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 Dec 2016 emma l
unwritten
no taste.

still, though,
cool and crisp enough
to bring about a smile.

and what a relief,
what a change of pace
to write a poem
about something that don’t deserve no poetry,

for once.

i feel a little bubble of anger,
of bitterness
at the knowledge that the words come easier when my mouth is on fire.

what the hell.
for a few seconds the cool seeds slide down easy.

no taste.

(a.m.)
written 11.25.16. inspired by eating cucumber. i hope this makes sense.
 Dec 2016 emma l
unwritten
this is an alphabet of all the people
who have dug holes in me,
and of all the people
who are still digging.

this is a gardening guide
for would-be lovers and pretty faces
who do not even realize
that they are carrying shovels.

this is a weather forecast written
from past experience,
a reminder that winter
is not kind on crops,
no matter how firmly you pack the dirt.

this is me,
reflecting on seeds planted.

this is me,
reflecting on seeds left to die.

A,
i suppose it is fitting that the first letter
is also the first person to show me what it is like
to have seedlings sprouting up from inside you,
the first person to show me just how deep you really have to dig
to make the sting last.
you never came back to water what you planted.

H,
i’d like to say to that i ripped out your roots with my own two hands;
i’d like to give myself some credit in all this.
you don’t look as lovely as you used to.
you say i’ve grown distant.
i’m sorry.

J,
you always feel like being on the verge of something big.
you feel like summer, like a deep purple,
a bath of darkness.
you are everywhere that plants do not grow well.
and i have always felt — and still do feel — 
that that is such a grave injustice.
still, though you cannot speak the word “devotion,”
i beckon for more seeds.

P,
my greatest heartbreak.
heartbreak, though, is but a flesh wound when seen from afar.
and so i thank god for the miles between us.
i can feign forgetfulness when you are far away.
after all, what is a shovel in your hands if those hands cannot reach me?

S,
you are but a bud waiting to bloom.
and yet again i find myself so very afraid of growth.

(a.m.)
written may 24th, 2016. pretty proud of how this came out. hope you enjoy. **
 Dec 2016 emma l
Syzygy
stone
 Dec 2016 emma l
Syzygy
my love,
continue with your unfiltered commentary,
ask your questions that pierce my heart because you know that i'm lying to you
ignore that i'm bleeding
just as i've ignored you as you have already bled to your death.
life no longer flows through your veins
as affection never really flowed through mine.
i was gonna try to put a pun here but i guess my inspiration'***** rock-bottom ahA
bye
somehow, i never learned to run
i was once told i move like a drunk newborn camel
and, admittedly, that is not entirely inaccurate

im from a family of shaking hands
bullet hole egos
and wobbly knees
all of us clumsy with our hearts and each other

its no wonder i trip over my own apologies
stumble at a pretty smile
falter at opportunity
this is apples and trees all over again
and nobody likes bruised fruit

i am all bruises
i am fall over anything
fall for everything
fall into everyone

there is a secret to moving gently that no one wants to share
and maybe i dont want it anyway
i am the bull and the world is my china shop

i am not afraid of falling
i am not afraid of bruises

i am a crash course in wrecking *****
edited after post*
 Dec 2016 emma l
curlygirl
Find a Poet Not a poser, not a "it's just a hobby" poet. Find one who mumbles lines as they scramble for a pen at breakfast; who shakes their head randomly when their thoughts aren't rhyming properly;  who has notebooks stashed around the house that you must never touch.
2. Listen Savor the spoken words, for those are harder to express. Keep in mind that they can't be edited and re-written, and be forgiving when a mistake is made.
3. Read The body speaks as loudly as words on a page do. When their eyes are closed or focused on the ceiling and the fingers are tapping out syllables, recognize the unique process. Respect the need for quiet, because if you look closely, you can read the poem on their face before they write it on the page.
4. Write Write your story together. Grab hold of the pen and hang on as you move across the page of life. Sometimes you will dance across, others you will be dragged. You may have to cross out a word, or a line, or a page, but don't give up. Discouragement is a poet's biggest enemy, inarticulateness their biggest fear. So end each day with a semi-colon, because the story will never end the way you think it will, and there must be room for more. There is always room for more, more words, more laughter, more tears, more love,
When you love a poet.
 Dec 2016 emma l
tamia
i've always wondered:
how did a pretty soul like yours
grow in the confines of concrete walls?
are you sure you did not grow
under the kind light of the sun,
amidst fields in the breeze?
are you sure you did not grow
among the sea under blue skies?
are you sure you grew up
being mistreated for the way you looked?
are you sure you spent your youth,
working all too hard from dusk to dawn?
are you sure you were not trampled on
by the world and all its cheaters?

how could you, such a pretty soul,
have grown with all you have endured?
for hvc
 Dec 2016 emma l
Cweeta Cwumble
sometimes
when i'm wrapped up in your arms
i open up your heart
like a treasure chest
and channel all the light
in the entire universe
straight into your body

i don't know if it works
(my powers might be imaginary)
but i try anyway
because you deserve to feel the power
of a billion stars
inside your chest
 Dec 2016 emma l
Tabi G
Untitled
 Dec 2016 emma l
Tabi G
i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry
i didnt mean to make you sad
oh god, im a bad friend

i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry
i didnt mean to talk too loud
i didnt mean to startle you
i didnt mean to take up too much space
i didnt mean
i didnt mean
i didnt mean
i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry
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