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Coleen Mzarriz Jan 2021
Slow, steady, and unhurried steps of her feet that almost floats in the air — while her body lies
on the couch of her old apartment. Her apparition was lost on the airy night of December.

Her feet turned cold and weary, her breath smells like fury and her heart grew solid and unsteady. It beats just the sound of the drum rolling, her pulse radiates of fear, and her lips shut and dry. She turned around and her body keeps still and sounds asleep. As if, it was a normal night and just and peaceful.

She flew right through the door and stroll around the street of Evergreen. It was silent and streetlights turned off. It was smokey and dark. The pavement seems boring and bleak—her dress swayed and the cold air seemed welcoming to her chest. She passed by several houses and happened to find a bookshop. It was vintage and awkward. Its structures did not seem appealing nor look like someone owns them. But she manages to get past through it and books welcomed her—like how ghosts welcome their favorite strangers.

She passed by some old and modern books, carefully slipping her tender fingers to its hardcovers, flipping through endless pages, and breathing the dusty nostalgic aroma of the '90s. “It never gets old,” she says. She flips and flips, flies through the stairs, and find more pages. Circles all the important words, digesting all the heartfelt quotes—this has been her dream.

Suddenly, the lights filled the room, her eyes closed and her heart is racing through her pulse. An unknown hand grabbed her and pushed her to the wall. “Who are you, young lady?” Said the man with a gritted teeth.

Slowly, the woman opened her eyes, and there in front of her revealed a young man with hazel eyes and the smell of strong coffee in his mouth. His aromatic smell of vintage soul and modern scheming look. She dared not to speak but the man in front of her just pinched her pulse hard and peered at her.

She dared to look at him, and they both just stared at one another.

“I- I just want to read books,” she pouted. And the man avoided her face.

“But this place does not exist anymore.” He cleared his throat and loosened his grip on her.

“I- I'm just traveling by,” she added.

“I know. I am too.” He said, avoiding her gaze.

“You're an apparition too?” The woman asked. And she waited for a proper response but he just gazes upon the empty shelf around her.

“To go back,” He whispered.

“Are you the owner?” She asked once again, hoping she will get an answer from a stranger.

“Go home or I might do something you will not like.” He turned to her and gawked.

The woman sighed and went home with questions and strange memories she did not know she has.

It was the second night of December and she floats in the air. Passed by several houses and went to the old bookshop. She continued reading books and the man found her again. But this time, he was silent and cleaning around the area. The woman smiled and tried to talk to him.

“What is your name, young man?” She asked. The man froze and stood there, stiff. She laughed and did not expect an answer. Rather, she went upstairs and kept reading.

“John,” He held out his hand this time, formally acknowledging her presence.

“Emilia,” She smiled. Both of them spent the night reading books and talking about modern literature...And philosophy.

On the third day of December, she did not wake up through her apparition. Instead, she woke up with a soul, feet's touching the ground, and a face that is mirroring her reflection through the mirror. She exhilaratingly went out to find the bookshop, passed by several houses but did not found where the place was. She went back to her old apartment and tried to locate the bookshop.

However, it was only an empty lot she found when she tries to find it by heart and soul. The disappointment was evident on her face and her heart beats rapidly—ceased brows and lips shut tightly.

“John?” She whispered.

“John?” She calls him out again, hoping he'd hear her.

She steps into the burnt-out place. It was only an empty lot with wild grasses scattered and a tombstone lying there, in dust. It was named after Emilia Blythe. Suddenly, a familiar arm hugged her from behind. It was John, and her tears swelled around her eyes—while her heart ache and memories flooded her mind.

“I couldn't save you back then, Emilia, so I went back from the past and live in my dream to see you.” He whispered with comfort and longing.

“It's not your fault, John. I am sorry I forgot about you.” She cupped his face and peck him on the forehead.

“We can work this out and live forever in my dream.” He said with pleading in his eyes.

“But I am only a fragment of your imagination, John. You can let me go. It's not your fault,” Emilia said with conviction.

“I am just a vintage soul, a wayfarer amid the longing dawn and I am a fragment of your imagination. This place exists but it's all in the past now, you can let me go,” She added and let go of his hands.

“Wake up, dear.” She bid him her last goodbye.

