In one pocket, I carry a half-empty pen, its ink bleeding into napkins, café tables, and the margins of my own skin. In the other, a medic’s bag, ready to press language against wounds that refuse to close.
I Woke Up Walking The sky was torn wide—half-dream, half-something starving.Stars hung like shattered teeth in the black. Bond Street was empty, but not quiet.Cities don’t go quiet.Even when the […]
“Time is but a face on the water.”
I first read those words in a book long ago, but I wish today was the first time.
There’s something haunting about understanding time—how it slips through our fingers like rain, how it reflects who we were, who we are, and who we might have been.
On the battlefield of memory, where echoes of war linger longer than the warriors themselves, I stand—hands stained, fate sealed, laughter carried by the wind. The world is a cruel joke, a story written in blood and steel, a song sung by those left behind. And yet, through it all, I dream.
Because some things are worth dreaming for.
Excitement. Relief. A strange, quiet kind of panic. It all collides in my chest as I count down the days.
Here’s some poetry dedicated to the bandana-clad saints of anarchy. I carved my name into the spine of Portland,let the letters bleed into the pavement,let the streetlights flicker like they […]
This is one of my all time favorite poems that I have written. When I was a young man, I was obsessed with William Shakespeare. Seriously. This is sort of […]
Something I wrote about my current job working as an EMT/ED Tech in the emergency department that reminds me of the stillness between the chaotic moments. Gregory Scott Gentry II […]
Note: I set some music to this at the bottom of the post, it should autoplay… however, you can pause it or press play if it doesn’t work for you. […]
This is kind of a fun one for me, wrote it in a style like spoken word and rap blend. Although fun, it’s still meaningful and important and related to […]
Gregory Scott Gentry II This is a little something I’ve been working on about remembering the past and moving forward to the future. I think we all have a little […]
Gregory Scott Gentry II (Old story, revisited for your enjoyment) The bench sat at the corner of an abandoned ghost town, where the dusty, empty road stretched endlessly under a […]
Gregory Scott Gentry II Here’s one I was inspired by: Illiad by Homer and a past life. There is something about sirens and sailors that speaks deeply with a sense […]
Hello, dearest readers, It’s been a while, I know. School and work have been taking up all my time, not to mention family, sleep, and breathing in general! Let’s get […]
Hello Dearest Reader, These past three months have been a whirlwind of caffeine-fueled all-night shifts and going to school during the day. Juggling a full college schedule in preparation for […]
A poem I wrote about something akin to a haunter of your destiny or dreams that tries to haul you back. Sort of an arch-nemesis if you will. I wrote […]
Hello, Reader, Thanks for checking back. I was thinking about what to share this week, and my mind drifted to where I was 11 months ago—a place I don’t ever […]
Here is a short poem I have been working on. It deals with the idea that thoughts lead to action, but we are always allowed to change our thoughts with […]
The beginning and an End.
The Author
Gregory Scott
I’m a storyteller with a penchant for poetry and a tolerance for chaos. By night, I help pull people back from the edge as an ED Tech/EMT. By day, I grind through the last stretch of my nursing degree. Somewhere in between, I write—because adrenaline fades, but words? They cut deeper. They last.
I’m 39, based in Minneapolis, MN, and I’ve seen what happens when the clock runs out.
Verses & Vitality is where medicine meets memory, where the wreckage turns into rhythm.
Welcome to this, whatever this is.
Latest Posts
I am the Dancing On-Call Poetitorian
In one pocket, I carry a half-empty pen, its ink bleeding into napkins, café tables, and the margins of my own skin. In the other, a medic’s bag, ready to press language against wounds that refuse to close.
The Silence of Bond Street, Bend, Oregon
I Woke Up Walking The sky was torn wide—half-dream,...
Every Young or Old Man’s Dream
"Time is but a face on the water." I first read those words in a book long ago, but I wish today was the first time. There’s something haunting about understanding time—how it slips through our fingers like rain, how it reflects who we were, who we are, and who we might have been. On the battlefield of memory, where echoes of war linger longer than the warriors themselves, I stand—hands stained, fate sealed, laughter carried by the wind. The world is a cruel joke, a story written in blood and steel, a song sung by those left behind. And yet, through it all, I dream. Because some things are worth dreaming for.