StoryBooksMania

Listen, some stories reach your heart because they are meant to be written . I believe we all have some tales to share or to write. We all are, somewhere, searching for some beautiful stories—just so we can understand what the heart wants to say through them. I believe tales are beautiful, whether written or not, because tales are a part of the universe . Whenever I see the sky changing colors, I believe each day holds a new tale. And when you feel lost in the complexities around you, I think looking at the sky—trying to understand its tale—can help you reconnect with your world. Everyone has some words they've always wanted to write down. So if you’re wanting to write one, write it — before it becomes too late to put it on the page and bring it to life. It’s not always necessary that there are ears to listen to your tale, but I think telling your heart is important,  so it doesn't die. Not die in the literal sense, but in a way where it has nothing left to feel. Writing my boo...

Sometimes, we long for the light to find us — the kind of light that reaches us in a way nothing else can. And when it doesn’t, there’s something else that still manages to reach us, something that helps us rediscover ourselves with beauty and peace. Yes, there is something we turn to when we find ourselves completely lost — in moments of deep doubt, distractions, confusion, and the loud, harsh noise of the world. And when we go there, we realize that there is no companion quite as comforting and true as the one we call music . Am I right? Have you ever felt it? The way music enters your ears and goes straight to your soul? The way it vibrates through your bones as if it knows every unspoken emotion within you? Sometimes, when the world feels too loud or too silent, good music arrives like a quiet friend. It doesn’t demand. It doesn’t question. It just stays . In that stillness, we begin to find ourselves again — softly, slowly, beautifully. I’m writing this not just as a listener, but...

Some poems don’t ask to be written—they just arrive. Quietly, slowly, from a place inside we don’t always visit. This is one of those poems. It came from that small, tender space we all carry somewhere inside us. The space where the inner child still lives—the one who once believed someone would come. Someone strong, kind, and certain. Someone to take their hand, walk beside them, and lead them through the storm. This poem is about that child. The one who still waits. Even after all the growing up, all the knowing better. Even after learning that sometimes… no one comes. It’s about the quiet kind of heartbreak—the kind that doesn’t scream or shatter, but just stands there, holding on, hoping. Still. And maybe if you're here, reading this, you know that feeling too. Maybe a part of you has been standing in that same place. This poem is for that part. The soft, forgotten one. Still waiting. Still believing. Still looking for the hand that never came. Let me take you into this qu...