John woke up with his heart racing and hopeful eyes. The people around him gathered and created strange noises in which he got confused, he opened his eyes and saw familiar faces around him.

“Thank God you're awake!” An elderly woman hugged him and kissed his face.

“It's a miracle you woke up after five years, son.” He remember his Father's voice and held his hand.

“Where's Emilia?” He asked, hoping he'd get an answer.

“She's gone... Remember?” Her mother broke the silence.

“Like 10 years ago, son.” She added.

He went back to the old bookshop, where Emilia was there. He traces all the books she touched and flipped through the pages where she left.

It was old and aromatic. It was vintage yet modern. The good thing was, his parents renovated the bookshop while he was sleeping for 5 years. He went upstairs and found the section where Emilia was always staying. He scanned all the books and touched every single page of them.

He flips through the pages and found a quote there, it was written with a bleak ink,

“We will meet again,


your old vintage soul”

He smiled and ripped the page out, then the door clicked and the bell rang. He immediately went downstairs and greets the woman in front of him.

“Can I borrow books from section 5-” The woman was cut off when John hugged her. Her face was confused and red.

“Emilia?” He whispered.

“Uh, I'm Emily,” She awkwardly answered.

John laughed and gave her an apologizing look.
“You look like someone I know,” He said.

“Sorry,” He added.

“No worries,” Emily answered with a half-smile.

And they both smiled at each other.
Enjoy reading!
There's other way you spell Emilia
With a E not A
Normally Emilia originates from Italy or Spain.
But according to astrologist, if you compatible you may have found your
Soul mates.

Emilia is cute, **** girl who has boys
Acting all manly around her.
She only has a few close friends but lots of friends all together.

Usually the name Emilia not with A it's Italian descent who has a great body.
She's also amazing girl who usually doesn't have many.
She's shine, cute as a button definitely seriously nice.

Emilia is super artistic and willing to
Do anything for others.
This is my name.
Taylor St Onge Nov 2015
1611: Emilia Lanier became the first Englishwoman to publish and collect patronage from her original poetry with the publication of fifteen poems, all about or dedicated to particular women, in her “booke,” titled in Latin, Hail, God, King of the Jews.  She was the fourth woman in England to publish her poetry, but the first to demand payment in return for it.  The first to see herself as equal to the paid male authors of the era.

This was the same year that the King James Bible was first printed.  This was eight years after the death of Queen Elizabeth I.  This was 180 years after nineteen-year-old Joan of Arc was burned at the stake.

                                                               ­      +

The Querelle des Femmes is “the woman question.”
Frenchmen of the early fifteenth century created a literary debate: what is the role and the nature of women?  Is it stemmed within a “classical” model of  human behavior; gnarled and rooted with misogynistic platonic tradition?  Should women actually be allowed into politics, economics, and religion?  There are scholars that say this debate radiated across several European countries for three centuries before finally fizzling out.  

                                                         ­                   But it is still there; has crossed
continents, has crossed oceans, is sizzling, sparking up fires, flaring out
into the night, leeching onto the trees, onto buildings, onto people, onto
anything flammable.  It is burning down monarchs and their thrones.  It is
raking back the blazing coals.  
                                                   Exposing the charred corpses.  
                 Proving their death.  
                                                   Burning and burning and burning them
                                              twice more to prevent the collection of relics.
                 It is chucking the ashes into the Seine River.

Lilith: who was made at the same time, at the same place, from the same earth, from the same soil as Adam, got herself written out of the Bible because she thought herself to be Man’s equal. Because she got bored of the *******.  Because she wanted to be on top during ***.  Lilith was replaced in the book of Genesis with a more-or-less subservient woman that was made from the rib of man instead of the same dirt and dust.  She was replaced with a woman that Adam named “Eve.”  She was replaced with a woman who served as nothing more than the scapegoat for Man’s downfall.
                                       The original Querelle des Femmes.

                                                                     +

1558-1603: Queen Elizabeth I ruled England in what is considered to be a masculine position. Although a woman can take the throne, can wear the crown, can wield the scepter, can run the country, the actual divine task that goes along with being a part of the monarchy, being a god on Earth, is thought to be the duty of a man.

