The mythology behind being female

The Mythology behind being female:

Emily Sturgill

Thursday, March 26, 2015

The Mythology behind being female:

We are taught from the time

we are very little that what matters most

is how you look on the outside

not how you really feel.

Are you pretty enough?

No, well then we have lots of stuff

let’s add some eyeliner, lipstick and a bit of blush.

Do not dress like a tomboy or wear your sweatpants

outside the house.

Do not forget to paste a smile and pretend it’s all better

because all those teardrops darling

will turn to rust

because it’s the outside the matters most

it’s the pastel shingles on your exterior house

do not show them your true colors

don’t display fear like a mouse

don’t throw tantrums like children do

it’s unbecoming beneath the beauty

of you.

The Mythology behind being female:

Do not forget to paste a smile and pretend it’s all better

because all those teardrops darling

will turn to rust.

The mythology of being female

suggests a magical facade, and a white picket fence.

Girls should never get angry, defensive or dirty.

Girls should always play nice.

But sometimes the wildness in me

unleashes a feminist and I feel

like my exterior has cracks, my mascara runs, I get angry

I cry easily, I put on those ugly sweatpants

and I refuse to act lady like.

I embrace all my curves, the ones I was “taught”

are called ugly or fat.

The Mythology behind being female:

Sometimes despite the Mythology of being Female

I get annoyed, I get outraged, and I fight back.

against all the stereotypes that say

I should always put others first.

I should always play nice.

I should look pretty

and put a smile of my face.

because sometimes even when

I am trying to blend in

even when I am attempting to be

the ideal perfect version of me?

sometimes I just do not care at all.

 

Do not forget to paste a smile and pretend it’s all better

because all those teardrops darling

will turn to rust, then what comes next?

Nobody likes hanging out with a hurricane.

Nobody enjoys an un-lady like version

of crass, profane, selfish, uncompassionate

messy looking, emotional lunacy

a loud version of profanity

and ultimately a vulgar shadow

of a hysterical woman

this collides with the Mythology of being

female.

 

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Not enough

Not enough-

Dec 26th, 2014

Friday Afternoon 2:49 EST

Not enough

Never enough

Not enough

sleep.

Not enough,

to eat.

Not enough,

to touch the sky & kidnap the Sun.

Not enough, to learn how to fly,

just enough to become

untied

undone.

Not enough to reach outwards and find it.

Not enough to reach out, and grab the happy

right off someone else’s face,

because my happy

its become erased

misplaced

lost confusion.

It’s just not enough,

to fix up this place.

It’s not enough to straighten

this room, to clean between the cracks, to sweep

a broom across this dusty room

deep inside my minds eye.

Not enough,

to touch the sky & kidnap the Sun.

Not enough, to learn how to fly,

just enough to become

untied

undone.

It’s not enough to

try to run, to sprint, to finish

the race.

I’m fresh out of lungs

the air is too sharp, cold and dry-

It’s not enough,

to just sit here

waiting for you

to get home.

It’s not enough, to be a failure as a housewife,

to be a successful lunatic

with a Masters Degree

and no job prospects.

It’s not enough

to be a crazy person,

living on SSDI, it’s not enough, to always

live in someone else’s shadow

it’s not enough

to be the ghost

you can come home

and answer too.

Don’t you understand?

My wings may have melted, because I flew

too closely to the Sun

but I have dreams too.

I do not long to be

someone else’s

no one.

Red Blood Moon

Red Blood Moon

full until

it becomes

eclipsed into the

Dawn’s morning light.

the light eats away

the darkness of the night.

It ushers in the morning with

secrets beyond our sight.

As the blood red moon

controls the oceans tides

and deep inside our own

liquified minds.

The tug and the pull

until after when

the moon sheds its thick

skin and sneaks

quietly away

vanishes without a whisper

without a word

this theif of our night

is never heard.

Felt yes, but heard never.

She creeps silently away

as her cloak turns the pages

of a beautiful new day.

