How would you describe your art in three words?
Genuine, emotional, and layered
From Warwick, New York, writer and poet William Percarpio creates beautiful works of literature that will captivate and pull at your heart. Will is constantly writing, at least one piece per week, and their poetry highlights themes of romance, personal growth, and self discovery. Currently studying at Emerson College as a Writing, Literature, and Publishing major, the young writer is influenced by all aspects of the world around them, finding inspiration in the connection they can initiate between their words and their audience. Will has written for countless magazines across their institution’s campus, having work published in collections such as ATLAS and Index Magazine. Their tone reflects an authentic and raw nature, holding nothing back and letting their writing speak to audiences on a deep emotional level that holds resonance with anyone lucky enough to read it.
Where/how do you gather inspiration?
I am inspired by my life or my imagination. I look at the smallest encounter or moment and believe that it could be the most impactful. I try to look at things we take for granted or even those times that become a fond memory and write about it.
What do you hope audiences retain from your work?
I hope audiences connect to my work. I think poetry lets everyone find an aspect and connect to it. There is one line, stanza or word that could resonate with someone and I think that is the most powerful part of poetry. Because when there is a connection to a work then there becomes an appreciation or love for the words.
Poetry by William Percarpio:
i roamed the aisles, words floated through the hall, i saw the stories of authors,
of characters living the lives i craved, i drifted throughout each row, libraries harnessed stories, narratives of escapism, a world within an institution, where would i end up? my heart spilled on the pages of books i would never read.
i row through a crowd perfumed with desire sweat trickled down their necks
bodies wrapped in lust shirts thinner than the smokey air
i fell, my legs crumpled underneath me arms flailed into the drunk crowd
each person entangled with another so i fell
trying to grab onto sturdy shoulders my fingers slid through the sweat coating their bodies the music raged each beat vibrating the ground, humming alone, like a corpse i collapsed hands, veins shimmering through the flashing neon lights
they tugged on my carcass i became his, painted as his star the vibrations purr my torso tossed into his, i slipped into the familiar gyration of our bodies the music ate his words swallowing them, silence settled between bodies, corpses no more, alive from a coffin of separation, i was his, he was mine.
heathens know how to love
am i anything other than my queerness, my body a temple to the world around me, sacrilegious and hated, or venerated. flashy, femimine, feral, i am untamed,
but i am free to choose, decide on my life, more than a stereotype. to you i am a heathen
degenerate, criminal in my actions, walking down the street as myself is my biggest offence, to you i am unworthy as the color pink is to a growing boy, pigeonholed and alone he is. yet he loves, happiness rests on his heart, red spilling out, gushing, scarlet flows, to you this is a picture of victory, as his carcass rests on floor, bruises swell on his face, his eyelids falling for the final time and his breath vanishes. is he anything other than his queerness? you cage him as if he is an animal, preach love and forgiveness, yet his sin his unmistakable, break your tenets and he is alone, saints don’t love, they brutalize and mar bodies of their adversaries, so i guess only heathens know how to love.