Nicknamed The ****** Queen, Elizabeth never married,
                                                     never found a proper suitor,
                                             never produced a direct Tudor heir,
                                   (but this is not to prove that she was a ******).  
Chastity, especially of women, is a virtue.  ((To assume that she never had ***
simply because she never married
                                                                ­ is another Querelle des Femmes.))

For nearly forty-five years, Queen Elizabeth I did not need a man by her side while she lead England to both relative stability and prosperity; did not need a man by her side while she became the greatest monarch in English history.  
                                                She held the rainbow, the bridge to God, in her
                                                                ­                     own small hands just fine.

                                                          ­           +

Saturday, February 24, 1431: Joan of Arc was interrogated for the third time in her fifteen-part trial in front of Bishop Cauchon and 62 Assessors.  During her six interrogation sessions, she was questioned over charges ranging from heresy to witchcraft to cross-dressing.

At age twelve Joan of Arc began seeing heavenly visions
                                                                ­               of angels and saints and martyrs;
age thirteen she began hearing the Voice of God—was told to
purify France of the English,                          to make Charles the rightful king—
age sixteen she took a vow of chastity as a part of her divine mission.  

When the court asked about the face and eyes
that belonged to the Voice, she responded:
                                                      ­                      There is a saying among children, that
                                                         “Sometimes one is hanged for speaking the truth.”


Joan of Arc was declared guilty and was killed by the orders of a Bishop during a time when men were beginning to question the role and nature of women in society.  They thought women to be deceitful and immoral.  Innately thought Joan of Arc to be deceitful and immoral.  (Perhaps she was one of the catalysts for the Querelle in the first place.)

((The church blamed Eve for the
fall of mankind.  Identified women as
                                                                     temptation:
                                                               the root of all sins.))

Twenty-five years later she was declared innocent and raised to the level of martyrdom.
The Catholic Church stood back,
saw the blood,
                          the ashes,
                                            the thick smoke and stench of burned body that
                                                                ­               covered their hands, their clothes,
                                                                ­                    their neurons, their synapses;
        a filth that couldn’t be washed off by Holy water—
can’t be washed off by Holy water.

Four hundred and seventy-eight years later Joan of Arc was blessed and gained entrance to Heaven.  Four hundred and eighty-nine years later she was canonized as a saint.

                                                         ­            +

Lines 777-780, “Eve’s Apology in Defense of Women,” Emilia Lanier, 1611:
                         But surely Adam can not be excused,
                         Her fault though great, yet he was most to blame;
                         What Weakness offered, Strength might have refused,
                         Being Lord of all, the greater was his shame…


Adam, distraught and angered that his first wife, Lilith, had flew off into the air after he had refused to lay beneath her, begged God to bring her back.  God, taking pity on his beloved, manly, creation, sent down three angels who threatened Lilith that if she did not return to Adam, one hundred of her sons would die each day.  

                              (This is where the mother of all Jewish demons
                                         merges with the first wife of Man.)  

She refused, said that this was her purpose: she was
created specifically to harm newborn children.  This legend,
dated back to 3,500 BC Babylonia, describes Lilith as a
                                                                       winged feminine demon that
                                                     kills infants and endangers women in childbirth.

In the Christian Middle Ages, Lilith changed form once more:
she became the personification of licentiousness and lust,
she became more than a demon, she became a sin in herself.  Lilith
and her offspring were seen as succubae, were to blame for the
wet dreams of men.  Taking it a step further, Christian leaders then
                                                                ­                           wed Lilith to Satan;
                                                                ­                              charged her with
                                                                ­               populating the world with evil,
                                                   claimed she gave birth to
one hundred demonic children per day.

Lilith is considered evil in the eyes of the church because she was insubordinate to Adam.  Both she and Eve are considered disobedient; are too willful, too independent in the way that Lilith wanted to be on top and Eve wanted to share a knowledge that Adam could have refused.  They are perceived as a threat to the divinely ordered happenings that men see to be true.

Men wrote the history books because only their interpretation was right.  
Emilia Lanier writes:
                                       Yet Men will boast of Knowledge, which he took
                                           From Eve's fair hand, as from a learned Book
(807-808).

