Broken- by Emily H. Sturgill

Broken Brain

Bipolar disorder broke my brain in two poles.

With my medications I walk a tightrope between these poles

depression and mania…..I try daily to slip into the inbetweenness of these two things.

medicine helps but it does not cure. It only helps to contain a balance of semi-stability.

So yes I”ve got a broken brain.

Also I’ve got a broken Uterus. I have Endometriosis Stage 4. A fancy way of brokeness…

I hurt a lot of the time. It’s the worst whenever I am bleeding. Crumpled into layers of pain cramping aching stabbing screaming agony of pain. I’m hurting today in fact. Despite my period not due for two more days my broken uterus spits brownish blood and I know that means to hell with the calendars my period’s starting early. Up until 2015 I was taking opiods for the pain. Then I went through the process of applying for a medical marijuana card. I got off opiods. Now instead of pain daily from my endometriosis I’ve only got pain during my periods and during ovulation…..

A broken Uterus. A history of Infertility. Two pregnancies=Two miscarriages.

It’s a fancy form of brokeness. It’s a double whammy. A broken brain. A broken Uterus.

But deep down inside beneath all of the broken things is my poetry is my stories is my spirit and my soul-even beneath all of that is my heart which is strong unflinching warm and consistently unbroken. It beats on and on-unbroken. And beneath this broken brain and broken uterus is an unbroken girl grasping at straws and pulling like weeds from the ground fistfulls of words which fall to my feet into puddles of poetry.

Surreal down to my stomach by Emily H. Sturgill

Surreal down to my stomach by Emily H. Sturgill 4/4/15

(All rights reserved-but can be re-posted as long as you credit myself & my blog- All Artwork & Images also by Emily Sturgill.

)Camera madala13 madala12

Surreal down to my Stomach

Swallowing coffee along with

my vowels, consonants, poetry

vomiting here and there

words on my pages


Surreal down to my toes

Eating fairy tales at breakfast

munching on the crunchy

internet with its crisp edges

and social networking sites

I eat them whole

with a gulp

but my eyes are too big

for my stomach.

tossing up cookies

throwing up twitter

puking up facebook

hoping to feel better.

Surreal down to my bones.

my bowels do not work

right or I would be

shitting out sentences

pissing out punctuation

defecating out imperfections.

But I cannot. Even sit straight.

I am nailed to my bed.

Attached to a couple of heating pads

choking on endometriosis

and puking out the Sun.

Surreal moments.

Time passes me by.

Always this cramping, constant feeling of unwellness.

Endometriosis has shattered my heart-beat

into two rhythms.

into two pumps of poetic pulsing

rapid flowing & cursing

pumps of blood.

Surreal down to my Skin.

Surreal down to my Stomach.

Surreal down to my toes.

Surreal down deeply-

surreal down to my bones.

Ode to Red

Ode to Red-

the color of passion
the color of heat
the color of paint on my
bedroom walls.

the color of Apples
the color of lipstick
the color of pain.

the color of new womanhood
the color of nail polish
the color of the fastest car
on the block.

Red is the color
of Anger
of Vanity
of Love
of Lust
of Sex

and all the rest.

Red is
the color of a new day
beginning to dawning.

Red is the color
of rubies
of jewels
of revenge
of Power

of kissing

but most of all,
Red is the color of
my beating heart
whenever it is missing

Red is the color of Birth.
and Red is:

the color of passion
the color of heat
the color of paint on my
bedroom walls.

the color of Apples
the color of lipstick
the color of pain.

the color of new womanhood
the color of nail polish
the color of the fastest car
on the block.

but most of all,
Red is the color of
my beating heart
whenever it is missing

Red is the color of Birth.
Each day that we awaken,
we are born anew.
we are struggling
with only
the re-birthing process

like caterpillar to butterfly
Each day we change and become
something re-born, something mighty, something
as large and lonely
as Hope.

Each day we shed our sins
we shed our snakeskins
and begin again with the coming

and the color Red.

but most of all,
Red is the color of
my beating heart
whenever it is missing

New Facebook page for Sex in the kitchen Sink

Follow me on facebook please!Picture 149 Warming up with color abstract 2 Fall 2013 Spirals of Song and other poems book cover1 Picture 161 Warming up with color abstract 1 Fall 2013 Abstract oil pastel drawing 99 cover design for words whirl 2013 copy Falling to pieces by EHCato 1999 IMAG0893 IMAG0898 IMAG0897 Art before words new front cover copy back cover art before words3 copy self portrait 05012013 Picture 94 Acrylic mixed media pumice gel painting 1996 canvasboard Spirituality, acrylic and sand on canvasboard 1996 possible coverart1 copy Athena wiccan11 IMG_20130330_093258

Simplicity part 2-dedicated to my friend Erin D.

Picture 161Picture 158Picture 160


2 parts bitter-sweet vinegar

2 parts harmony

one dash of Hope

one sprinkling of Faith,

one Tablespoon full of miracles.

1/2 stick of helplessness melted but not burnt brown.

1/4 cup memories

16 oz of pure, unstrained Love

1 graham pie crust of sorrows

1 can of heavy-whipping cream

2 tbs allspice, 2 tbs cloves, 4 tbs fresh honesty

one classic ceasar salad of velvet covered sadness

one case of dark irish beer…

blend with one bag of Catholic Guilt,

add two whole egg-yolks

add 7 hail-marys and one quart of confessions.

Blend with a twist of hard scotch whiskey, empathy as a orange peel, a cherry

with-out its stem, some liquid courage, one King James version of

The Holy Bible.

Some false idols/some fake friends/those who will swear by you/

yet they disappear in the end?

I trust nobody who says to me, that they will “pray for me,”

I wish i were not a bitch like that, but i totally am-such a bitch.

