Today

Today my words don’t come out.

Today silence is all I am about.

My thoughts may scream or

sometimes even shout…

but just for Today that’s not what I am about.

Cold and chilled to the bone.

Icy stone reflections upon

a broken ridged frozen ground-

and when the snow comes softly-

when the snow comes softly

when the snow comes slowly

it never makes a sound.

Collecting itself into white velvet icy tapestry,

beneath its dusty fragile-ness that is a strength that lasts.

It tears us through months of Winter

and winds that howl

winds that blast.

But no more words do I have here-

there is nothing left to say

except tread lightly and admire the silence

of fallen snow

which stole my words Today.

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New Facebook page for Sex in the kitchen Sink

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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

Simplicity

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!!!!

All kinds of Moody

Some-days you can

have it happen,

that you fall in-between

the spaces

and your falling-

through the cracks, on the bedroom wall,

as the paint peels backwards

and you feel nothing, no nothing at all.

 

Then there are the other days,

where the day itself

catches you by surprise

and you realize

you are all kinds of Moody.

 

Running rampant

from sorrow to grief

to solemn and to bitterness-

across the angry loophole of rage.

 

Some-days you cry for no reason

at all. Or you may find you are

hysterically laughing at absolutely nothing,

no nothing at all.

 

I find the more, i try to pinpoint,

what I am feeling-

the more it becomes vague-

all kinds of Moody.

Emergency: running out of dark chocolate soon!

I am sure many males of our species,

just would not understand,

but a lady’s gotta have her chocolate-

the darker the better,

this I know my husband completely misunderstands.

If it’s not labelled as “milk” it is not chocolate at all,

by his high standards.

i love the bitter-sweet way it rolls

around in my mouth,

the way it nasty-coats my teeth.

I’m down to my last two precious pieces.

No-cross that out and replace it with-one piece left.

Oh, hell i just ate that piece too,

what’s a girl to do?

It’s an Emergency!!! I’m running out of

bittersweet candy, chocolate made from gold.

Romantic bliss. Men go buy your Lady her favorite,

chocolate, the rewards will pay off double in the end!!

To seal the deal-buy her some roses too-just because,

to show her, how much she is loved.

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

love.

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.

Life is messy too, not only artwork.

Life is messy too.

Not just Artwork, self-expression, painting, drawing,sculpture, photography…

writing for example is another messy art;

thinking of things like:

libel,copyrights,slander,plagiarists, tabloid-journalists,badly written poetry,poorly written novels…..writers block.

But Life, on the other hand is frequently a different landscape,

altogether, a big terrain of heavily soiled tears.

disappointments, family feuds, emotional problems,

irrational and faulty logic,

thrown upon you,

like a fistful of sand.

then there are those persons,

who bully,cheat and lie.

Yes, as the saying goes, no one said life was easy.

or if they did, clearly they were mistaken or

simply full of shit.

no, life is a messy place.

A child’s hand-prints on the door-frames,

dog-prints on the muddy kitchen floor,

lipstick on a collar,

a cat who shits outside its litter-box.

 

Changing an baby’s dirty diaper.

house-training a puppy-dog.

Telling somebody you love them but…

you do not like living with them anymore?

How do you even do that?

I don’t even know.

 

I passed the ball to my husband.

He is dreading the conversation he

must have with a family member later.

 

I would not want to bring the subject up my own self-

I’m chicken-little, I don’t want to see the sky fall

down.

But Life is very messy.

if it wasn’t

i doubt i would love, living half as much.

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.

My other blog

http://dirtyfilthybutterflyblues.blogspot.com/

This is my other blog. I do not write on it nearly often enough. I am rather “hooked” on wordpress.com Primarily because, I do get more feedback on this blog and more traffic and more attention…but yesterday I wrote something kinda sorta good on the other blog. The post was called,”Nervous Nelly.”

And Here it is:

Nervous Nelly by Emily Sturgill

5/18/13

 

Nerves of steel,

turned to jelly-what has happened to me?

The Scattered Strung out Capital

Letter “S” fell

right off my chest.

 

Now I have become nothing more –

nor nothing less,

than a nervous nelly,

a girl put to a test.

 

I wonder why I bother,

to write such dribble-drabble,

that’s likely as all sorts

of hell,

to get me into trouble.

 

I worried what people will think or feel,

when they read what I have written.

I question myself, my sanity, and my writer’s ability…

 

So much, is just never thought out,

I’m a bit like the faucet,

that never finishes dripping out.

I dribble,dangle, words

into something reductive.

 

a subtraction of emotion,

a fraction of truth, and than

what else???

 

The “S” fell off my chest so very long ago…

I doubt it was ever really there.

Nobody’s superhero-lately,

just another crazy-lady.

 

One who talks too much,

and shouts crap from the roof-tops,

and cobweb corners and such

a mumbling muttering crazy old hag.

 

A bag of flesh and bones,

drifting upon a sea of words,

best left unspoken,

 

but deep inside of me,

there lies,

an utter and angry bitch

 

and she does and says what-ever,

when-ever, she wants too,

not much I can do to rein her in,

my bipolar drugs/meds they help,

to a bit to calm her inner storms.

 

yet still deep within, she’s an angry bad girl.

and I am a nervous nelly.

Writing down so many secrets from

my head.

 

What will people say? What will they think? And how will they feel?

Is it too personal to admit,

I do go crazy from time to time.

at least i don’t live there anymore.Acrylic mixed media pumice gel painting 1996 canvasboard Self-portrait photo may 2013Picture 94Spirituality, acrylic and sand on canvasboard 1996