The Querelle des Femmes is not just a literary debate in the fifteenth century.  It is a way of life.  It is the divine portion of Queen Elizabeth I’s job being fit for men, and men alone.  It is Joan of Arc being a woman and hearing the Voice of God; it is Joan of Arc being burned three times by the same Catholics that revered in Jesus, a man who, too, heard the Voice of God.  It is Lilith being deemed a demon for not wanting to have *** in the *******.  It is Eve having to apologize in the first place for sharing the apple, for sharing knowledge with her partner.  It is women holding positions of power and yet still feeling powerless to men.  

The Querelle des Femmes is wanting to use gender
to keep one group of people above another.  The Querelle des Femmes
is continually thinking that the ***** is greater than, but
never equal to, the ******. The Querelle des Femmes is
                                                       not understanding the difference between
                                                                ­       ***          and          gender
                                                                ­              in the first place.  
The Querelle des Femmes is me,
burning your dinner and telling you to eat it anyway.
This is part of a larger project that I am working on pertaining to the Querelle des Femmes.
Emma Beckett Jul 2018
I am a chameleon
Black, white, red or blue I’ll be whoever you want me to.
In therapy I’m told it’s because I don’t know who I actually am, but the thing is there I am also a chameleon.
While sitting in that uncomfortable leather chair I’m a girl unsure- broken by the weight the world places on my shoulder but outside of that room I’m more sure of myself then I am sure of the laws of gravity.

I am a chameleon
Most days my name is Emma, other days its Emilia and on the rare occasion its Ellie. It may seem a little odd to you to have so many different names but I think it’s because I truly am different people.
See Emma is serious, but she has a fun side, while Emilia is fun with a serious side. Ellie is that broken girl from the uncomfortable chair while Emilia is always smiling never feeling an ounce of pain. Emma, well she’s broken too, but in a different way- that dosen’t matter much though because there is no way in hell she will let anyone see that.

I am a chameleon
But not in a disingenuous way. I’m not trying to lie or make you like me. Don’t get me wrong, I want you to like me, but I learned long ago that no matter how hard I try there will always be someone who doesn’t.

I am a chameleon
Because I love you so much it hurts, that’s why I want you to have a version of me you flel in love with. The person I truly am changes with the tide- she is far to disconcerting. So for you I will pretend that I find “Grey’s Anatomy” enjoyable or that I like eating eggs because you deserve some shred of consistency.

I am a chameleon
I hide from the world by blending into the background- it’s safer that way. Not just for me, but for you to. That way I can only show the parts of me that is safe for you to see. The heaviest pieces that have caused so many people to run will remain invisible.
You tell me you want to see. You tell me that you want to carry my burdens. The thing is, others have tried but, eventually, they are all crushed under the weight of my brokenness. So, I am not afraid that you will leave, I am afraid that you will stay.



I am a chameleon
Because I choose to be. See if I blend in then you can’t get too close to me. The farther away you are, the less it will hurt should I disappear and the last thing I want to do is hurt you.
So…

I am a chameleon
Because I haven’t truly decided if I am going to stay yet.
Julie Butler May 2014
Emilia

What a beauty I saw
as you strutted on past me
Singing a 70's tune on the sidewalk
looking absolutely classy
Your hair was long
and your skirt, kinda flashy
your eyes were set free
from your cute little glasses
your voice was like a blade
you sliced me like an apple
you were a glowing caramel latte
in a crowd full of *******
I remember your presence
luminescent as the moon
over a castle in the forest
and how you light up every room
you're in my blood like we're one body
I rep you proud with a tattoo
there's not a day that I don't miss you
or a minute wishing I didn't have to
my soul sister
my best friend
who lives too far
and i can't stand it
renniedreams Nov 2017
I love my dear,
Her name is Emilia.
Gazing at her from far away,
Just makes my day.

Jet-black silky flowing locks,
like the Milky Way which never stops.
Bursting with the scent of a quaint flower,
Most undoubtedly from a morning shower.

Mere curtains but, those are,
To the cutesy face with eyes ajar.
Her skin, infinitely youthful, flawless and luminous,
In comparison, even cherubs appear longevous.

Prismatic obsidian orbs suspended in opal,
Whisks you someplace else⸻a portal.
Thin clear lenses in a sleek black frame,
Masks wild vivacious eyes to look tame.

