stories
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On dark pages,the Secret stories!
Revealing the Untold sentiments,intensifying the quries!
The wounded hearts and their warm blood,
Quenching the inside thirst by the red flood!
The lion and jewel,
Book I have understood well,
Today I want Today tell.
Sidi get idea of bale
Teacher whose gender was male,
His name known as Lakunle.
No matter what you say and show
The truth very much, I do know
With me, you cherish to talk
Side by side, you want to walk
Your deepest mind, you wish to share
You also need to breathe fresh air
Inside a huge hollow tree
I must go and sleep
Sleep very deep
Just like a hibernating bear,
Without any fear!
#MywordsOnMycanvas
Saima Qureshi ©️
I: "It's too hard to accept that you are gone."
You: "But the fact is I've, how long this false hope you can keep on?"
I: "It's too hard crying for you, to cease."
You: "But you have to find an inner peace."
the words written on a page
are symbols strewn about
destined one day to fade
and disappear without a sound
perhaps no one will read these words
Dragons and caverns and castles that loom,
Fairies and goblins and forests of doom,
Warriors with spears and and joy in their hearts,
Wizards with wands and tales of far parts,
I want to write tales of bravery.
Of powerful women who stood up against injustice and for kind-hearted men who chose right over what’s left
But these were not my stories
Once I get home, I sit outside after a long day.
Everyone wants to talk to me, but I don't really have anything to say.
I like to keep to myself, because it ensures that I will not be in pain.
At 1 year old, I said my first word. “Mama”, I said in bold, thinking I was already old.
At 3 years old, my parents told me goodnight stories; stories of dreams,
(slam poem, meant to be performed out loud)
Too often, their eyes glaze over.
Mine did too, before, before I stood in front of the burning bush and begged God to reconsider.
Ink on a page
Filled with color
Lines of stories never told
Sequences of secrets
Never unfold
People never breathed into creation
Bring me your poetic thoughts
From far off lands
And daring tales
of adventures you missed.
Show me your wild lies
With wild eyes
And speak poetry
to me.
I pity the souls who fail to see
The wonder and beauty a story can be
Whether it be the delicate blots of black on crisp page
Or the utterings of grand tales around stone set ablaze
Thoughts bleeding
in my head.
Idea's screaming,
in my mind.
A single pen,
in my hand.
The only paper,
I could find.
Unused ink,
written words unsaid.
Inspiration,
the multitude purpose of story-telling
enjoyment, escapism, enlightenment,
lose yourself in a story
lose find yourself through a story
use a story to find your own
I have found the story
Of a young girl who thought she knew the world,
Idealistic and overly-praised as she was,
Running free as her wild ocean eyes.
I have found the story
Can one really tell our lives?
Are they possible to describe?
To list blatant truths
Find the subtle lies
Remember, record, and all in between
Should we do it ourselves?
Paper constantly gets the award for creative potential
Creating Creations with artistic purity that’s essential
There was once a princess in a far away land
Who was offering up her marriage hand
However all the princes that had come a calling
Found her behavior gross and appalling
Hello children,
My name is Peter, Peter Pan
And I am here to introduce you to the magical world known as Neverland
Where children step foot into paradise
Your three pigs, all small roundabout figures
Narcisstic parasites that do all but quiver.
Your three pigs, are found to be dead. It is not my fault, I did not make their bed.
I told you once, twice, now thrice.
When I say "homeless," what do you see?
Someone dressed in dirty clothes, out on the street?
Someone with a cup, asking for change so they can eat?
Someone who struggles to get back on their feet?
Who stole the light from your eyes?
I would say don't give me that face
But I know there must be a reason for it
A reason I cannot solve
Nor stop,
Nor save
Once upon a time,
All the stories and nursery rhymes
floated through the air,
filling the room with magic and hope.
Back when we were innocent,
and didn't know
that that isn't how the world works.
What am I?
To be fair, I'll give you hints.
You may think me clever.
You may think me dull.
Depends on my contents.
This is what hold within.
Within me I hold the key to enteriung new worlds.
The only legend I have ever loved is
The story of greed and a grateful sparrow.
A man was honest
His wife was full of greed
He found a sparrow hurt and scared,
I've been having nightmares about you after the sun leaves the sky,
Every. Single. Freaking. Night.
Telling myself that the info received is dry,
would be telling myself a lie: I repeat, my nightmares are not lies.
