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

sharp teeth stained
dripping with disdain
blood from my brain
hubris soaked in shame
I am my own glass ceiling
being weighed down
with stones of good intentions

Staring
at the empty word document on my screen
Waiting
for a jolt of poetic words that can express
everything inside of me I've been avoiding
But I'm coming up with nothing
empty hands
empty mind
empty heart
I feel censored in my art  
and I don't know how to remove the static

Perceiving and being
are two very different things
And I never know from which view you're seeing
I'm still trying to figure it all out
I don't feel like there's any direction I'm facing
it's making me feel dizzy
and a little ******* crazy
Losing grip; dreaming
where I only see silhouettes
that resemble memories  
Some that I recognize
and others that I don't
Like cigarette stained walls
that I can't scrub clean, it lingers
There's evidence of you existing everywhere
in my habits, in the weather
Today it feels like a boulder on my chest
and other days, like a feather

paisley prints and ripped tights
early mornings and late nights
small pockets of the world
that feel like they partly belong to me
from how often I'm frequenting,
arriving, and even after departing
I've got the muscle memory
but there's some streets
I'll never go down again
unless I'm transported against my will
with a sharp scent that rushes nostalgia
and transports me back to the trauma
or just the melancholy
of a time in life I'll never get back
time has fallen off it's tracks
and I'm somewhere in the middle of the crash
between the beginning and the end
sometimes I feel like I'm playing pretend
looking at myself from the outside in