I am Dylan Wright, and I recently graduated from Florida Atlantic University with a Bachelor of Arts in English. This is a creative writing blog that will be dedicated to exactly that; sharing some of my work with other artists here on Tumblr. I am actually a nice guy, and I'm always open to constructive criticism, so please do not hesitate to speak with me.

(All original writing posted directly to this blog is copyrighted to me unless otherwise specified). (Anything reblogged from other blogs, therefore, is NOT mine).

Creative Commons License
My Work

Fiction

Project: Serial Killer Poetry

Project: Tales of Jake and Otis

Project: Sestina to a Friend in Flight

Featured

5th September 2013

Post reblogged from Stories from a Farther Room with 9 notes

For the unapproachable

I am a wither edged
favorite photo

ripped from the book,
and drowned in the sea.

I keep trying to curse
distractions, but I shouldn’t
be bothered by the thought that
breathing is a hard thing,
subjective under persuasion of waves.

I’d make something for the sea,
regardless, though,
it’s owned by the city.
I’d look and recoil
from what I’ve done,
and the roads would rush back in.

Sketches on paper don’t help
in the long run;

staring at the blots made for comfort,
that I’ve done something
for the rush I find in the water,

it’s apparent I cannot belong.

The city will go on ahead,
in smog, years ahead
in its brilliance with light,
and housing at night,
with the ocean by its side,

and I’ll be buffered by
waves, and blotted
from sight.

Tagged: poetryspilled inkcreative writingDylan Wrightrevisedrevisionit really needed an overhaulI like this betterI really have a thing for drowning apparently

5th September 2013

Post with 9 notes

For the unapproachable

I am a wither edged
favorite photo

ripped from the book,
and drowned in the sea.

I keep trying to curse
distractions, but I shouldn’t
be bothered by the thought that
breathing is a hard thing,
subjective under persuasion of waves.

I’d make something for the sea,
regardless, though,
it’s owned by the city.
I’d look and recoil
from what I’ve done,
and the roads would rush back in.

Sketches on paper don’t help
in the long run;

staring at the blots made for comfort,
that I’ve done something
for the rush I find in the water,

it’s apparent I cannot belong.

The city will go on ahead,
in smog, years ahead
in its brilliance with light,
and housing at night,
with the ocean by its side,

and I’ll be buffered by
waves, and blotted
from sight.

Tagged: poetryspilled inkcreative writingDylan Wrightrevisedrevision

27th June 2013

Post with 27 notes

Lost to the Skies

Behind the curtains
blurs an apocalypse,

and it seems to me
the city has become blanketed
by tundra nothing could live in,

and those that do are parasitic
undead I cannot live with.

Memory can be a knife
waiting at your door,
harboring that smile you lived for,
once before.

With them
left paradise

in a crescendo;
the apex I’d strived for
rose in splendor,
and in a surge, vanished
as a fog before winter.

And so I’ve spent the days indoors
for the love of nothing
but passing time,

aware that what success I’d made,
the apparitions of strength and courage,
had come down to an affirmation:

Somebody out there has found value in me —
but that, too, has lifted with the fog.

Tagged: poetrypoemspilled inkcreative writingartists on tumblrwordsDylan Wrightrevisedsecond last line annoyed me

8th August 2012

Link reblogged from Stories from a Farther Room with 12 notes

Night Watching →

Silence is dead weight,
burdening me over time;

I have failed to reach you.

On the terrace, you’d lock your gaze
on the lamplight across the ways,
blinded from the roads and passersby; –

and the ocean’s not so far away –

you’d crush the balcony rail,
so that you might not fall,
resting in the comfort of guidance
I could never give you.

By the lamp a party blared;
spirits, time and laughter were shared.

That mirth is a weighted lie to you;
a new day waits
behind compressed hours attached to a spring,
launching them back in a ferocious sling.

World sickness bruises once the spirits have gone.

You’d rather cherish the company of the sea
(where the waves would whisk the weight away),
guided by current onto the shore,
or to the fantasy out in the vast.

Tagged: poetryspilled inkcreative writingrevisionrevisedyes I'm reblogging this revision again

7th August 2012

Link reblogged from Stories from a Farther Room with 12 notes

Night Watching →

Silence is dead weight,
burdening me over time;

I have failed to reach you.

On the terrace, you’d lock your gaze
on the lamplight across the ways,
blinded from the roads and passersby; –

and the ocean’s not so far away –

you’d crush the balcony rail,
so that you might not fall,
resting in the comfort of guidance
I could never give you.

By the lamp a party blared;
spirits, time and laughter were shared.