My world is empty
my world is full
my world is dark
and harsh but not cruel
my world is old
my world is new
my world is mine only
wish i could show it to you
my world is fast
s t o r y o n eMy Jetpack Blues turned into Danger Days; so the Black Parade stopped long enough for the American Beauty/ American Psycho to pass by. For
Blink
bright light
Sun dances
Across my bare
shoulder blade and cheek
Blink
Pink hands
Grasping sheets
With heavy feet, I treadForcing myself to my bedI lay on my backBreath in and outAttempting not to focus on what I lack
Souls stride with unbridled passion,
Beings coalescing into a society as
A heterogeneous fluid of
Raw, fearlessly flawed humanity.
Yet why is it
one of the saddest things
i've ever known
is the weighted feeling
that comes with understanding
there is some
no so much beauty in
They never talk about this.
They never talk about what happens after.
When the crowds leave.
When the pomp and circumstance has faded.
When there's nothing left but me and him.
My peers look at me.
They expect to see something that I simply am not.
They want to see a good girl.
Who has it all going on.
Grades.
Body.
A strive for excellence.
Originally this was all about emotion,
But in my mind that caused a commotion.
Because I don’t write for the benefit of me,
I write for the enjoyment of little chickadees.
He sailed out to sea to fish a day's wage but the sea did not like him and threw him in rage. The waves got so tall and the sails got so taught, that the little old sailor gave up his day's plot. He huddled down low filling buckets with water to d
Typing inching
Eyelids tiring
Heroes crying
Villains dying
Sleep depriving
Caffeine failing
Planets burning
Magic learning
Resolve crumbling
Block existing.
I could live all by myself,
Yet never be alone.
Two covers and a spine,
Can make a charming home.
Wallpaper of rustling pages,
Songbirds warbling in verse,
How could I stop?
How could I just throw all those years away?
Leave behind that little jewerlry shop?
Act as if my characters don't have a say?
I need to write.
I can’t live without a story.
It’s harsh to say it, but that’s the truth.
When everyone who loves me is gone, if I live on,
I’ll mourn and cry and try to deny it.
But in the end, I will survive—
When my person is forgotten
When my body is rotten, dead
I'll still live on forever
Through the stories in my head
They have strong, brave people
They have weaker ones as well
I wander a street,
Admiring the buildings to either side.
A diverse collection of history
In two-by-fours and I-beams.
Read me a storygrasp me in tightrecall your bedtime luxuriesthat befall be a Goodnight.I'm still waiting. .
I feel so alive in my chimerical head,Lying here in my past, not yet left for dead.I’ve gone places near in a cartographer’s words,But light years away, ‘twixt fire-winged birds.
She traveled for days, in a maze with no direction destined for an escape from depression driven by disaffection
By fate she felt a connection
They ran until he was cuffed into oppression
Later she had a baby on the way
The quill slides over
and into the inkwell
the battle 'gainst evil begins
then promptly the clash
of the two sided sword
rings louder with the side that wins.
a story, a plotline
Earth's memoriesBuried deep in stonesThey remember large creaturesThe cataclysmAnd the fallSometimes they show picturesOr give bonesBut I hear their wordsAnd I write their stories.
Before you
I wrote tradgeties
A tail of woe, that ended with the downfall of the main character
While I loved you
I wrote happily ever after
Somewhere past today standsA shattered, forgotten land.Unrestrained, creeping sandsShift with each breeze's whineHeroes yet to comeSome loved by all, all loved by some
Most people think to much
I'm usually one of them
Except for times when I should
In those moments
I like to tell myself stories
Like when I lose my boyfriend
In a shitty part of town
My mother is weak
And I cannot stand it
She is feeble, stupid, and plain
Who are you?
And where is the woman that I once knew?
You’re a weakling, darling
A scaredy little ghost
She wrote stories to keep her warm at night
Some nights they were blankets curling around her toes and cradling her neck
Other nights they were kindling in the meager fire at her feet
I am not going to give a sob story
I am not going to give a glory story
I do not have any horror stories to give
But if you look into my heart you will see the only story I live
You will see who I am
I could tell she was upset by the way she carried herself. Her back was stick straight up and her fingers were tightly intertwined. I knew that she thought if she looked poise she would have it all together.
