Tag Archives: Ryan Fulgoni

Creativity (NAPoWriMo #8)

I remember when teachers tried

to define creative

“Creativity is painting abstractions”

“It’s putting yourself into something”

No

Creativity is waking up in the morning

and being able to function.

Creativity is your routine that you hate.

Creativity is everything you do.

That’s because creativity is defined

as “Use of imagination or original ideas”

No one has ever thought the way you have

You are always creative

You are always creating

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Cold (NaPoWriMo #7)

It’s becoming increasingly difficult

to care about much of everything.

Not because of lethargy

or some inexplicable lack of motivation

but because of lack of care

I get back from society.

I’d love to walk peacefully through a city

and see warm colors

in the passersby

but the color palette

consists of blues and grays

and I don’t know if my skin is thick enough

to comfort me in this frozen world.

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Puppets (NaPoWriMo #6)

There’s a haunting romance

in the way that time has such a hold on us.

Time draws lines in our skin

and erases them away

in the years after passing.

Time leaves you wanting more

or wishing things would pass.

Time is what gets us out of bed

and realize we’ve stayed up too late again.

We are puppets in a claustrophobic stage

Longing for someone to cut the strings.

But it’s apparent that the passing of time itself

With no room left for leisure

Is the catalyst for those urges.

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Cliche (NaPoWriMo #5)

Every time I turn on the radio

It seems like another sensation

singing about their heart.

Bruised, broken, in love, what have you

it always comes back

to a muscle in the chest.

I could be a cynic

but loving someone

from the bottom of your heart

is a bit cliche.

I’d rather look someone in the eyes

and tell them their touch

pleases every nerve in my body

that their presence sends warmth

from my skeletal frame

outward to the surface of my skin.

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D.I.Y.L.O.V.E. (NaPoWriMo #1)

I want someone to craft with

cutting hearts out of each other’s old t-shirt fabric

I’ll wear your years of stains where ever I go

by patching up a torn up jacket.

while traversing the nostalgia-scented glowing hills

of clothing left untouched in the drawers

guided by a map

left by the wrinkles in the scraps

you may see salvage.

I see the beginning of an undying love.

brighter than your flourescent middle-school graduation shirt

softer than the fleece

lining your once favorite flannel.

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Aphrodite Froze

When I saw you I knew that in some timeline Aphrodite froze with jealousy

Marilyn Monroe felt haunted and empty, and in Spring all turned green with envy

With you, I just want to sit and romanticize intricate little machines

What’s been taken for granted and left behind with the trends of yesteryear

We’ll take the things we’ve been holding on to and exchange them for each other

Laying together in a universe that we’ve discovered resembles a Jackson Pollock painting

I’ll look up to the splattered stars, focusing in on the point

Where Aphrodite froze, and let our spirits conjoin.

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Oak St. Junkies

I sit near the window by the Oak Street junkies.

The type who burn bridges in their crack pipes.

The type who illuminate their lives with the sparks of their lighters

The type who stand their ground against going anywhere.

I’ve seen rock bottom.

I’ve seen rock bottom and rock bottom is the bottom of a bag of rock

the bag of rock which you used up your week’s pay buying

the bag of rock which you used up your life cherishing.

They can sit here, I’ll listen to them.

Talking about “Molly” as if anyone will give a fuck about her in 20 years.

They can sit here and measure their own worth in green grams.

I can sit here and know there is more to life than brain-dead memories.

But still understand that there is more to a man than his decisions.

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