286
  • WpVote
    Votes 2
  • WpPart
    Parts 18
  • WpHistory
    Time 56m
Ongoing, First published Mar 30, 2016
What is a book really? I think it has many different definitions but in the end there is one defining thing about what a book is. Every book in all of history is made up of letters that form words that form sentences that eventually come together to create a story of some sort. Now the purpose of a book is always different. Sometimes people write books to teach and inform others about a subject. Sometimes people write books to never be seen by anyone else and to simply jot down their daily lives and their deepest secrets. Sometimes people write books to share their unending imagination and incredible worlds and characters they have somehow managed to create in their amazingly vast minds. The list can go on forever. My point is that what I am going to be writing is what I consider a book, however it is a bit different from what your normal book may entitle. In this book I will be sharing my thoughts, my daily life, maybe a short story that I've decided to write. I will write and share anything and everything in here. You don't have to read this if it's something you are uninterested in, but I still want to share this with all of you. I really hope you enjoy my own little version of a book!
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NOW YOU SEE," THE REAL ME" UNDER MAJOR EDITING by darkxdestruction
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NOW YOU SEE "THE REAL ME" #1 IN THE SERIES OF POETRY BOOKS //SAD POETRY EDITION (under major editing) "My heart was taken by you, broken by you, and now it's in pieces because of you" My poems aren't the best. The first few poems may not seem worthy of being read but... later down in the book they get better. To some, my poems are beautiful; to some, my poems are shitty and they are rubbish💀. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!!! I can't promise that your time won't be wasted reading this book. I'm not a professional poet so expect the worst. This book isn't for everyone. It's sad, a little motivating and dark. If you aren't into sad poems don't read this book, it isn't for you. This book contains some of my thoughts,mostly about me or the people around me or just society in general. If you are feeling sad or depressed, please seek help. I know how much it hurts but it isn't too late to heal. Cover made on postermywall ♥*♡∞:。.。♥*♡∞:。.。♥*♡∞:。.。♥*♡∞:。.。♥*♡∞:。.。♥*♡∞:。.。♥*♡∞:。.。♥*♡∞:。.。♥*♡∞:。.。♥*♡∞:。.。♥*♡∞:。 Rankings: #1 in sad poet out of 23 07/25/2021 #2 in deep thought out of 4. 8 K stories 07/25/2021 #2 in thoughts out of 73. 4 K stories 07/25/2021 #3 in sad poems out of 10.1 K stories 07/25/2021 #3 in thoughts and feelings out of 10.1 K stories 07/25/2021 #6 in poet out of 14.3 K stories 07/25/2021 #40 in deep out of 26.6 K stories 07/25/2021 #48 in depressing out of 18. 3 K stories 07/25/2021
A fucking mess of poems dead stories by amberandshadow
70 parts Complete Mature
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.
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voicebox magazine: issue 2

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