Amy Nye

Amy Nye Poems

Amy Nye Biography

I was raised by a writer. I was raised to appreciate the beauty that lives within words. Writing is my therapy. As Stephen King once said, 'I think that we’re all mentally ill; those of us outside the asylums only hide it a little better – and maybe not all that much better.' Without writing, I would not be who I am today. I hope you enjoy my pieces. Please comment, I always appreciate constructive criticism.)

The Best Poem Of Amy Nye

Leaving

The sky is gray. I watch blindly as the wood coffin is lowered into the ground. Black umbrellas are like mushrooms crying as the wet rain drips off and finds its place alone on the ground. My tears stream off my face and join the raindrops on the barren cement.

A sallow faced man with a pointed nose and graying hair reads out of a black book in words that sound like garbled nonsense. The stone is engraved with well-deserved words.

There's a hole inside of me; opening its cavernous mouth to engulf me in sorrow. You're gone. Disappeared into the folds of the dark. I knew my irrational fear of the dark was merited.

Shot down by a silver bullet alone on the street. I hate them now. Standing there. Able to help, but instead walking away. Walking home takes hours. My sluggish, mourning brain tries to keep up with the demands of city life. Pain racks with each step I take.

My building is an ugly brick building. Its stones are cold and without pity. The rain streams off them, into the gutters and disappears into oblivion. My apartment is number 520. I use a broken key and struggle to open the door. I enter into my godforsaken bedroom. I look at myself in the mirror. I look goth in all the black. Black dress, black nails, black mascara stains on my face.

I take it all off. I scream in agony as tears stream down my face. The emptiness I feel in my soul looks strange next to the white of the dress on my bed. Suitcases are packed, stacked on each other. I put them away and try to forget about them. It's hard. I rock myself to sleep. The alarm blares out. Radio static and garbled words. I catch a few, 'A world of chances.' I laugh. Oh, the irony. My world of chances is gone forever.

I look at the clock. It's a new day. The clock glows against the wall. It’s 2: 31. I wince. That was the time you left. The sobs come. All my tears are gone, though. All that comes out are dry heaves. I hold my arms to my chest. Trying to get through the pain. I can't. I can't live like this. I can't live without you. We'll go together. An odd euphoria enters my brain. I put on the white dress. My hair gets pinned up.

I'm ready. I take my flowers in my hands. I close my ugly yellow apartment door, but leave it unlocked. It's all broken anyway. There are eight flights of stairs to climb. Each is the same.

I make it to the top. I've arrived. There's music playing from a passing car radio. I catch the words off the wind that ruffles my hair. 'A world of chances.' My world starts here. I know you're waiting for me. I take a step. You and I are holding hands as I take my first breath. You and I are finally together, leaving.

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