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Best Poems Written by Rory Wainwright

Below are the all-time best Rory Wainwright poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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The First Estate of Paris, France

They Riot.
They revel in frank spotlight, 
getting drunk in a boozy blitz. 
You can find them wrapped in the lush covers of pure linen on Sunday mornings, 
their madness of headaches and chills covering their aching bodies as they skip the early mass. 
They’re boys that play the cards of life,
gambling away any sane they have left.
If you’re a witness they’ll slip you a hundred, 
and tell you to keep your champagne soaked, honey dripping lips shut. 
While they sip
and throw away money, 
and write what no man could ever imagine. 
their celestial smiles draw you in, 
and their crumbling hearts refuse to love. 
they count their vices before they go to sleep, 
hoping with vile smirks for just one more. 
Wicked souls and radiant faces,
That’s what everyone says. 
their pockets are full of blooming green trees, 
That’s what everyone says. 
Glass chalices filled to the brim with molten bronze. 
That’s what everyone says. 
Ten boys who blush at the sight of glimmering gold, 
and shiver at the mere thought of dripping crystals wrapped around their necks in the thousands.
Ten boys who Rip Ruins out of each others throats, 
Kissing the face of death with blackberry wine stained teeth and magnolia projected breath. 
their once simple minds soak up wretched knowledge like sponges in the mediterranean sea, fathers teaching sons to trip the dance that life plays on realing repeat. 
He teaches them to love one lady only, her worth is enough to buy them the world itself. 
Their silk pants stretch with inherited stacks of green dye stained paper, 
rendering their useless hands guilty as they count them, 
slip for slip. 
Have they let their hands become rough from labor? 
What a silly question one might ask, they’ve never worked a sunset in their lives. 
They wish on their four lucky stars that daddy won’t go bankrupt, 
His money is the only thing keeping them in their right insane minds. 
They scratch at their skulls in pandemonium, 
searching for an oasis inside their hellish, bourbon soaked tears. 
Yet they find nothing. 
Screaming nothing, 
ripping at their shredded vocal chords. 
Wanting out, 
But being trained to only go so far.
Yet they can still catch the kite that flows so far, 
They are, 
 Empty Nothing. 

?

Copyright © Rory Wainwright | Year Posted 2019



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I Can Only Dream for so Long

When the earth came to me, 
I was just a sweet and tender young girl. 
Falling in love, in the sweet heart of summer, 
always seemed like the right thing. 
What I am supposed to do. 
What feels right. 
To meet him, under the honey dripping palms of Charleston, 
or to see him, hiking through the dense jungle of roaring trees in Roanoke. 
To smell him
oh boy, that smell, 
that sun-ripe, peach marmalade, smell. 
Home. 
Yet I can only dream of it. 
Of his cherry pie like good mornings, 
and of his moon glow goodbyes. 
I can only dream of his heart, 
his smooth, 
warm, 
heartbeat. 
I feel like I could jump rope with his heartbeat keeping perfect rhythm. 
Yet I dare to dream. 
I dare to feel and to love. 
And honey, oh sweet honey, my love, I can only dare to dream of you. 
Your perfect head and calloused fingers, 
because you, 
you are only a dream. 
A dream that has yet to come true. 



Copyright © Rory Wainwright | Year Posted 2019

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Dear Virgo

Dear Virgo. 
They ask you why you stand in the morning sun for so long, 
to which you reply “It feels like a daylight loon singing her mournful song." 
They ask you why you watch the birds fly, 
and your response is simple, “they can fly higher than I.” 
They ask you why you stop to feel the breeze, 
you say that it is an opportunity that you must seize. 
They ask you why you flow with the river tides, 
but that’s the one thing that you take with pride. 
Dear Virgo, 
You kiss the day with love and devotion, 
like fish who swim in the vast, wide ocean. 
You ponder of thoughts only you can see, 
while others panic and decide to flee. 
Maybe there are times, where you can’t think clearly, 
but you hold those times as lessons so dearly. 
Sometimes you can’t feel your brain, 
But other times, you strike, leaving all competition slain. 
Your soul can be cold, 
a frozen tundra of breath taking gold. 
Yet you warm the hearts of many, 
Taking the breath of millions, leaving them for any. 
Dear Virgo, 
You touch the glaciers with your feet, 
You wait for the mountains and snow caps to meet. 
You watch and observe the deep green pines, 
You sit and stare at their twisting vines. 
You dance by the fire, bare feet padding the ground in sacred desire, 
You watch the molten snowflakes twirl around you in a tragic misfire. 
You let your arms lank around the sand as you frolic on the beach, 
You let the sun ripen your cheeks like a farm-valley peach. 
Dear Virgo, 
You are not chaos, 
or hate
or misery
or gluttony. 
You are not anxiety, 
or perfection
or overcritical 
or fussy
You are not what they tell you.
You are not what they think they see. 
Dear Virgo, 
You are so much more than that to me. 

