Like all stories that come to an end, he became the fiction to her poetry

I could write the most beautiful poetry if I wanted to. But what good is the poetry if it’s complete without you.

The pen moved
as ink met the paper.
It watched
her write him into a poem.
Line by line,
he became the soul of her story.
She couldn’t bear to end it
afraid he’d become
just fiction.
So she set the pen down,
left it unfinished
without a period.

It is not always possible to live in black and white. Colors must be felt.

He’s more than just words, he is poetry

Her soul is a garden, alive with grace,

Colors blooming, a radiant embrace.
Wherever she walks, warmth follows close,

Illuminating hearts with gentle light.

Her words are seeds in the soil of despair,

Sprouting hope in spaces left bare.
She breathes life into the lost and gray,
Nurturing dreams that had slipped away.

Her soul speaks softly, tender and true,
A quiet current flowing through you.
From her depths, she plants the seed,
Life springs forth for those in need.

Through trials and storms, love remains intact
No distance can separate us when love is pure
Time may pass, but love continues to grow
Eyes hold a blaze,
a fire of love that never dies
No power on Earth
can break the bond of love between you and me

Literature is an art and so are you.

He is the whisperer breaking the silence between my thoughts.
He is the ink that colors the page I write.
He is the feeling behind every line I craft.
He is the pulse in my rhyme scheme.
He is the imagery that dances in my mind.
He is more than just words—he is poetry.

She is hard to read—
A book with weathered pages,
Not flawed, but a mystery,
Like the deep volumes of literature and philosophy.

An enlightened thinker,
Shrouded in secrets yet to be uncovered.
She is a puzzle,
Nearly whole,
But with one piece forever absent.

Step into her mind,
And all corners blur into one.
She’ll leave you adrift—
Trapped in an endless maze,
Where every path loops back
To the place you first began.

Who is she?
Ah, that’s me.

Her hair danced in the breeze. A spirit that soared with the wings of an angel
She was both alive and broken
Her eyes were as bright as the moon, while tears rolled down her pale cheeks
Her heart was choking with memories, but she had forgotten what love is and be loved felt like.
There were times when it seemed if time had frozen like a broken record on repeat
All she could hear was the echoes of her lonely heart
She needed to let go so that her heart's scattered pieces could come together
And allow her to be whole again.

I am both the darkness and the light. I cannot pick a side. It is what completes me. I am inseparable.

She sits
in her favorite spot,
sipping coffee
one sip at a time.
Reading her book,
lost in another world.

He passes by,
glancing at her,
wanting to say something,
but thinking she never notices.
He tells himself,
She’s too far lost
between the pages.

But she feels his presence.
When he looks away,
she looks at him
in awe,
how beautiful he is.

She wonders,
Does he know?
That her book stopped making sense
after the first glance.

She’s never really noticed.
She sits, and she’s invisible.
People pass, but no one really sees her.

Wherever she goes,
it’s the same.

She’s used to the silence,
used to being the background,
the empty chair,
the forgotten space.

But then one day,
someone notices.
Her seat is empty,
and he feels it.

He sees her studying in the lounge.
He asks,
“Where were you yesterday?”

And those words
so small,
so simple
meant everything.

She was noticed.
She mattered.
He noticed her.

And for the first time,
her heart stirred
not just because she was seen,
but because it was him.

Some eyes will touch the very essence of your soul

Papers flutter through the air, caught in a silent dance.
A melody hums, sweet and low, where love and silence meet.
The wind whispers secrets, all that's left unsaid.
Each line she writes is for him, his words—
Adding color, giving meaning to her world.

Her dreams of him spill onto ink-stained pages,
Truth unfolding as the papers fall.
A poet's heart, bound to the man she calls her forever home.

I am often criticized by those who think they know better. They say I will never get anywhere. That I am not smart enough, not bright enough.

They tear apart my writing.
Tell me if I work harder, maybe I’ll be almost good enough.

But I know better.
There is a fire in me that speaks with certainty: I am a great writer.

They pick apart my face, my skin, my presence.
They say I’m not beautiful. That I’m flawed.
That I must fix myself, shrink myself, polish myself just to be seen.

But I was born radiant.
I am beauty in its rawest, most powerful form.

They scrutinize my body.
Say I should mold myself into their ideal—if I just starve, strain, sweat enough.

But I already embody power.
My weight is not a flaw. It is mine. It is perfect.

They say I don’t know how to love.
That I must earn the right to be loved in return.

But I do know love.
It pulses through every word I speak, every gesture I offer.
My love is real. Fierce. Honest. Whole.

They try to break me with their words.
To silence me. Shame me. Diminish me.

But still I rise.

They look at me and see a list of flaws.
But I am a force. A woman with endless depth and unstoppable strength.

I walk with my head high.
I carry the weight of this world and still, I rise

He tries to define her poetry
but she’s more than just words.
He tries to analyze her through psychology,
but no theory can hold her.

He studies her like an ancient text,
each symbol more confusing than the last.
She’s a Rubik’s cube
just when he thinks he’s solved her, she shifts to
unsolvable.
And it gives him a headache.

A mystery, yet captivating
and that’s what makes her even more alluring.

She is the brown-eyed girl
who lives in the spaces between his thoughts.