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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Warning: Graphic images illegal street drug useage in house cat.

Here between my easel and I:

What does lie,

here between

my Easel & I?

apathy

empty

blank white titanium

flat canvas

and I

am ever the Greatest-

procrastinator, it seems

of all time.

What does lie between,

my Easel and I?

a heightened sense of imperfection.

tears of frustration

of hesitation

they run down my face

almost invisible,

as if I am only crying on the inside

for my cheeks lie

both bare & dry.

But the true color of my tears,

are those of unspent, built up:

cadmium yellow hue,

alizarin crimson streaks,

dabs of cobalt blue

puddles of pink & purple

and shades of

burnt sienna.

Acrylic shiny colorful tears

that refuse to budge or give in,

tears that refuse to splatter

shatter the ground

and fall

like broken ideas at my feet.

What stands between my easel & I?

Pented up emotions.

Broken Daydreams.

Unspoken fantasy.

Un-Spilled milk running,

like unspoken poetry

and unpainted starbursts

of foggy, hazy, unspent

lately-

the ghost of my

own creativity.

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a sinking feeling

a sinking feeling by Emily Sturgill 6/24/14

a sinking feeling
as the ship goes down,
and your leaving for work
as you kiss me goodbye

all I see on your face
is anger and hurt.

a sinking feeling
as the ship goes down,
your disappointed in me
once more again

somehow, some way I
have let you down again.
and there is no time
for words or apologies.

a sinking feeling,
as the ship goes down,
I can see with one look
your angry with me

a sinking feeling
as the ship goes down,
I do not even have or own
the magical words

of saying I’m sorry,
because you do not share
whatever wrong I’ve done.
this day is off to a rocky start.

a sinking feeling
as the ship goes down,
with one angry look
you cracked my heart.

split it halfways
like two sides
of a cracked raw
egg yolk.

a sinking feeling,
as the ship goes down,
as I sit here in a precursor to all my tears,
I know you’d throw me overboard in a second

hoping that this time
I would splash, sink, sputter
and finally
drown.

as the ship goes down.

My bipolar Muse

My bipolar Muse-
is that part of myself,
I seek to hide
from the prying mind.

My bipolar Muse-
is part of myself
ingrained
entwined
rooted
to my inner core-

it is the trunk
from which
all else
branches, takes root, blooms
becomes fruit.

it is the part of myself
I try to keep on
a very short leash
never to be set free

unless all hell breaks loose
the correct terminology for that
is called,” a Manic Episode.”

When I can keep Mania at bay,
and leave depression aside
to sway

I become almost…normal.
But not quite.
I cover myself in riddles, rhymes, words
which multiply
covering my naked body
like leaves on a tree
or a shroud on a corpse.

My bipolar Muse
loves the lingering of letters,
the graffiti on the bathroom stall,
she loves poems, thought-puddles,
the beat of a fast paced drum.

My bipolar Muse
she is on a very short leash,
otherwise I cannot stop her
from her ramble, utters, riddles
word puzzles.

Delirium belongs beneath
a self-imposed cage,
yet still I suppose
without a Muse as such

I would have little creativity
of my own-barely enough to strike a match,
to form a word, a sentence, or even
fan the flames of a poem.

My bipolar Muse
without her, I’d become lost.
She is the demon which rages
inside me. She is the hinge connecting
two halves of a semi-broken brain.

She is my everything.