That mirth is a weighted lie to you;
a new day waits
behind compressed hours attached to a spring,
launching them back in a ferocious sling.

World sickness bruises once the spirits have gone.

You’d rather cherish the company of the sea
(where the waves would whisk the weight away),
guided by current onto the shore,
or to the fantasy out in the vast.

Tagged: poetryspilled inkcreative writingrevisionrevised

17th June 2012

Post reblogged from Stories from a Farther Room with 12 notes

It’s All Gone

"The skytops will bow to us one day,
and in the tropic breeze of fame —

among coconut cocktails and beaches,
swimming in custom custard pools
(and we laughed
in remembrance of a favorite phrase)

— we will age,
until rocking chairs lull us to the graves
readied near our poppy fields,”

I had vowed in youth,
offering a ring of diamond words;

but if only promises could compress
under the force of time,
like diamonds caged within the dark,
enduring the weathers of social duress.

Tagged: poetryspilled inkcreative writingrevised

30th April 2012

Post with 12 notes

It’s All Gone

"The skytops will bow to us one day,
and in the tropic breeze of fame —

among coconut cocktails and beaches,
swimming in custom custard pools
(and we laughed
in remembrance of a favorite phrase)

— we will age,
until rocking chairs lull us to the graves
readied near our poppy fields,”

I had vowed in youth,
offering a ring of diamond words;

but if only promises could compress
under the force of time,
like diamonds caged within the dark,
enduring the weathers of social duress.

Tagged: poetryspilled inkcreative writingDylan Wrightrevised

5th April 2012

Link reblogged from Stories from a Farther Room with 20 notes

By Her Side, He Recites Their Story →

To the shore you waved,
“goodbye, cityscape
we will not miss you,”
missing the turbulence brought by evening,
while the lights flickered red
like embers on the streets.

We sailed, in our youth, away
from the setting sun.

The islands were solitary in their perfection;
the waves applauded on the rocks
as though the shore had waited for us.

Conch fritters sizzled,
drawing us to the hole-in-the-wall
restaurant you loved so much

where melodies played on steel drums
in upbeat pronunciation;
Marley-spiration from the trees.

Inside jokes have become lonely things.

—-

Do you remember,
or should I restart
the story again?

Save your strength;
you don’t need to respond.

——

The wedding bells had barely quieted
as you waved to the shore.

Tagged: poetryspilled inkDylan Wrightcreative writingrevisedrevision

25th March 2012

Link reblogged from Stories from a Farther Room with 16 notes

Promises →

My memory is hazy and everything felt like a blur at the time, so don’t expect me to give you a lucid picture. I got up, groaning. I felt like I was on fire. My feet and ligaments burned as I applied pressure to them, but I couldn’t stop then. Screams echoed behind me while bystanders stood staring at me. Men in white scrubs ran after me, slipping on blood puddles I had left behind. No, no I couldn’t stop, not for them; I had promises to keep and places to be. I picked up the pace, limping across the roads that were fevered in ice and wreckage. I dodged past the metal scraps and burning bodies still waiting for attention, dying where they lay, and ignored the men still calling me back, who were so intent on checking me. What wounds I had lacked any importance then. The cold bit at my face, but I kept running.

            Looking back, I caught a glimpse of the black smoke rising from the ruins that were once lively mediums for transportation. Briefly, I thought of the bodies there, of how every one of them had some place to be before, of the smiles on their faces, lit by the thought of home. Those thoughts faded though; I wasn’t going to give up, not like they had. Fault lay in their hands for giving up. At least, that’s the thought that kept me going. It was their fault for giving up to death.

            I had promises to keep. What lay ahead for me, at the end of the freezing, unlit road, could have been paradise; that’s how important it was to me. Everyone wants paradise, and sometimes you’ll do anything to get to it before you die.

            When I felt I had gone far enough, when I believed the men had stopped following me and left me to fend for myself, I stopped to bandage my leg. My head hurt like hell and I had minor cuts on my face; my arms were littered with shrapnel from the crash, but it was my leg I was worried about; it’s not normal to see bone just by looking at your leg. I won’t go on about it, though. It hurt like hell and I was losing blood, so I cut off the circulation as much as I could, using a shred of my shirt and my hair tie.

            The longer I walked, the more I believed that everything that night would do its best to stop me. Clouds rolled in and it began to rain. I could barely see through the sheets that fell. Mix that with the ice forming over my eyelashes and the bold wind crashing against me, pushing me back the way I had come, biting exposed skin, and you have a recipe for death; death, armed with shrapnel from car accidents and nature’s fury. Death does not bless survivors.