Hereunder lies a dainty nose,
With a soft hue like a pink rose.
Cherry lips so full and round,
Even a light kiss will be sure to astound.

A euphonious voice reberverates,
through every heart it penetrates.
Resonant, crisp, and fine,
Pleasant, like a ring of a windchime.

Slender and tender,
Are her hands and fingers.
Deft and skillful is her fingerwork,
Weaving melodies as bright as firework.

If the world was a blossoming garden,
Sunflowers would represent this maiden.
Her presence unquestionably amazes,
blooming wide smiles on countless faces.

A brilliant joyous yellow lustre,
Is the aura that defines her.
She's a dazzling ray of light,
So bid all your worries good night!

Magnetic is her personality,
And attractive is her positivity.
Loved and respected by all is she,
friendly and cheery as all should be.
Yoh Esters Mar 2021







✵✹✰✧★✴
𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚕𝚎, 𝚎𝚗𝚍, 𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚓𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚢. 𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎.
✵✹✰✧★✴








a mcvicar Mar 2018
she
has shape-shifted
and switched sides many times,
kind of similar to the way water bursts
when placed into the tiniest of containers.
and she
has learned
because the ounces of liquid once lost
came back to haunt her.
still, she hears their voices in her nightmares:
"you're soon to evaporate,
water never really does change".
she
has shivered.
she has spent time in solitary, all those years
staring out to the world that laughed at her tears,
droplets of pure water mixed with ichor,
of blood mixed with sweet, sweet liquor.

but you
have started
to discover the wonders this world holds,
the secrets the water covered
(just like her, she always hid)
oh. please. no.
so you
must never give in
to the pull that turned me into water in the first place
you must remain strong,
a hurricane and a glass of lemonade
cannot compare to honey
mixed in with all of your thoughts.
because you
have been made
with the same razor edges your baby blanket was woven out of
and that is
surely
the most memorable thing about you.
14.3.18  //  this one's for you em. i once stood where you are now, and i've learned to just accept my quirks, because they're, well, mine. i wrote this hoping it would remind you that who you are is valid, and beautiful.
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Abbey Zastrow with Abbey Engel.
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Transformation Tuesday w/ my bestie
Elise Oct 2013
The one constant in life,
raised by the strong and the bold,
standing up to those who aimed to shoot her down,
never giving up, always giving her all,
continuing step after step after each hard fall.

The generosity beheld,
selfless to those who needed a hand,
just a call away for loved ones shaken from life's unyielding grip,
never rejecting an opportunity to be a shoulder to cry on,
looking up to those cherished friends who she so easily came upon.

The love shared with those around her,
without judgement or criticism,
revealing a half-witted sense of humor,
making fun out of uncomfortable situations,
sometimes embarrassing for her closest relations.

She taught me what I know today,
strength, ambition, selflessness, love,
coming from a line of strong women like no one's ever seen before,
passed from mother to daughter, generation to generation,
filling me immensely with adoration.

Elizabeth,
my mother,
who learned from the best; Emilia, who built unbreakable bonds.
Now passing that way of life onto her daughters;
Eryn and Elise.
The strongest women you will ever meet,
setting us up to accomplish remarkable feats.
Happy Birthday, Mom.
Rayos Feb 2011
8yrs young
lo0000nnnnnnnnggggggggg
thick  shiny  blue  black  hair
Air Force Papa wanted a Wash N Wear
He wanted mija* with Dorthy Hamill hair

So I was ordered to March down the street
to Emilias Holy Carport
Emilia La Bautista Mexicana
She knew no english but she knew Jesus
She'd cut your hair and save your soul

That day i requested un "Dori Hamel" Cut
She smiled and charismaticly said Amen! Te vas a ver muy bonita

Her holy * tijeras snipped
my hair glided to the cement floor like feathers off angels wings

She made me look right
she made me look left
and when i looked up...
I HAD A MULLET

my tears came down
because of my Dukes of Hazzard crown
and I marched home to Dixie
TRANSLATIONS:
mija-spanish for daughter
La Bautista-The  Mexican baptist
tevas ver bonita-you will look very pretty
*Tijeras-scissors
Reece Sep 2013
"I carry the star on the heel of beaten boots, the beet red road longs for the touch of stars. "

She motioned to her nose and informed him of the blood, he cupped his face before examining the crimson drops and saying “my nose bleeds sometimes, I suppose.” She agreed and walked away, into the corner of the room; she stood there and took a sip of beer. He held his hand beneath his nose for what seemed like 4 minutes but was actually only two. The blood began to pool and he sauntered to the kitchen and then turned around and went to the bathroom and closed the door.

