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Sydney V Jan 11
I can’t brush my hair
for it ignites, like a fire
across my soft scalp.
Chronic pain...
Sydney V Jan 6

My skin,  
is alight.  
My fur, singed
like the surrounding brush
of my home
and your home (and their home)
Each breath
and step  
that I take  
secures a winded grip  
from within my chest
as the crackled
orange embers, spread  
their scorching grasp
across the rest,  
of my feeble body.  
–For a moment–  
I, am picked up
in a heated embrace,  
then dropped
like a child  
gets disinterested  
with one toy
before pillaging
to the next.  


This isn’t a warm hug-   

We’re burning.
Their climate crisis, is our climate crisis too.
Sydney V Jan 3
I was seventeen,  
when I realized  
I wasn’t beautiful  
in the clothes I wore.  
At the arriving end  
of December–  
before my eighteenth birthday  
I began my sweaty resolution.
It became a song  
forcefully, put on loop
playing again, and again–  
and again.  
I counted units
of food energy  
like beats  
in a measure of time,  
keeping practice logs  
for when I could
eat again.
My metronome  
for living,  
was kept in time  
by the syncopated,  
rhythmic beats  
of my breaths
as my feet sped
long into nights  
on machinery  
that went–  
the same line
of track
over, and over.
I haven't had the chance to hang out with many friends since I have been on winter break, so all I have been doing is writing some mediocre poetry. This one was inspired from more of a darker place, that I seldom talk about.
Sydney V Jan 2
I feel like, I’m drowning.  
This feeling–  
a never-ending rush,  
of water, that cascades
my body,
my veins,
leaving me submerged
from the inside.  
This feeling–  
a longing for the mundane
when I could wake
to the sound of a 6:00am bell
and not,
have it be answered
by a throb
from within my skull.  
my mind,  
sags, like telephone wires
swaying tirelessly  
in summer heat.
My bones,  
These feelings–  
a second self  
through this tired will
of conduct, I call mine
much like the nails
on my fingers  
and the hair,  
upon my scalp.
A poem for my pains.
Sydney V Dec 2019
am a walking
My figure parts beams
of others' light
my coming--
like an aura
that signifies
a migraine,
accompanied by--
the passing
of luminesence
is my signal
to both come,
and to go.
Inspired by a favorite poet of mine, Mark Strand.
Sydney V Dec 2019
They blossom
up from the soil, in which  
they were first grown
on a different street
for no one, is planted here
the interstate.
Out from the floral spread
of the prosperous, Third Ward,
is a grievous sight
and I, am enraptured
by this scene in the city
of swollen summer loads  
and multi-storied canopy
that flourish, like the  
common wood violet.
I still exist. Been busy, but happy holidays!
Sydney V Dec 2019
When I was eight,
I would press myself  
against the creaky floorboards
of my home  
and listen  
to their tired groans  
of protest from my weight  
atop them,  
as I ripped the caps
off Sharpies,
and let the ink  
spread across the plastic wrap
like a flare.  
I’d stick my confused
colorful Picassos
into an oven
and watch in awe
as the wrap  
would shrink  
and fold in on itself  
appearing smaller  
to the world.  
at twenty  
I no longer listen  
to the groans  
from my creaky  
childhood home,  
I listen–  
to the murmurs  
from the black  
cellophane wrapped  
shop windows and signs
of tired buildings  
tired of wearing  
faces, to great  
the masses  
of the world  
that don’t show.
Sorry I have been missing in action, it's finals week this week and next for me and school and I have also just been struggling mentally a bit. Anyways, here is my latest poem idea, it's still a work in progress, but it felt nice to write something new! The idea started with Shrinky **** wraps, an old thing I would play around with as a kid and then spiraled into whatever this mess of a poem is.

To my few followers... Much Love - Sydney
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