            I must have found shelter at some point, even though I did not want to waste more time, I knew I had to find a place out of the storm. I was miserable and my clothing had crystallized. You do irrational things when you believe you’re going to die. I still had a few cigarettes left, and I remember lighting one, waiting for the storm to end, hoping that the small ember would provide me heat. It didn’t calm me much and my body still burned in the freezing weather.

            The rain never really ended and I could not stay still any longer, so when it calmed down and the wind subsided, I kept going, limping through the ice and asphalt. Time must have skipped, then. I don’t know how far I had walked, or how I got there, but finally I saw city lights. It’s amazing how much like heaven thousands of synthetic lights can seem when your own light is fading, and how close paradise can feel.

            I was going to run to the house, burst through the door, and she’d be there, smiling. We’d be together, I would have kept my promise, and she wouldn’t be crying anymore. She had been crying on the phone, and I knew I had to be there. So that’s what I was going to do when I got there, and I wasn’t far away now. So I just kept going, slowly making my way through the streets. People were looking at me funny; I don’t blame them. I mean, I was red and my shirt was torn up, limping along without any hesitation. Either way, I just kept thinking of that house.

            When I saw it, though, I almost collapsed where I stood. It was all wrong. Ambulances, paramedics, flashing lights, and a crowd. They weren’t supposed to be there. They were trespassing. I had to persuade myself, somehow. I heard parts of conversations among the crowd. Rope. Body. Ceiling. Little hints in the phrases. My sight was blurry and I couldn’t think straight anymore. I promised I would be there, and I promised myself I would burst through that door, but crashing through the crowd, intent on getting to her, I must have finally fallen. I had promises to keep.

            I guess the paramedics got a hold of me, otherwise I wouldn’t be here, strapped to life supports and gauze.

————————-

            Love is always tragic, and suicide is a compelling thing. I told her I’d be there to dissuade her, but I was too late. Her death is on my hands; I’m at fault, and had I given up in the crash, at least we’d have been together, blameless in death. Death doesn’t bless survivors. 

Tagged: proseDylan Wrightspilled inkshort storyrevisionrevised

24th January 2012

Post with 20 notes

By Her Side, He Recites Their Story

To the shore you waved,
“goodbye, cityscape
we will not miss you,”
missing the turbulence brought by evening,
while the lights flickered red
like embers on the streets.

We sailed, in our youth, away
from the setting sun.

The islands were solitary in their perfection;
the waves applauded on the rocks
as though the shore had waited for us.

Conch fritters sizzled,
drawing us to the hole-in-the-wall
restaurant you loved so much

where melodies played on steel drums
in upbeat pronunciation;
Marley-spiration from the trees.

Inside jokes have become lonely things.

—-

Do you remember,
or should I restart
the story again?

Save your strength;
you don’t need to respond.

——

The wedding bells had barely quieted
as you waved to the shore.

Tagged: poetryspilled inkDylan Wrightcreative writingrevisedrevision

29th November 2011

Post reblogged from Stories from a Farther Room with 112 notes

Tide Pools

Starlight reflected in the ocean,
you were hovering in space, enveloped
in its reflection, lost in the space
of thought, trying to find answers,
or yourself, through the stars;

but I would have gone with you,
we could have melted through the mirror
and swum through the void together.

You used to come to me without answers
and we would find them reflected in coffee mugs,
or on stormy days on the shore we’d rage
against the waves pushing us back,
and after, stare into the fountains
the rain made in the sand.

Our troubles are krill in the tide pools
we’d gaze into; food in the chain.
I know the future pushes you back;
you’ve always feared your blood ties
will reflect off you and destroy
whatever life we might have,
and you’ve said it would be like waves
washing tide pools away, but you’ve forgotten
that fish are freed by the crash.

I would have gone with you,
crashing back into the sea.

But, you lost yourself,
floating alone in the stars,
leaving me grounded on the shore,
waiting for you.

Tagged: poetryspilled inkcreative writingDylan Wrightrevised

19th October 2011

Post with 112 notes

Tide Pools

Starlight reflected in the ocean,
you were hovering in space, enveloped
in its reflection, lost in the space
of thought, trying to find answers,
or yourself, through the stars;

but I would have gone with you,
we could have melted through the mirror
and swum through the void together.

You used to come to me without answers
and we would find them reflected in coffee mugs,
or on stormy days on the shore we’d rage
against the waves pushing us back,
and after, stare into the fountains
the rain made in the sand.

Our troubles are krill in the tide pools
we’d gaze into; food in the chain.
I know the future pushes you back;
you’ve always feared your blood ties
will reflect off you and destroy
whatever life we might have,
and you’ve said it would be like waves
washing tide pools away, but you’ve forgotten
that fish are freed by the crash.