Kindle Countdown Deals-poetry and artists chapbooks from Emily Sturgill

I have two upcoming Kindle countdown deals. The first one starts tomorrow August 8, 2014. It will run until August 15th, 2014. The name of the book is “Do not cry me a River of Crocodile Tears.” It was published last summer. It is an Art and Poetry chapbook. It will be on sale on Amazon.co.UK site during that time. However it will be on kindle countdown in the USA starting September 12-September 19, 2014. During tat entire time the price will drop from $3.99 to just .99 cents.HERE is a link:

http://www.amazon.com/not-cry-River-Crocodile-Tears-ebook/dp/B00DRN85YA/ref=sr_1_12_title_0_main?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1407432121&sr=1-12

The other Promo is a USA promo. Starting August 9-August 16,2014 My e-book called “Mythology seen through metaphor: word salad 1.5” will be reduced to just 99 cents the entire time. It is also an Artist and Poetry Chapbook. It did receive some very positive reviews. If you feel like checking it out HERE is a LINK:

http://www.amazon.com/Mythology-through-Metaphor-Emily-Sturgill-ebook/dp/B00B4YM5GS/ref=sr_1_3_title_0_main?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1407432121&sr=1-3

As with all my poetry and artist chapbooks if you do decide to invest your 99 cents-I would really love to hear your opinion, feedback and thoughts on the book you read. You can use the same links as above to submit a review or visit my Authors page at: http://www.amazon.com/author/emilysturgill

Thanks for reading this! Sincerely Emily Sturgill.

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.
love

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
You.

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
You.

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
Dawn

and the color Red.

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

Cold Coffee

Cold Coffee-5/23/14

Coffee’s getting cold.
As I sit here,
thinking
Bold…
Color combinations upon
a broken painter’s palette.

Coffee’s getting cold.
As I sit here,
feeling old…
nothing is so fleeting
as Life is Stealing
years and years from Us All,

beginning each and everyday
the thief of time
steals of years away.

but I regress…
Coffee’s getting cold.
Black liquid velvet dripping
into a cup, a cup that holds
love.

This coffee cup
from which I sip
once belong to my long-dead
Mother.

I treasure it because
it was once hers.

But Coffee’s getting cold,
as I just sit here
thinking
drinking black coffee
thinking my life away

piece by piece
word by word
poem by poem

a whisper in
the wind
lies unheard.

but…

Coffee’s getting cold.

My Mama when she was young

My Mama when she was young

The Reaping of the Poem-hunter

The reaping of the poem-hunter.

I reap them, I sow the fields, I plow
my minds eye
just in time
to gather together
another
string of words
loosely tied together
into a verse
of poetry.

I reap them, I sow the fields, I re-hearse
in my journal
the pickings are slim
and fare between

greedy fingers, I savor the best ones, for
the pickings later
so I can tuck away
a poem a day
to put into

another collection of printed
verse. The raw, runny, dull stuff
I plant onto cyberspace
like seeds of flowers
hoping that perhaps

the smallest might
grow
some sort of potential
like a diamond in the rough.

I reap them, I sow the fields, I re-hearse
in my journal
the pickings are slim
and fare between.

greedy fingers, I savor the best ones, for
the pickings later
so I can tuck away
a poem a day
to put into a big Jar above my head.

I reap them, I sow the fields, I plow
my minds eye
just in time
to gather together
another
string of words
loosely tied together
into a verse
of poetry.

As a poem hunter I collect
verbs, simple nouns, similes
and metaphors-gather them together
like loosely filled twine
trying to thread the ever-searching needle,
for the perfect rhyme.

flowers flourish despite the rain…

March Madness,
with a whim and a flurry,
Mother Nature
sings her call.

She calls out to the flowers,
to begin to bud.
She echoes out to the plants,
to begin to grow.

under her ever watchful eyes,
the dance of spring begins with a twirl,
a wave, a recollection of
warm and simple wind.

slowly in our daze of
sheer amazement
winter concaves, collapses, makes room,
for Spring to begin.

and flowers, they flourish
despite the rain,
they refuse to fight the water
instead they drink in the tears
of the Earth- they swallow her secrets
her teardrops of rain.

it makes them
the plants bloated and drunken,
as if by the most scared of wine.

Tip-toe through the daisies

It’s cold here.

So then, I close my eyes

and I imagine things.

I imagine that I

can tip-toe through the daisies

which lie buried under deep snow

I imagine them bloom, and-

then I imagine them grow

into a sea

of devastation

a sea of utter raw beauty-

you would agree,

if you could just, only close your eyes

and tip-toe through the daisies-

C’mon old man winter,

I am ready for you to stop following me.

I am ready for a sea full of daisies

and the beauty they may bring

a rarity called

Spring.

Check out my other blog too!

I also have a much smaller and highly neglected blog at blogspot: here is a link: http://dirtyfilthybutterflyblues.blogspot.com/2014/02/memories.html

Please Feel free to check it out. There are only about 84 posts on that one. For a while I tried doing both at once, but I get forgetful and I love wordpress so very much it is hard to remind myself to write on the other blog too!

But the poems there are different then the poems here-for the most part at least!