Copyright © Rory Wainwright | Year Posted 2019

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The Vines Between Us

Her lips were cherry blossom pink, 
The remnants of the red 17 dye that escaped her lollipop as she melted it down to nothing between her teeth. 
She knew nothing of the boy watching her three desks over. 
She knew nothing of how he watched her with honey glazed eyes, 
Sinking them into the yawning abyss of her creaking heart, cherishing how it sounded like the crashing sea. 
It seemed to him that she had wild flowers growing out of her olive pale skin. 
They wrapped their luscious green vines around her cheeks and blossoms burst into full pink blooms every time she blushed. 
Every time she cried,
They wilted. 
    And wilted
        And wilted
            And wilted. 
She was a day dreamer and a night thinker, the sun wrapped her in a blanket
And the moon cradled her in sweet dreams. 
She drew off of the love of others. 
She belonged to no one, 
Who belonged to everyone. 
Her soul had no compass, no due north
and wings sprouted from her shoulders, taking her 
from land
          to sea
               and back. 
The wisps of lashes on her eyes closed and stayed for minutes as she dreamed about a far away place, 
Farther than three desks away from him. 
    Farther
        And Farther
                 And farther. 
Away from sticky hearts and sticky hands
Away from the theft that scratched her sickly sweet soul 
Away from world that crushed her. 
She let her words drip like melting icicles, like bubbling butter and melting candy floss 
She melted into nothing
Into silver 
        Into gold
                 Into iron.
She let the sun melt her skin into puddles, 
and the tall grasses scratched her beating heart, 
she ran 
        she hid 
                She hurt.
Her own mind swallowed her whole, and let her sink into the gooey green lagoon that filled her lungs. 
Fish swam and otters dove
inside the abyss that was inside the deep puncture that buried her whole.  
She opened her eyes as she chewed at the end of the dyed red stick, 
her tongue stained a full burgundy mess. 
Here she was, 
sitting in that uncomfortable blue chair,
still thinking, 
       still chewing, 
               still hoping.
?

Copyright © Rory Wainwright | Year Posted 2019

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Lay Down Your Demons

I plea with my woes to leave my head alone, 
alas they leave my croaking soul slain. 
At night I sleep with my tears along the ill-faded pillow, 
as I try to fight the battle that I know will end in unhallowed defeat. 
When the full moon rises, my bones begin to shake, 
With trepidation and fear that they may find me awake. 
I cover my face with scratchy wool, 
Hoping that it will keep the demons from climbing through the window.
At least I know that I am addicted to the pain, the aching and burning inside the crevices of my brain. 
My mother always told me to let my limbs lay, for the monsters might sense my quivering decay.
Sometimes my father would cradle me so, he’d rock me until I remembered how vain I was, but the monsters in my head put on an amazing show. 
They tell me to abstain, leaving them alone, even though they shocked me, leaving my heart to fill with an unrighteous glow. 
Although my thoughts have drained me so, I was destined for the life of a bubonic low. 
My demons, sweet demons of the night, lay your heart at my feet, and your mind at my soul, you may rest with the trees, that billow in the cold. 

August 28, 2019. 
Tom and Lisa Wainwright 


Copyright © Rory Wainwright | Year Posted 2019



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The End of the Beginning

The epitome of basic, a truest design.
Yet that's what everyone wants, a world worth the pine. 
Black polaroid shirt and white converse shoes, 
anxiety eating her alive as she thinks the thought of you.
Shaking legs and star glazing eyes, thunder rolling and panic glistening lies. 
Tears welling in morse code, 
eyelashes quivering in dreamy goodbyes. 
She stares at the stars, the moon cradling her hands, 
her mind thinks of rivers dancing in exotic, foreign lands. 
Tundra bitten lips, dyed a lazy blue, 
fingertips laughing drawing in sun-golden hues. 
her soul says yes, but her mind stays the course, 
but her imagination sleeps in black and gray, bleeding her dry of no remorse. 
The cotton like clouds part as she walks, 
a dreamland swimming in no time, no clocks. 
The lilies weep and the daisies twirl, the stars align and the shadows twist and curl. 
Her ankles are grabbed by the thoughts in her head, 
she pushes them down as she lies in bed. 
Her poor sweet soul shivers in the cold, 
the dark covers her in a sugary abyss of what she can no longer control. 
The light is what she fears, the darkness, admired, 
her mind lay empty in a sleepless desire. 
Keep your head up, your chin straight, don't bite your cheek, lay down and count your sheep. 
Don't look at him in the eyes you'll only remember that time when time itself could fly. 
Leave your shiny glowing globes peered onto the ground, 
your tears only absorb in sweet sticky rice. 
He doesn't truly care, and he never truly will,
get over it. 
Without him, 
you can be you.

Copyright © Rory Wainwright | Year Posted 2019

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Twisted Garden

She has Ivy twisted in her hair, day-lilies sprouting from the palms of her hands. 
She dances with the willows, but she cries with the sun-sanken land. 
She lets the daisies dance around her feet, with honeysuckle dripping from the corners of her mouth,
her peonies perking to point due south. 
She is garland, oh sweet garland, a beautiful twisted mess, 
she is daylight, the sun glowing, in a golden headdress.

Copyright © Rory Wainwright | Year Posted 2019