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

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

7th August 2012

Post 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 writingrevisionDylan Wright

15th June 2012

Post reblogged from Stories from a Farther Room with 5 notes

Walking to Dad’s Resting Place

"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.

Tagged: poetryspilled inkcreative writingrevision

2nd June 2012

Link reblogged from Stories from a Farther Room with 15 notes

At least the sun still shines. →

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.”

Tagged: poetryspilled inkcreative writingrevisionyeah just gonna go ahead and reblog this again

30th May 2012

Link reblogged from Stories from a Farther Room with 15 notes

At least the sun still shines. →

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.”

Tagged: poetryspilled inkcreative writingrevision

30th May 2012

Link reblogged from Stories from a Farther Room with 15 notes

At least the sun still shines. →

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.”

Tagged: poetryspilled inkcreative writingDylan Wrightthere's a picture toorevision

29th May 2012

Post with 15 notes

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.”

Tagged: poetryspilled inkcreative writingDylan Wrightthere's a picture toorevision

11th May 2012

Link reblogged from Stories from a Farther Room with 22 notes

Crash →

I’ve seen you in the mornings,
during those moments when you think
I’ve gone, and you’ve lost yourself in memory,

when the wind cuts through
the curtains, and the blanket you covet
shreds into pieces on the floor;

before the day begins,
you cling to bones and skin,
holding everything together.

So the sun shines,
with the blanket on the floor in shreds,
and already to you the day is dying,
while the traffic horns taunt you outside,
ready to take you to the grave with
the rising sun.

But in a farther room, breakfast is cooking,
tea has been poured for you,

and there’s nothing you could have done;
death is only an inevitability.

So rest assured it’s all fleeting:
the day is only a night away,
and memory’s weight will fade one day,
taking your loss with it.

Should I cook you something else
tomorrow? Would it put your mind at ease?

There is only so much I can do for you
when the world refuses to stand still.

Tagged: poetryspilled inkcreative writingrevision

11th May 2012

Link reblogged from Stories from a Farther Room with 22 notes

Crash →

I’ve seen you in the mornings,
during those moments when you think
I’ve gone, and you’ve lost yourself in memory,

when the wind cuts through
the curtains, and the blanket you covet
shreds into pieces on the floor;

before the day begins,
you cling to bones and skin,
holding everything together.

So the sun shines,
with the blanket on the floor in shreds,
and already to you the day is dying,
while the traffic horns taunt you outside,
ready to take you to the grave with
the rising sun.

But in a farther room, breakfast is cooking,
tea has been poured for you,

and there’s nothing you could have done;
death is only an inevitability.

So rest assured it’s all fleeting:
the day is only a night away,
and memory’s weight will fade one day,
taking your loss with it.

Should I cook you something else
tomorrow? Would it put your mind at ease?

There is only so much I can do for you
when the world refuses to stand still.

Tagged: poetryspilled inkcreative writingDylan Wrightrevision

11th April 2012

Link reblogged from Stories from a Farther Room with 15 notes

Miss →

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.

Tagged: poetryspilled inkcreative writingold poetry rewrittenrevisionreblogging for any who missed it

10th April 2012

Post with 15 notes

Miss

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.

Tagged: poetryspilled inkcreative writingold poetry rewrittenrevisionDylan Wright

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