![\"Nature](\"http:\/\/www.gadflyonline.com\/home\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/02\/Nature-@.jpg\")
<\/a><\/p>\nThe Whiteout<\/strong><\/p>\n Dreary Days These memories I look out of the window I stay for a while, Testaments<\/strong><\/p>\n For a religious sinner I was taught in grade school In Bible class Poem as a Dryer<\/strong><\/p>\n Grumbling, My inside burns Sometimes I yell I hear the woman on the phone I am no individual, I want to know what he sees, Nature<\/strong><\/p>\n A violet sky stretches across the earth My name is Victoria Adolino. I am 19 years old and am currently an English major at Suny Orange. Writing has been a major outlet for me for as long as I can remember and that is why it is something I chose to incorporate greatly into the rest of my life. I hope to touch people with my words as others have touched me with theirs.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Dreary Days
\nWere what I lived for.
\nThe hiss of school buses was
\nReplaced by the high pitched scrape
\nOf snow plows,
\nAs I watched from the window
\nCounting snowflakes
\nIn my Barney pajamas
\nAnd my grandmother made
\nHer famous chicken soup
\nJust for me.<\/p>\n
\nCome to me in the worst of times\u2014
\nSticking to my windshield with the snow
\nAs I pass the same plows I once watched,
\nNow scraping along with them
\nAs I try to slow myself down.<\/p>\n
\nCounting the stones.
\nI see my grandmother
\nAnd begin to brush her off.
\nI get the chills,
\nNot from the cold
\nBut from her being the only one
\nWho ever kept me warm.<\/p>\n
\nNot thinking of my numbing toes
\nOr my burning hands
\nBut of every winter I had taken for granted.
\nDreary days no longer come
\nWith fuzzy pajamas and cartoons\u2014
\nJust the bitter taste
\nOf chicken soup.<\/p>\n
\nI sure prayed a lot
\nWhen we were together.
\nI guess you turn to
\nGods you don\u2019t believe in
\nWhen you run out of faith
\nIn the things you know.<\/p>\n
\nHow to avoid addictions
\nTo drugs and alcohol,
\nBut they never taught me
\nHow to withstand the ones
\nThat come with a pulse.<\/p>\n
\nI heard a story
\nAbout how the devil
\nIs just a fallen angel.
\nI still think it\u2019s funny
\nThat you wear a cross
\nAround your neck.<\/p>\n
\nRumbling,
\nAnd grumbling again.
\nYou think satisfying my hunger
\nIs stuffing me with your dirty gym socks.<\/p>\n
\nAnd my stomach turns
\nLike a Merry Go \u2018Round on its side\u2014
\nExcept without the laughter of children.
\nI do not occupy this joy,
\nJust their frilly dresses
\nAnd half stuffed teddy bears.<\/p>\n
\nAnd fall off of my tracks,
\nBut don\u2019t we all?<\/p>\n
\nShe speaks of endings and papers.
\nI think her heart is as heavy
\nAs the clothes she puts in me.
\nShe\u2019s fallen from her tracks too.<\/p>\n
\nJust an appendage to my neighbor.
\nHe could not go on without me.
\nHe grumbles too.
\nOur lives are a never ending cycle,
\nYet each day is something new.<\/p>\n
\nWhat he feels.
\nBut each time I go to ask I am too late
\nFor it all comes out in the wash.<\/p>\n
\nCalling for evening to come and play.
\nThe air sits thick and stagnant
\nSevered by howling sirens too far to place.
\nA once calm wind rushes towards the noise
\nTaking the stars and stripes with it.
\nMy nose tingles
\nTelling me I should go inside
\nBefore the earth begins to weep
\nWith the rest of us.
\nThe stream rushes the same as yesterday
\nNot attempting to hide from the sky
\nThat now lurks with the color of a storm.
\nIt stays cautious
\nHolding two boys visiting with their mother,
\nMissing the man who would once wipe her tears
\nBefore he left
\nBut never came back to mend her heart.
\nThe most beautiful of things,
\nWhether it be a sunset
\nOr a beautifully broken mother
\nAre sometimes just colorfully painted urns
\nOverflowing with bitter ashes
\nThat somehow make us who we are.<\/p>\n
\n
\nWere what I lived for.
\nThe hiss of school buses was
\nReplaced by the high pitched scrape
\nOf snow plows,
\nAs I watched from the window
\nCounting snowflakes<\/p>\n