two children danced in the moonlight
your hand held mine
and the stars clothed our nimble skin
every constellation hugged my waist by the grasp of your hand
holding me close
we swung and dipped through the clock’s dismal cries
yet earth’s sweet tune of night’s waking hour
led our steps
you and i
-the children of a mighty God
following each other’s footsteps from the wolf’s howl to the cock’s crow
how i miss this night, a child was i, a child were you
while the night was young
january 1st

a new book filled with fresh pages

2017 took 365 days to read

(to choke down)

her story anticlimactic

and severely infested with antagonists

each page worn by coffee stains

and soul crushing self-loathing

as the last word on the last page was read

i threw the novel carelessly into the abyss of my messy closet

(many a skeleton smiling back at me)

not needing another synopsis or recap

2018, the book seemed untarnished

never had the covers departed from one another to reveal her pages

as midnight loomed and fireworks cracked

I drowned myself in metaphorical whisky

grasped the first page and started the untraversed journey

let this year be the year of no paper cuts to the soul
emma beth taylor Dec 2017
i am quite fond of the precipitation
that comes in the form of liquid steam
which ever so gently  
spills from my shower nozzle  
and slowly cascades through my thick blonde hair
making it's way down my freckled  shoulders
clothing every curve in foamy bubbles
whilst drowning my thoughts in a sweltering fog and honey shampoo
the poem itself is not a cure to overthinking but I find that taking a hot shower can really help with straightening all of the overwhelming loose thoughts.
emma beth taylor Nov 2017
In the arctic November air
I puff ice cigarettes
From frostbitten lips
As my teeth chatter a captivating chorus

— The End —