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Sydney V Apr 2020
When I was eight,  
The Great Recession began.  
During it,  
I heard a line
that floated
off the page of a poem
and into me
“We hope the world survives.”
– Hope –  
I remember that
and the nights I spent  
sat up  
on the uncomfortable  
wheezy wooden floor
of my home
constructing a new one  
from Legos,
where I could see  
by way of a light switch
not a Coleman lantern.  
Where I could eat
by way of a real stove top
not a portable one.  
You’d think  
that I was camping,  
not sweating  
in the stagnant air
of a house  
devoid of power.  
a virus moves
unseen among grass
beneath out feet,  
flirts between the vacancy  
of embraces
the fear of a handshake.  
We speak words
underneath masks
and hope –  
that this,
will be over soon.
Hello all, it's been a minute.
Sydney V Jan 2020
with chronic
is like sharing a space  
with a younger version  
of myself.  
At night,  
I let her  
come into my room,  
she is slow, delicate  
like a child sneaking
into bed.  
Her nature
knows, no
childish mischief
like that of a child  
up past bedtime.  
She knows–  
all the corners
of my tired mind
where my nerves  
sag like telephone wires.  
She knows–
where to lay
an icy touch
and play  
in the realms  
of my life, before  
we met
she knows–  
how to go
to bed, at night
and wake with me
in the morning.
I am still here, in pain, but still here.
Sydney V Jan 2020
I can’t brush my hair
for it ignites, like a fire
across my soft scalp.
Chronic pain...
Sydney V Jan 2020

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 2020
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
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 2020
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.
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