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).
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.
Reblogged from starlightandcitystreets
“Life is a sprint along the sidewalk,”
she was dying, trying to explain,
“there’s a kind of greatness in the inevitable destination:
“We are slowing every day, turning to stone,”
I never saw her smile anymore,
“until we are a solitary memorial,”
I’m still here, but she feels alone,
“with the footprints behind us in the asphalt
showing what we’ve made of life,”
as an epitaph;
I didn’t feel better.
At least the sun still shines.
“There’s your sun, burning
only enough to keep us thawed
until night falls and we are further mocked;
it’s a brittle decor on your dining table,
and you always look to aesthetics for guidance.
But there’s no food, and the vase will shatter;
it would do no good while we’re alone,
left for the world to pick our bones
in the manifest city war,”
he said, and I looked down.
There’s no home anymore.
“I know a fire pit that burns bright
like the old sun you loved;
it’s just outside the city,
and maybe it’s a way out of here;
maybe the road will let us start again.”
It’s nice to imagine a moment together:
Friends surrounded by glittering snow.
Northern lights are an amiable pleasure,
setting our faces with an amorous glow.
Hiking up trails with chill winds on our face,
and scents of pollen and pines adrift;
to sleep under stars and stare into space
while sweet dreams at night offer a lift
from gravity’s pull upon our legs
(perhaps with the help of potent kegs).
Such ideas are nice and lighten my day,
but still they are dreams, not goals.
We are friends forever (once close),
though I miss the days where we spoke.