emily-watkins-1 - Hello Poetry

Today I found one of your socks in my ***** laundry... I sat on top of the washing machine and cried mirrors into the palms of my hands in them, our entire relationship reflected.

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Mar 5, 2015

Mar 5, 2015 at 3:42 PM UTC

Untitled

Today I found one of your socks in my ***** laundry... I sat on top of the washing machine and cried mirrors into the palms of my hands in them, our entire relationship reflected.

5

F&cking; is what I did before you came along 15 minute sessions between classes in a ***** dorm room-- hands clawing lips mashing hips crushing-- they filled me up and then left me feeling empty broken but you came and picked the pieces up stitching me back together with your kisses you showed me you loved me in the most intimate of ways hands holding lips searching hips grinding heating your home in the dead of winter with the steam off our own bodies.

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Aug 13, 2014

Aug 13, 2014 at 4:42 AM UTC

Make love to me

F&cking; is what I did before you came along 15 minute sessions between classes in a ***** dorm room-- hands clawing lips mashing hips crushing-- they filled me up and then left me feeling empty broken but you came and picked the pieces up stitching me back together with your kisses you showed me you loved me in the most intimate of ways hands holding lips searching hips grinding heating your home in the dead of winter with the steam off our own bodies.

20

you always had a pull on me; you were my moon, and I, your tide many moonless nights have passed since the moment you decided it was over the waves cease to crash against the shore stagnant the vast, black ocean waits for someone to wade in swim around and make her feel whole again.

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Aug 13, 2014

Aug 13, 2014 at 3:48 AM UTC

My moon, oh, my moon.

you always had a pull on me; you were my moon, and I, your tide many moonless nights have passed since the moment you decided it was over the waves cease to crash against the shore stagnant the vast, black ocean waits for someone to wade in swim around and make her feel whole again.

11

Graduation was held in a church-- a short and sweet ceremony was all that stood between me and the big world outside of the town where everyone knew my name. Two years later, I find myself wanting to crawl back in, like a child climbing into his parent's bed after a bad dream. After all, the world is now a nightmare.

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Jul 24, 2013

Jul 24, 2013 at 12:34 AM UTC

Small town, U.S.A.

Graduation was held in a church-- a short and sweet ceremony was all that stood between me and the big world outside of the town where everyone knew my name. Two years later, I find myself wanting to crawl back in, like a child climbing into his parent's bed after a bad dream. After all, the world is now a nightmare.

15

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night with a poem burning on the roof of my mouth. Thoughts unknown to me pouring onto blank pages from a spring hidden in the deepest part of myself. The dark room is silent except for the scribbling of my pen and the beat of my heart. "I am. I am. I am."

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Jul 24, 2013

Jul 24, 2013 at 12:19 AM UTC

It's 3:00 a.m..

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night with a poem burning on the roof of my mouth. Thoughts unknown to me pouring onto blank pages from a spring hidden in the deepest part of myself. The dark room is silent except for the scribbling of my pen and the beat of my heart. "I am. I am. I am."

10

We love for however little a time and grieve a million eternities when love leaves the door open on its way out.

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Mar 5, 2013

Mar 5, 2013 at 11:27 PM UTC

Humans:

We love for however little a time and grieve a million eternities when love leaves the door open on its way out.

3

I find that this phrase is most often uttered in a condescending, yet full of pity, tone. After all, teachers don't make much money and that's how you win this game of life right? This question is always asked after I state my major, There are so many things I want to say and show to the ones who think teaching English is an obsolete profession. They've never seen a teenager construct a poem so full of power and emotion that she get a high no drug can recreate. A pen replacing needles and blunts, ink spilling out instead of blood. They've never heard the stories of students whose lives were saved by poetry and literature, a book page bandaging the wounds that come when the stone cold world is thrown at you over and over again. They don't comprehend the feeling a teacher has while watching his students walk the stage or after, when the **** hugs the nerd because they bonded in his English class that year. English classes remove the masks children wear to show the rainbow of colors bursting through their eyes. An English classroom is a safe place. An English teacher is a safe place to fall; they will always prop you up with good books and good advice. So, to answer your question Yes. Yes I want to teach my students to love and read and write and think and dream forever leaving remnants of my heart in their open hands.

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Feb 27, 2013

Feb 27, 2013 at 4:11 PM UTC

"So...you want to teach?"