Outside the apartment block were two lovers. Kissing under starry smiles as the broken door swings wide.

Staring into the vastness of the starry skies, he could see that all was lost and without thought or pause, held the barrel to his skull and pulled the trigger. Upon witnessing such an unprovoked and horrifying scene she ran from the car and held his body close to her breast, removing the gun from the ground on which it lay. She mimicked her lover’s action and ceased to exist along with him.

(It was all a dream.)

They held each other close, with heads together and a murmuring sigh from each of their stomachs. He mumbled into her ear “I promise I won’t look back.” Starting again on his journey, gently rejecting her body from his and refusing to make eye contact our traveler took to the cornfields, marching with intent and brushing aside the vast bushels as if he were a human scythe but he hesitated as he reached the great fence at the edge of the property; standing still he fought himself with a rigorous internal monologue before turning his head half way. She looked on with angst and hoped he wouldn’t turn fully. As he reached the point of seeing the house from the corner of his eye he snapped his head forward and gallantly marched into the woods and eventually to the desolate road from which he ventured a week earlier. The scent of Emilia in his nostrils, the finest ******* he had ever abused, the sweetest cacophony of noise, her voice in his ears, ringing like so many bells on the shore of some obscure beach in Britain. His thoughts turn to home and a solemn sigh was enough to shake, rattle, destroy his brittle bones and cause him to fall to his knees on the dusty road, screaming out to the clouds above him; wishing his mother was by his side. Tristan was lonely and the sadness of a life alone crept over him and held his shoulders in a way no person ever could or would.

He woke up and the voice on telephone that was curiously at his ear told him that his mother was dead. He went back to sleep. He woke again and wrote a novel. He then deleted the files from his computer and went for a walk in the park as that used to ease his depression during childhood. The trees were black and the sky was still blue. It was odd, and his nose was bleeding. Back home he woke up the computer from its dormant state and opened various sites in a cyclical manner. The hours passed and his back began to hurt. It was 7:43AM and the computer monitor became inexplicably brighter as the sun followed suit, pushing through the faded curtains and seeping through the gap and onto the wooden floor. He refreshed the web page and sighed. Nothing was happening. The world was over. He sat straight and slumped over before dragging himself across the room and falling from the chair to his bed. Asleep again and no dreams were had.

The world outside the window stood grey and as motionless as the icy waters when Lethe freezes over. The world outside is dead. All of these people are now one.
For those who seek meaning, I reject your eyes. Of those ties, the human ******* I despise, please turn away for I am the one who cries.
Andrew Aug 2020
For Emilia
You have a heart of gold, ignore anything you ever get told. My love for you will never grow old. You need your time and that is fine. I hope our paths meet somewhere down the line. But until that time.I hope you are well and doing just fine, I’m really glad I got to hold apart of your heart and I’m glad you held onto mine... sleep well darling goodnight x
Wrote this when me and my ex girlfriend broke up incase she got upset, I look at it now and think how stupid can I be but i also think about how much worth I actually have to write that for an ex to make her smile
The evanescence of a light beam constructed inside Emilia's longing, desolate eyes as she searched her room for the pounding rhythm of a distance drum. The succinct stirring shot a severe ache into her eardrums, and she cradled her head inside her lanky forearms, comfortable in their cataclysm.

She had been stolen, and her arms were her only comfort. As she watched onward in the tiny, centipede-infested room she had been thrown into, the beating drums continued, and she could hear the unclear voices of large Ukrainian men prattling about "the beginning."

