Tag Archives: Em T. Wytte

There Comes a Time in Every Life

There comes a time in every life When the choices all are hard When the options all are dim and dark The chances all are slim to none When the house holds the cards. There comes a time in every life When something has to give, But even once it bends or breaks, You somehow have to live. -- Em T. Wytte

 

One of the great things about writing is poetic license. It doesn’t have to be accurate or factual like an essay. It simply has to feel real.  “There Comes a Time in Every Life” is like that.


Another Hand

Another hand,
Laying down its weight,
Adding a stack
To the too-full plate.
Another task,
Small and yet bold,
Ignoring the max
That the table can hold.


They Called It a Flame

They called it a flame.
I saw only darkness,
A cold, blackened void
No oxygen, tinder, or spark
Still, they told me to guard it,
To feed it. To nurture
That imagined thing in the dark.
That warm, fiery glow
In a night left unlit,
That flicker unseen
In a place without wind.
Heat unfelt, unobtainable
Insubstantial, unreal:
How can you protect
What you can’t even feel?


Already Fading

Consuming
Like a feeling so strong
The world fades

Compulsion
A hook caught in flesh until
Resistance is painful

Exhausting
As years of experiences are
Drawn through you

Escape
All the thrills and excitement of living
Separate from personal cares

Fleeting
Taking a moment, hours, forever:
Over too soon.


A Matter of Taste

Wholesome bread with authentic parts:
Non-powdered eggs, a slice of cheese,
No plastic fake, and real ham, please.
Unfrozen, unprocessed – assembled, cooked, baked –
Yet somehow too bland or even too boring.
Alas for tastebuds trained by
McDonalds too many mornings!


Tarnished

Like once-white stone,
Soot-stained to gray;
Like once-bright silver,
Tarnished by shades;
It was not the intention,
Not the design
Yet somehow
Inevitable –
A fate etched in time.


One Last: The Final Post of the twytte Writing Experiment

The final line, One last look, Before darkness falls. A chorus of indrawn breaths Ushering in the hushed silence Before hands meet Again and again As lights return, And the wall is broken. Slowly, chattering chaos Peters out into brisk efficiency Behind locked doors. Unseen, sans audience, They play their roles And tread the boards: Cleaning and resetting. Finally, they, too,  Make their exits, Leaving the stage, Dimmed to a ghost’s glow But set and primed: Ready for tomorrow and The first look and The first line. Em T. Wytte Poem

The final post. That seems so surreal to write. Actually, it should be “the final post of the experiment.” Today, is the 1 year anniversary of the first post, so today is the day when the writing experiment comes to a close. I have officially posted a bit of new writing every day for a year. Yay! I did it!

Party time!

And how do you kick off the celebration at the end of a writing experiment? Write a poem! I can’t decide if that’s sadly predictable or simply in character. Regardless, I was trying to capture where the blog is now, and somehow it became theatre. I shouldn’t be surprised.

Anyway, thank you to everyone for reading!

I am going to take a wee vacation before I start posting here again (the cleaning and resetting stage, if you will). I expect to start again in July – assuming that I’ve figured out what I want to start again. I need a new experiment! If anyone has any suggestions or requests, I will gladly take them into consideration. At the moment, all I know for sure is that it will be writing-related.

For those of you who want to know how the novels end, so do I! (jk, kind of) Seriously, though, the novels will be continued. They will, however, be removed from the writing experiment rules. I may even give them their own sites so that if you want to read them but not poetry, you have somewhere to go. That’s one of the things I have to figure out. But one way or another, I will finish those, and I hope to get ahead enough that I can post them more consistently.

So wish me luck, thanks again, and stick around! There is definitely more to come.


Exhaustion Strikes

Exhaustion strikes
With the fury of a swordsman
Overwhelming its target
In a rush of blows:
Too swift, subtle, and skilled
To be anticipated or evaded
Despite warning signs
Or the pangs of logic.
By the time suspicion arises,
The strike has already
Been executed:
The candle is split,
The trousers have fallen –
The blade rushes so rapidly
That even the speeding blood
Is too slow to sully
That sliver of silver.
And the resulting darkness
Is faster still.


Memory

People blur:
Words and deeds,
Sights and sounds,
All scrambled –
Mixed together

Expressionist,
Impressionist:
The mind is an artist
Shaping and reshaping
What was (thoughts,
Emotions, actions)
Into an idea,
A feeling:

Not opinion or fact
But somehow
Both


Not Your Work, But Mine

“If you get it done,” they say,
“That’s, of course, very well,
But if you don’t, that’s also fine,”
As their bland shrugs tell.
What other job could someone say
That not finishing is fine?
Try that at your job sometime
And see if the bosses mind.


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