Poetry

The warm light at the end of the blue tunnel turns blue as I walk closer.

A poem by Nickie | June 16, 2026

Footsteps fall frantically along the blue carpet of the blue hallway.

Hurried movements racing against the blue clock tick, tick, ticking on the wall.

Check watch, check phone, check calendar. To be early is to be on time, to be on time is to be dead.

The blue walls reflect an infinite dusk sky of missed games and date nights. Each a new rung on the broken ladder.

At the end of the tunnel glows a warm, golden light. Bright white walls lined with smiling faces, red velvet curtains, lush garden beds, neon signs mirrored in squinted eyes, sparkling peaks of a rippling lake, rays beaming through a stained glass window.

My steps slow to study

these moments,

to admire each

perfect portrait,

yearning for my turn to

escape into these photos.

But my feet keep moving unable to stop. The light at the end of the tunnel turns blue as I walk closer

to start again

Lifestyles of the Rich and Happy

A poem by Nickie | June 15, 2026 They tell me I grew up poor, but I saw the sunrise every morning after my parents left for work. If I enjoyed dinner on Monday, I was lucky enough to eat it again on Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. I was able

Signals from Vanilla Fields

My mother's perfume A poem by Nickie | June 13, 2026 It's time to wake up and get ready for school A strong hug and a quick kiss on the cheek as she leaves for work (careful to not mess up her makeup) A 45-minute drive

I hate my name, or maybe just my hometown.

A poem by Nickie | June 13, 2026 I hate my name. I remember telling my parents that as we were in a hotel elevator, descending to the ground floor. It's boring. Everyone has it. It's common. At least my middle name is a little more unique.

The Puppeteer

A poem by Nickie | June 9, 2026 Come one, come all! Witness the puppeteer and his dolls! Filling stages and banquet halls, he can barely control them all. Some for the night, some for the day, all for whichever part they need to play. The laughs are plenty, the cheers

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Lifestyles of the Rich and Happy

Signals from Vanilla Fields

I hate my name, or maybe just my hometown.

The Puppeteer