I find that this phrase is most often uttered in a condescending, yet full of pity, tone. After all, teachers don't make much money and that's how you win this game of life right? This question is always asked after I state my major, There are so many things I want to say and show to the ones who think teaching English is an obsolete profession. They've never seen a teenager construct a poem so full of power and emotion that she get a high no drug can recreate. A pen replacing needles and blunts, ink spilling out instead of blood. They've never heard the stories of students whose lives were saved by poetry and literature, a book page bandaging the wounds that come when the stone cold world is thrown at you over and over again. They don't comprehend the feeling a teacher has while watching his students walk the stage or after, when the **** hugs the nerd because they bonded in his English class that year. English classes remove the masks children wear to show the rainbow of colors bursting through their eyes. An English classroom is a safe place. An English teacher is a safe place to fall; they will always prop you up with good books and good advice. So, to answer your question Yes. Yes I want to teach my students to love and read and write and think and dream forever leaving remnants of my heart in their open hands.

48

His home is an orphanage in downtown Belize. Triple-decker bunk beds topped with ***** stained mattresses fill each room. An abandoned 10 year old lies paralyzed on the floor; "Don't touch him. Nobody ever touches him." A small child covered in sores sleeps in a puddle of his own ***** I offer a container of pink Play-dough to a boy who proceeds to sculpt me changing the pink to brown with his ***** hands. "What is your name?" "I'm Allen" He tells me about his dreams of leaving Belize and becoming a U.S. soldier. He tells me of how his mother, a **** addict, dropped him off at the doorstep when he was 8 years old and how he remembers the look of fear and disappointment in her eyes every time she looked at him and saw his father looking back. His favorite color is blue. Together, we make bracelets with colorful beads, and as I stand to leave he hands me a pinkish-brown heart warm and sweaty from his ***** hands. And in return I hand Allen, and every child like him, my own heart red and ****** dedicated and passionate, foolishly and hopefully attempting to change the world.

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Feb 27, 2013

Feb 27, 2013 at 3:51 PM UTC

For Allen (Originally posted: December 3, 2012)

His home is an orphanage in downtown Belize. Triple-decker bunk beds topped with ***** stained mattresses fill each room. An abandoned 10 year old lies paralyzed on the floor; "Don't touch him. Nobody ever touches him." A small child covered in sores sleeps in a puddle of his own ***** I offer a container of pink Play-dough to a boy who proceeds to sculpt me changing the pink to brown with his ***** hands. "What is your name?" "I'm Allen" He tells me about his dreams of leaving Belize and becoming a U.S. soldier. He tells me of how his mother, a **** addict, dropped him off at the doorstep when he was 8 years old and how he remembers the look of fear and disappointment in her eyes every time she looked at him and saw his father looking back. His favorite color is blue. Together, we make bracelets with colorful beads, and as I stand to leave he hands me a pinkish-brown heart warm and sweaty from his ***** hands. And in return I hand Allen, and every child like him, my own heart red and ****** dedicated and passionate, foolishly and hopefully attempting to change the world.

39

A battered photograph cannot fully capture the mossy green of your eyes. Camouflage is your color, my dear.

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Feb 27, 2013

Feb 27, 2013 at 3:51 PM UTC

Camouflage (Originally posted: December 3, 2012)

A battered photograph cannot fully capture the mossy green of your eyes. Camouflage is your color, my dear.

5

The night you came home I watched you sleep; so innocent is your sleeping face. I can hardly believing that this man that I love so dearly could take the life of anyone. I walk to the kitchen barefoot, feeling the sand that has followed you home. It covers everything in a fine, gritty film, a nagging memory of the horrors you have faced. The vacuum can't make this go away. When you wake up I look into your green eyes: what have you seen that makes your stare look like that of an old man, much older than twenty?

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Feb 27, 2013

Feb 27, 2013 at 3:50 PM UTC

Sand. (Originally posted: Dec. 4, 2012)

The night you came home I watched you sleep; so innocent is your sleeping face. I can hardly believing that this man that I love so dearly could take the life of anyone. I walk to the kitchen barefoot, feeling the sand that has followed you home. It covers everything in a fine, gritty film, a nagging memory of the horrors you have faced. The vacuum can't make this go away. When you wake up I look into your green eyes: what have you seen that makes your stare look like that of an old man, much older than twenty?

21