The beginning, she felt, had begun, whatever it was, and as she listened, the only thing she could think about was cutting those ropes loose and taking control again over these infuriating defectors as her birthright had dictated.
Karijinbba Mar 2021
Kiriaki Olivia Eleni Mada-lozi
from Piraeus Greece Billy
ugly Marcia, Sherry Shriki, Darni, Judy Gim, Alb- tch, Jeff Albr.. Henry Robert W
Impotent ejaculator precosē. Charles manson's advocates; Henry Robert narcissistic
your sociopath psychopath nurse from hell in LA CA.
You aren't above the law
Poisoners sterile hainas  
Susan WRat no.
**** human predators human traficants to hell with you all- ratas inmundas! Emilia Velazquez thief IHSS should put you in jail And immigration take your green card stealing my savings and stimulus money cashed. Shame on you rata inmunda ladrona.

Filthy rats
Creeping animals
**** of life
Shoddy monstrosity.

Subhuman
Spectres of Hell
**** vermins
How much damaged you've done to me and my daughter's
Poisoning them with hallucinogenic metamphetamins psychotropics without them knowing
Then, blackmailing them to give up their parental rights to sterile haenas jealous medeas
Add insult to injury to my family forcing psychiatric pill intake to hide your ancient crimes
Your hate crime is now public susan ra-t-ano hell *****

You bought my grown daughter from the human predators I had escaped from
1982.
Coward filthy **** *****

Vermin word raitano
Poisonous serpent
Waste of life
I hate you and despise you.

Two-legged rats
I'm talking to you all
because creeping creatures,
even being the most cursed,
compared to your evildoers
vermin human predators,
a creeping snake
stands taller than you all.

**** leeches
**** cockraoches
you who infects with bites,
who hurts and who kills.
Slanders trashing whoever
is holy good and precious

You Vermin
Poisonous serpents
Waste of life
I hate you and despise you.
I bind to you all my motherly pain I curse you in every life time.
Two-legged filthy rats,
I'm talking to you!
because a creeping creature,
even being the most cursed and ugly, in hell, on Earth
unwelcome in heaven,
compared to you **** brains.
stands much taller.

You're listening to me
useless
Hyena of Hell
How much I hate you and despise you!

**** leech
**** cockraoch
you who infects with bites,
who hurts and who kills.

Vermin
Poisonous serpents
In everyone's paradise.
Waste of life
I hate you and despise you.

