You told me I never wrote poems about love,
but it's because I never needed an outlet.
I often write about something when it poisons me,
and I don't want to continue to feel it.
So why would I ever write about love
that I never want to leave me?
Unless its through my hands, or my lips
to douse you with completely

He's like an old building that's decayed. The bones are good. The core is sturdy. But everything is falling apart and in a state of disrepair without the right tools. He doesnt wanna find the right tools, and I can't find them for him. I'd probably find the wrong ones anyway

Speckled across my brain like glitter
abnormal amounts of white matter
every day I’m dizzy; head spinning sensations
I want to know what it’s like to feel like myself again
but I think I am being introduced to a new version
Emma 2.0
although
I know
I’m well past a couple versions now
got my own ideas and visions to reach for
and I just stretched my skin out into my 34th year
my angel number, I find comfort there
now I've gotta decide what direction I’m going
or at least just start walking
I know I can always re-route later

Got a passion that takes over my body
It’s a feeling in my chest that gets absorbed into my bloodstream
then disappears into my cells until they start to scream
I want to create art at the beginning and end of every breath
but when I sit down to regurgitate all my thoughts, I just need rest
the day got under my skin & the patterns got harder to part from
I got new prescriptions to find parts of myself inside of
but ignoring my art feels like a cardinal sin
I want to give myself a win
without giving excuses