Tag: poetry

And This Is Why You Must Write.

Posted on by villaalexisf

If you’ve outlived a loved one, 

It’s their remnants in the mundane 

The freshens each hurt. The dust 

Collecting on their shoes, the absence 

Of footsteps on the stairs, and the silence 

Of each evening. Youth left with the last time 

You opened the front door. Keys fumbled through 

The lock and we wasted the years humbled by 

The unkept dreams of childhood. I am fully

Functional but not really. I forget the shape

Of his eyebrows when frustrated and his grin 

When victorious. From where I sit, he is still 

There, tucked within journals and poems

I wrote to keep him alive – through this

He will outlive me. 

Through All The Things You Cannot Change

Posted on by villaalexisf

You sleep like a child. Start the slumber induced 
Time warp to breeze through the inevitable 
Like a montage. The mundane you cannot escape: 
The long commute home, reckless conversations, 
Basic hygiene, forced pleasantries, society’s fun-filled 
Pendulum. Power through and pretend you’re too tired. 
You are not exceptionally exhausted, just perpetually so. 

Let’s make believe you are in charge of your life. 
Stuck and in awe of people who have everything 
Pieced together and crumbling at the same time.
You are not trash but you’re no one’s treasure either. 
With your fingers you can feel the earth, your eyes 
Can process photons, just sensory spares of the universe,
Dwindling and disassociating. Don’t ask me 
If I feel the same way. I’m too distracted to notice.

A Blue Faucet

Posted on by villaalexisf

Water ran out. The pipes were dry. 
There was no telling whether
The faucet was close or open. 
Just tightly turned clockwise or counter-
Clockwise. I still live there, waiting
For random rations or rain. Fooling myself 
Of this impermanence. The plumbing 
Brittle: from moss to dust to decay. I stay
And rot as the dirt engulf me. On lucky days, 
I bathe. At my luckiest, I am clean, 
And at my lowest, I write. 

How I Feel About My MFA Thesis:

Posted on by Dyne

Ahead of the tapestry, a weaver 

Does not philosophize about the thread.

Shed. Pick. Beat. Repeat. Not relishing 

In completion, only fixating on

pushing the weft into place. 

And yet, here I am, blocking 

the stark sunlight with the promise

of a curtain. They lift and lower with 

Control. Altered tension breaks 

The monotony of color. Rhythmic but 

Not musical. I celebrate at every beat, 

Grin at each syllable that’s stuck 

In the drafts formed by fleeting discipline. 

Unable to finish. Unable to let go.

RPF

Posted on by Dyne

He was fast, smart and tried
To scribble through the great war
Scrambled through numbers
In desperation or drought he fought
For his wife or for science – I can’t
Tell the difference. How could he live
Her last few months speaking
In coded letters that required someone
Else’s eyes. And then whatever was to him are numbers was someone else incinerated on the other side.


No one there put a bullet through someone’s brain, at least a helmet could
Catch it. Eureka! meant death, instant,
Unknowing, or unfollowed by pain.
No one dares to light the third match. 

February 12, 3 a.m.

Posted on by Dyne

Hello again! This is Dyne trying to write.


TY for reading: 🙈



Lose someone long enough, They
Become an idea – a pretty picture
Filtered from the chaos. Who would’ve
Thought that abuse would look so pretty
Through rose colored time. Curses can echo
As ghostly sonnets that bounce through
Decaying walls, which, if given the courage
I could even retrieve. All that I declared
As affection, you once took to fault,
Now seems like an oath I needed to keep.
When struck hard enough with the burden
of loss, the years could fool anyone.

Another Poem!

Posted on by Dyne

Here’s my worst. Sift through

The remnants of any redeemable trait.

In frustration or for entertainment. Yet

You are here dismantling by the second

Through careful movements yet secretly hoping

For an explosion, a chance for the satisfying

sigh of “I told you so.” Only you would

Unbox complex equipment without flipping

through the instructions and curse when the parts

unravel at the slightest fluctuations.

My turn to say, “I told you so.”