Two-legged my filthy rats
I'm talking to you too ***** donors madalozi charms.bos henry welonek.
because a creeping creature,
even being the most cursed compared to you
You stand even smaller.
~~~~~~~
Repost.
By Paquita del Barrio
And Karijinbba.
1976-present
All Rights.
To my unprovoked filthy enemies
Child torturers may karmic dñnnnebt give you all
an eye for an eye poisonous night shades vampires may my light blast you all out
Elicia Hurst Jan 2019
.
to Emilia,
you are the method to my madness


I will cry my heart out now
for every hypothetical tragedy.
I’ll break my heart now
so I don’t have to— in another life,
or a life yet to come,
drown myself in some apocalyptic loss.
Unceremonious

departures. Haunt me for life.
Mourn you for all the ways you’d die.
Prepare myself for inconsolable grief
in a simulation of a graveyard.
Tombstone upon tombstone:
Dug, prodded, buried, sunk.

My dear,
to my dismay, you are but a mortal,
implicated in the immortality of love.
In the book of all conclusions,
written in an indecipherable tongue,
your name engraved in feeble marble,
an expiration date in bright, blinding red.

How can we cheat Oblivion?
How do we defy Death?

You shrug with a confident nonchalance.

What is Death to Love Imperishable?  
What is Eternity of a moment to Oblivion?

We are in the dress rehearsal
for the season’s première and the grand finale.
The Universe has been on our side all along,
it’s poured every blood, toil and tear into
years of conspiration and orchestration,
for our one delicate point convergence.
One chance against all odds.
One intersection against all parallels.
So come what may—
Take my hand and break a leg.
Jan 2019
lacie doe Feb 2015
emilia
Francesca
Anna
Or
Annie
Sometimes
You are a light
Swallowed
Up by the
Dark......
Vacuum
#Death
Gemini has too split personality
Here about to tell you
Racheal is a person
Who DONT GIVE A **** ABOUT ANYTHING

Emilia is a person
Who scared, insecure
And listen to other people

Racheal is far gone
She just lost hopes
About herself and life

Emilia is running the show now
She's want to proof a point
She's more sensitive
And hard headed
Thomas Newlove Mar 2016
"You know nuthin', Jon Snow!"
Now get your blood and **** out for H.B.O.
I don't care if you're a Stark,
I'm only watching for Emilia Clarke
Tweet verse is a poem comprised of exactly 140 characters (including spaces and punctuation but excluding the title)
Paul Gilhooley Mar 2018
Inspired by Neil Diamond's "Morningside"
A tale of when an old man died,
Of nights spent alone, and days that I've cried,
For my children

This poem is real, this poem is me,
Far from the person each one of you see,
Depression, emptiness, a life I can't flee,
For my children.

By mistakes a plenty, my life defined,
The gift I hold, verses from what's on my mind,
A tormented soul, with the words I've signed,
For my children.

Emilia and John, years spent apart,
Thinking back each night, tearing at my heart,
To go back in time, and correct from the start,
For my children.

Isobel and Lydia, off doing their things,
Watching them flourish, the joy that it brings,
Two ladies growing, in my heart it sings,
For my children.

And obviously Ben, my Junior Sharkbait,
My final reason to smile, this tiny wee mate,
Giving me purpose, keeping life great,
For my children.

People believe as a dad I am good,
But I've let them all down far more than I should,
And I'd change it all for a chance that I could,
For my children.

As a father I know that I truly am blessed,
I've five stars that to me, are simply the best,
With their joy, love and laughter, my heart is caressed,
For my children.

But when I die, truth is sad,
Not a child will claim the gift I had,
The words I write become my epitaph,
For my children."

Cinco Espiritus Creation 2018
I told you in my last email about a man near to you – and that something intrigued me about him.

My cards told me about manipulation, and this manipulation may come from him.

Did you have the feeling that some of your recent decisions weren't really your decisions?
Paul Gilhooley May 2016
A poem runs just like the tide,
What word comes next, I must decide,
With words as water, they ebb and flow,
But how it ends, I don’t yet know.

A title from film, or even song lyric,
A spark will light, and then I click,
My fingers type, the poem forms,
Be it still of night, or as day dawns.

I use my words to create a verse,
I’m always thinking, a blessed curse,
I follow no plan, I write off the cuff,
So pardon me if some seem rough.

I use these words to ease my woes,
Wound so tight, sometimes it shows,
My poems help to set me free,
Not always good, but always me.

The style that suits, I make them rhyme,
I whip them out in lightening time,
The inner me is in them all,
You read each one, you will find Paul.

I write for causes of which I fight,
My inner soul as dark as night,
I share my hopes, I share my fears,
With more to come throughout the years.

My children are my creative spark,
They are my light when it gets dark,
John, Isobel, Lydia, Emilia, Ben,
You inspire me onwards, time and again.

We all have things held deep inside,
A truth we hold, that won’t be denied,
The reason why my poems thrive?
It’s simple, my sweet children five.

© Cinco Espiritus Creation
2013
Sunflowers bloom beneath a tinted blue sky, white dollop clouds in    
Undulating fashion, hovering over yellow petals and deep golden seeds.  
Nestled in soil slim tall and beautiful, birthing cordially for the      
Floriculturist in all of us.  A wide expanse inside a garden, they    
Loom, over plants such as Gerberas,  Lilies, Carnations and Limoniums;
Open your window take in the resin scent of their lace. They are a  
Wonder of nature, a gift from Mother Earth herself.  To name a few,    
Echinacea apricot rainbow, Emilia tassel  and echinop globe thistles,
Reviving each year with renewed strength they bring us love and beauty .
Emilia, Esrellda, Madison, Riley, Alexa, Indiana, Lindiana
Names is each and everyone's identity
Hayley, Jules, Charli, Dixie, Allie, Mildred, Sally, Kayla,
Name makes everyone special and unique
Lola, Livia, Lovely, Honey, Hazel, Tigeress
Even animals have their own identity
A, B, C, D, E, F, G,
Pick some alphabets and you'll be named !
NAMES
The story of love

Tash Mahal built by a prince
for a wife, he loved despite having many spouses.
A beautiful palace admired for its architecture
and reduced to mere splendour.
On a narrow road going uphill, I came across
a clumsily built cement block
made by a boy who loved Maria Emilia
Thorny bushes overgrew his work.
Yet, it was here I sat down and cried for lost love.

— The End —