I would have gone with you,
crashing back into the sea.

But, you lost yourself,
floating alone in the stars,
leaving me grounded on the shore,
waiting for you.

Tagged: poetryspilled inkcreative writingDylan Wrightrevisedfeatured work

2nd October 2011

Post with 16 notes

Promises

My memory is hazy and everything felt like a blur at the time, so don’t expect me to give you a lucid picture. I got up, groaning. I felt like I was on fire. My feet and ligaments burned as I applied pressure to them, but I couldn’t stop then. Screams echoed behind me while bystanders stood staring at me. Men in white scrubs ran after me, slipping on blood puddles I had left behind. No, no I couldn’t stop, not for them; I had promises to keep and places to be. I picked up the pace, limping across the roads that were fevered in ice and wreckage. I dodged past the metal scraps and burning bodies still waiting for attention, dying where they lay, and ignored the men still calling me back, who were so intent on checking me. What wounds I had lacked any importance then. The cold bit at my face, but I kept running.

            Looking back, I caught a glimpse of the black smoke rising from the ruins that were once lively mediums for transportation. Briefly, I thought of the bodies there, of how every one of them had some place to be before, of the smiles on their faces, lit by the thought of home. Those thoughts faded though; I wasn’t going to give up, not like they had. Fault lay in their hands for giving up. At least, that’s the thought that kept me going. It was their fault for giving up to death.

            I had promises to keep. What lay ahead for me, at the end of the freezing, unlit road, could have been paradise; that’s how important it was to me. Everyone wants paradise, and sometimes you’ll do anything to get to it before you die.

            When I felt I had gone far enough, when I believed the men had stopped following me and left me to fend for myself, I stopped to bandage my leg. My head hurt like hell and I had minor cuts on my face; my arms were littered with shrapnel from the crash, but it was my leg I was worried about; it’s not normal to see bone just by looking at your leg. I won’t go on about it, though. It hurt like hell and I was losing blood, so I cut off the circulation as much as I could, using a shred of my shirt and my hair tie.

            The longer I walked, the more I believed that everything that night would do its best to stop me. Clouds rolled in and it began to rain. I could barely see through the sheets that fell. Mix that with the ice forming over my eyelashes and the bold wind crashing against me, pushing me back the way I had come, biting exposed skin, and you have a recipe for death; death, armed with shrapnel from car accidents and nature’s fury. Death does not bless survivors.

            I must have found shelter at some point, even though I did not want to waste more time, I knew I had to find a place out of the storm. I was miserable and my clothing had crystallized. You do irrational things when you believe you’re going to die. I still had a few cigarettes left, and I remember lighting one, waiting for the storm to end, hoping that the small ember would provide me heat. It didn’t calm me much and my body still burned in the freezing weather.

            The rain never really ended and I could not stay still any longer, so when it calmed down and the wind subsided, I kept going, limping through the ice and asphalt. Time must have skipped, then. I don’t know how far I had walked, or how I got there, but finally I saw city lights. It’s amazing how much like heaven thousands of synthetic lights can seem when your own light is fading, and how close paradise can feel.

            I was going to run to the house, burst through the door, and she’d be there, smiling. We’d be together, I would have kept my promise, and she wouldn’t be crying anymore. She had been crying on the phone, and I knew I had to be there. So that’s what I was going to do when I got there, and I wasn’t far away now. So I just kept going, slowly making my way through the streets. People were looking at me funny; I don’t blame them. I mean, I was red and my shirt was torn up, limping along without any hesitation. Either way, I just kept thinking of that house.

            When I saw it, though, my almost collapsed where I stood. It was all wrong. Ambulances, paramedics, flashing lights, and a crowd. They weren’t supposed to be there. They were trespassing. I had to persuade myself, somehow. I heard parts of conversations among the crowd. Rope. Body. Ceiling. Little hints in the phrases. My sight was blurry and I couldn’t think straight anymore. I promised I would be there, and I promised myself I would burst through that door, but crashing through the crowd, intent on getting to her, I must have finally fallen. I had promises to keep.

            I guess the paramedics got a hold of me, otherwise I wouldn’t be here, strapped to life supports and gauze.

————————-

            Love is always tragic, and suicide is a compelling thing. I told her I’d be there to dissuade her, but I was too late. Her death is on my hands; I’m at fault, and had I given up in the crash, at least we’d have been together, blameless in death. Death doesn’t bless survivors. 

Tagged: proseDylan Wrightspilled inkshort storyrevisionrevisedfeatured work