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Allyson Scully Poem
A dark cloud forms as tears fill her eyes, spilling into a stream that runs down her face. She bites her lip to quiet the echoes of her cries. A lump forms in her throat, pulsing with the ache sent straight from her heart. Her legs begin to give away, until she collapses to her knees. She sits there, paralyzed by time, praying to whoever will listen.
Inconclusive; not leading to a firm conclusion; not ending doubt or dispute.
She was taught to prepare for the worst and hope for the best. But in her world, she’s never known the best-so she’s left to fear for the worse.
A curse she thought she was used to… until it involved you.
So, she wrote…
“The way the sun hits his face is different these days. His coat, once black, is appearing more grey. It sparkles so bright that for a moment I lose sight of the years we may not have left—and instead, remember the years we’ve grown, and all we’ve learned. The years we've fallen in love. Every mistake. Every win. The days when his fur would collect nothing but tears.
I reminisce in the years full of adventure, and all the lives he's impacted along our journey. I adore the way he loves. The way he starts each day with more curiosity than the last. I giggle at how fast his four cold paws wake me up each morning, and how his wet nose meeting mine had become a ritual.
A grunt and a sigh leave his body as he stretches as long as me—until there’s nothing left to stretch but his toes. I wait patiently for those toe beans to finish the last bit of the biggest stretch known to man before whispering a soft ‘good morning.’ He loses all control of his body as he squirms his way even closer.
A smile forms every time he soars through the air to catch his favorite ball. Or when he digs to find the comfiest spot. And with every action in between. I’m in awe.
I fall more in love with him each night, knowing I get to wake up with him again. But it’s then that time pulls me back. That moment—the one where I remember he won’t always be here.
And suddenly, I realize how much I’ll miss those four cold paws that bring each new day.”
Maybe time will take him. But not before he’s left pieces of his love tucked into every corner of her life. He’s not just a dog—he’s her home.
Copyright © Allyson Scully | Year Posted 2025
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Allyson Scully Poem
I try to write of tulip skies,
but my pen finds the shadows first.
I want to speak of beauty,
but my tongue can’t carry the weight… -dishonest-
I try to sing of lilac air,
but every note becomes a bruise,
a wound that pretty things can’t use.
The air becomes… -suffocating-
The easy things…
finding laughter in wind chimes,
they won’t stay still for me.
They slip through the ink,
as it’s written upon the lines.
The page rejects the grace,
of summer’s touch on a freckled face.
It calls instead for broken hearts and scars,
For bruised-up dreams behind prison bars.
I leave the pretty things
to someone else—
and write what stays
when pretty things fade away.
Copyright © Allyson Scully | Year Posted 2025
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Allyson Scully Poem
It hurts because;
we were once so close until drugs made you a drifter.
The person you used to be... I miss her.
It's as though I lost a piece - the best piece of me
&& now I'm just someone's little sister.
I'm scared because;
you doesn't see your beauty,
or shout with courage anymore.
I'm scared because you’re hurting and I don't know what to do.
I'm just someone's little sister who's afraid of losing you.
I'm angry because;
I knew - you denied - and so begun the divide.
Their fingers pointed back at me,
and I became the liar fueled by jealousy.
boundaries were formed while others conformed.
but "family protects family"
until you're just someone's little sister.
Copyright © Allyson Scully | Year Posted 2025
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Allyson Scully Poem
He’s someone she once knew. He’s the reason she loves the rain and why she finds herself always waiting for the next storm. The bigger the storm, the more she remembers, sitting on the back porch at Angel Ave, wrapped in his arms. He always made her feel safe during the loud cracks of thunder.
The rain was their music. The pitter-patter, pitter-patter—a melody that built with every drop. Crescendoing as the gray clouds released their burden onto the earth. The music, it was beautiful, peaceful almost, falling from the tree branches that were far above their reach.
He would strap her into the stroller, his hand warm on her back, and take her for what he called their umbrella journey. The way the rain sizzled as it hit the pavement, it created a steam that wrapped around them, creating their own world. It always felt magical to her. The soft mist glistening under the flickering streetlight, which seemed to know it was part of something bigger—something just for them.