I am not going to offend them by declining their pray offers-

but i am not going to depend on them for this junk.

I usually merely responded with Thank you-or thank you very much-whatever.

Prayers are both sweet and nice-

if they are done right.

But true friends do more than have private jesus jams/

talks on your behalf.

True friends know when you are sad, And sense when you need to have a small

phone-call chat. true friends listen and practice the,

Fine Art of Allowance-

meaning they allow you to be sad.

They do not try to cram you into a shoebox

with too much duct tape,

and scrawl the word “Happy”

onto your head-in order to make themselves feel better.

Real friends want you to feel better,

but when you get around to it.

Real friends allow you,

to simply FEEL.

They allow you to be-

They allow you to grieve and to suffer.

They realize there is no universal time clock on

one feeling verses another.

I wrote this out for a friend of mine.

Her mane is Erin-we kinda grew up together.

Anyways, her mother just recently passed away due to Cancer,

this past march on st.patricks day.

Erin and her twin Bridget are both my friends.

I did not realize how huge their family is until very recently,

Anyways yesterday, Erin was having a bad day,

and she shared with her fb friends she really missed her mother.

I was completely floored with all the useless facebook comment messages

she was getting. There were just so fake to me.

So i commented myself-and i was not trying to impress facebook-or Erin or anybody else.

I just wished to say something that could comfort Erin and be

totally completely “real” and “honest” with her.

I was just being me, I was just being emily.

She wrote me later, in a private facebook message, Thank you so much , you knew just how I was feeling and how much my messages helped her.

That really made my evening last night.

It is a good feeling to be a good friend to somebody you forever care for,

cherish and sisterly love.

True friendships among women are not always,

easy to find or to maintain.

But once I’ve formed a friendship bond-

with another female- I keep those friends

out and treasure them immensely.

It really takes a whole pile of damages for me,

to no longer consider a woman my friend.

Once a friend, always a friend, at least that is where

my loyalties take me. So many beautiful feminine friends:

Each is like a precious gem or a secret treasure to me.

I LOVE my friends-all of them.

even the cob-webbed covered ancient ones,

those are kind of crunchy

but i just love them all the more-for it!!!!

Something broken

She cannot put a finger

on why, but there is something there

deep inside

broken and rusted

despite being encased in honey

and a touch of lovely


She knows that the two parts must connect

come together and securely fit

in a mechanical motion

to produce an organic product

1/2 of her and 1/2 of him

that’s all the recipe calls for

and yet she cannot put her finger on it.

The two come as one well-maintained machine,

but nothing is ever produced or created.

She does not know why,

simply feels the bareness

on the inside

longing to know why she cannot fix

the broken pieces deep inside

and she just feels

a touch of something kinda, something that is, something where the;

sadness grows.


On the flipside

On the flip of a dime,

and I will change my mind, about life, about hope

about the everything that comes after.

One day the sun, shines so fine,

the very next day I feel gray

lost in the clouds, in the darkness beneath.

Why is serenity so unreasonable?

One moment I have it-here in my clenched hands.

The next moment serenity is gone, in a puff of smoke.

When is serenity something just out of grasp-

a simple singular momentary strand of hope

like two fragile eggs, it fell then it broke

the messiness of yellow-tinged orche yolk

disgustingly i pull my hands away

horrified by the realization,

I have wasted much of my day away.

Not on more dreams, but more of the doom and gloom

stuff. The sadness which breaks apart into thundering

stormy clouds-yet I swear for one moment the sun was

shining-now naught remains,

besides the ghost of chill there

and the darkness in the air.

regression into depression.

sinking deep, the ground crashes around me

mud eating my bare feet.

Sorry for the lengthy bitchy post

Sorry to get on my pedestal,

spouting what an angel,

I am-despite-the fact,

I know i can be difficult.

Especially during my manias,

or mixed episodes…

then I’m no angel-

i’m hell on wheels…a tortured soul,

spreading the misery, drama and what-not.


But sometimes, even when stable,

or steady, i got a lot on my plate,

filled to the brim of

“real” life drama issues…


Since I no longer have my

Community Mental Health therapist-just

a real nice Psychiatrist…

I really have nobody left to confide too.


I tell my husband things,

and my best girl pal,

but other than that,

it builds up.


A storm before the lightening comes.

A high-blowing, gasping wind,

A burning fire raging to the top,

my inner child fighting to remain

safe within-yet screaming all the same-

she wants out again.


A dose of PMS,

some raging hormones,

poor sleep due to a

horrid cold…

I could not help myself.


I had to puke the words out,

before my anger devoured me whole.

Smoldering in memories-

ugly, angry and bruised

my self-esteem fragments

of a shiny broken mirror.


i hate what i see.

she looks horrific, madder than hell,

this bitch mess of me,

i do not recognize the lips

which snarl, the wide eyed angry stare.


i cannot look myself in the mirror today.

i do not dare.


Sometimes i need to just vomit the ugly,

right out of my vocabulary,

before i drown-

in a tidal-wave sea

of resentment or agony.


Gotta get rid of this feeling,

a feeling like raw violence-

like punching a wall,

or banging my head against a door-


until it’s bleeds…

or the door magically opens,

just a crack

letting the sunshine in.

Distilled Silence

Distilled Silence;

a metaphor created from lyrics-

of the silent, shade of blue, surreal song.

In the shade, stood the Earth.

It was whole, I am not.

a shiny beach song for a single,

copper-headed penny.

Distilled silence,

into liquid- a crucial matter

of disgusting drugs.

Depression grabs me off balance again.

Now what? and why? and who?

My friend waves the Peace flag again,

she gives me permission,

to attempt a death-defying,

savvy pen miracle,

once again.