This is my happy place, where no one else can intrude,
This is my happy place, where characters are all of my own making
Man, woman, child, teen, mermaid, dragon, toaster
It doesn't matter here, because they're all mine
I reach into the shadows and my hand touches your face,
Every single line of yours my fingers pretend to trace,
I wonder - could this torture last forever?
My love, I'm seeking you in shadows,
Losing you wasn't a part of the plan...
It's hard being me but god didnt plan to make it easy.
You may have lost yourself,
But not me.
I'll always have you in my memories.
But now, you have family and friends there for you.
Even though they'll get mad at you from time to time,
But don't care.
Belle, meaning beauty from the land of France
We remember from the movie how she put Beast into a trance
But remember how her nose was always in a book,
She received taunts from the one who falsely loved her, Hook...
As a child who loved to readI grew up with stories all around me.Stories of courage, of adventure,of little girls who weren't afraid to dream. Those stories shaped me into who I am,
Wildwose and rider
And drowsy nightingale.
Bird in scrubby bushland
Letting sleep prevail.
Bellerophon robber
Pegasus did take
Horsefly was his ruin
Wanderer did make.
I can romanticize anything
Books, jobs, boys
Toys!
This list is endless.
I am a clear romantic at heart
I can spin a tale and have that tale
Be invigorating, special, fun, exciting
I dream of having a story to give.
I’ve never experienced a drive-by shooting, military recruiting,
bank looting. I smell car engines polluting, watch students computing,
and listen to Justin Timberlake suiting.
I used to talk a lot, I don't talk too much now.
Because everyone else is talking,
Most have heard or read
the animated anecdotes of the dead.
They are given with joy and wrapped in a bow -
- stories of life, of music, of love.
But all anecdotes end.
Few ever say or re-claim
Oh Sweet Jesus no, please no, you're at it again
Repeat and- oh, re-repeat? You're not making much sense
Every day with impressive display you walk this way and articulate
Once there was a little girl. That is how this story began.
She was a lost little girl, confused by the world around her.
She had gone into a forest. Deep, deep into the forest she went.
If you don't read, you don't know me.
If you haven't lived a thousand lives
Haven't sighed a thousand sighs
Watched a thousand people die
You can't know me
If you don't read, you don't know me.
From the depths
of dark nothingness
came a person:
the Writer-
walking.
She carried a light
a pointed, glinting weapon
sharply yellow-
illuminating.
It's in the nightwhen I feel myself taking formthe midnight stars clothed in indigo velvetpressing on my flesh, my soulgiving it substance
and I am being born
When I was young
My Daddy read me stories as I drifted to sleep
And I watched in awe
as the peaceful melody of words evolved into symphonic wonder;
a castle, a wish, a hope shone in my Daddy’s eyes.
At seventeen,I am reading the same stories I did at ten:Tamora Pierce, Phillip Pullman, Rick Riordan, Kristen Cashore-and the list goes on.Rented from school libraries and Sulzer regional
Il est de la plus riche couleurCelle d’une cerise mûreOu peut-être d’une fleurQu’on donnerait à son amoureux.
Where would i be without a pencil and paper, a thought or a rhyme? Where would i be without emotion? Where would i be without poetry? How would i express my life to others without a map of guidance?
A couple of smoothe dry pages moved by the soft hands that control ages,of thought and the process, protest of an incapable body,not yet devoloped but getting there,enveloped a sudden hidden share,of a mess.
Whisper, whisper in my ear.
Tell me a story no one wants to hear.
Invite my soul into yours.
Let me walk with you upon the shores.
And when I have drank the thought from your mind,
Along the river I did sit,
Poised with pen and paper,
Prepared to write the stories,
The atrocities, the monstrosities
That had befallen many a soldier.
The rain was cold and nipped the skin,
The Thunder boisterous,
And the Lightning un-disciplined.
It teased the silver Guardian
While the thunder spoke in a lion’s roar
Of the approaching soul.
Sometimes certain situations are just so hard to deal with, other situations are easy, but the hard ones teach you a lesson in life, weather its for the worst or the better.
I often look to the yellow lillies in the garden on campus
Friends pass me and time shifts
Is it not the success that people want?
Or perhaps it's the driven motive in which we attempt to strive
Unjust it truly is,
A million times I’ve told you before
Not to travel alone at dark
It’s impossible to even the score
For there’s a beast within the park
It’s eating the livestock
It’s eating your kin