As they walked beneath it, the rain would land gently on her cheeks, left to right, then right to left. It would ease up for a moment, leaving a few beads that tickled her nose. She could still remember the giggles, the kind that escaped her without thinking, the ones that bubbled up when the rain would make her squint and smile.
He would laugh behind the beard, his voice a low rumble, and for a moment, the world felt smaller, simpler, perfect. But time had a way of stealing these moments.
Years had passed since Angel Ave. Since those rainy walks. Since the man behind the beard.
Now, she stands alone waiting for a storm that might bring him back. Hoping that the rain would be enough to bridge the space between what was and what could never be again. She looked up, letting the rain fall over her face, feeling the same cool mist tickle her skin. The giggle, now distant, bubbled up again—soft and bittersweet. She closed her eyes, and for a mom, in the sound of the rain, she could almost hear him laugh, too
Maybe it wasn’t about waiting anymore. Maybe it was about accepting that the storm had passed, but the memory of it—the music of the rain—would stay with her always.
Copyright © Allyson Scully | Year Posted 2025
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Allyson Scully Poem
My reflection is a stranger’s mirror, blurred and shifting.
Maybe she’s someone I used to know,
or a shadow of who I’m slowly becoming.
A ghost caught between past and future.
Uncontrollable, like a storm rising without warning.
Unrecognizable, as if seen through cracked glass.
Angry flames flicker behind tired eyes,
broken fragments scattered across a fragile soul,
fearful whispers echoing in the doubts that live within.
Somewhere in that space between my head and my heart.
Unattached and in a daze - modernly caged -
Forever stuck beneath the fracture surface,
beneath the storm’s restless breath.
a quiet tremble hums like distant thunder,
a pulse that does not ask for reason,
nor demands understanding.
The space where shadows transform into light,
where silence bends into sound,
where finding yourself isn’t about the arrival or escape,
?but the endless unfolding.
A soft unraveling of edges,
a dance without form — a song without a melody,
where I am both lost and found,
and the mirror’s surface is not a boundary,
but an open door,
inviting me into the unknown.
Copyright © Allyson Scully | Year Posted 2025
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Allyson Scully Poem
It's been two thousand six hundred and thirty eight days.?Three hundred and seventy six weeks.?Three million seven hundred ninety-nine thousand four hundred and forty minutes.?It's been seven years since the last time I heard your voice, felt your embrace, or appreciated your presence in this world. It's been seven years of me going at life without the person who understands me best.
So here I am writing letters to you, my dead best friend.
I've been struggling lately like we both knew would happen after turning 27. It gets scary, confusing, heavier than we had imagined. Getting older doesn’t feel the way we thought it would.
We used to believe that things would just happen — that growing up came with certainty and direction. But it doesn’t. You have to make things happen.
Discipline isn’t automatic — you have to practice it every day. Self-love isn’t something you arrive at — it’s something you nurture. The insecurities from childhood? They linger. And the world, in so many ways, seems designed to feed them. Confidence isn’t granted; it’s built. And even when you build it, it can be torn down in a moment.?
I just thought it would be easier.
I guess what I’m saying is: none of these things are guaranteed.
They’re not milestones — they’re daily choices.
But there’s one thing that does just happen — something no one warns you about:
Life starts to show.
On your skin. In your eyes. In your posture.
Everywhere except in that small corner of your heart where that childhood wonder still lives.
I’m officially at the age where I miss being a kid.
I miss the innocence. The lightness.
Waking up without a worry, laughing without fear.
I miss living life with you. Following our curiosity, wherever it led.
I miss being bold and unafraid — the people we promised we’d always be.
I've been going through the motions of life for two thousand six hundred and thirty eight days. ?I lost myself three million seven hundred ninety-nine thousand four hundred and forty minutes ago. I haven't authentically loved myself or anyone for three hundred and seventy six weeks. It's been seven years of missing you and It's been really hard.
Until next time best friend,
Copyright © Allyson Scully | Year Posted 2025
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