Anger-01/01/2015 by Emily Sturgill

Anger is…

A rose color river

of flesh & blood

an eruption of Lava

a tornado without a passage

a volcano without any thought

a clinched fist you do not know you are making.

a tight grasp and grip

onto a stroke

of thunder & lightning.


this abstract emotion



this ugliest of potions

it swallows me whole

just to spit me back out.

I do hurtful things

to those I care

the most about.

Anger is fury

colored crayon color Red

It is

screaming, yelling and shouting

It does not

just break down the door-it kicks it right in!




is universal. An emotion we all have gotten,

whether we care too, or not.

It is the litmus test of Forget-me-nots,

and roses turned spoil-

a lingering rotten smell

as feelings decay

as thoughts do stray

as humans hold grudges

as ships crash then burn

many shipwrecks occur

many wars do too

all in the name

of Anger, its felt universally,

much the same.

Suicide Song

Suicide song-

i think i know why,

the caged bird sings,

because it is loved, fed, petted & talked to.

i think i know why

some people choose to die.

sometimes  imagine it

sometimes i feel like i even want it.

the release

the sense of freedom & peace.

the escape…from it all…

two slit wrists

won’t lead me to paradise.

suicide is a terrifying car ride

that crashes and burns

not just taking you down,

but everyone else who cares about you


Still i imagine, a bloody passionate fatal

mistake, which at this point

i am certain i will not make.

but still comes crashing

these thoughts which do burn

my dreams of becoming

someone who learns

from their mistakes.

I do not want to be

stuck deep down in the earth

lying in a cemetery,

I would rather be

that happy, caged bird which sings

because it is loved, petted , fed & talked too.

I am dealing with darkness

not because i really want too,

but because the darkness is here

all around my guilty, neglected, hateful

traitors heart.

two slit wrists

won’t lead me to paradise.

suicide is a terrifying car ride

that crashes and burns

not just taking you down,

but everyone else who cares about you


Mother Mayhem

Mother Mayhem

Mother madness

Mother mischief

Mother Moon

Mother morning

drawing me in,

into pastel shades

of pink and blue…

Nobody knows the future.

Nobody has perfected

the antique crystal ball

that orb of old.

What does Motherhood mean,

if you are one of the many

childless souls?

What does Motherhood mean,

when you are a middle-aged

woman, who has long ago lost your own

Mother to passing and grief?

The only Mother I still

know and long for,

is the Mother of the Earth

and Sky.

The Mother who makes

the whole wide world

grow, bloom, before,

it withers and dies.

Pondering on the

Sky Mother

Earth Mother

Tree Mother

The Mother with

Stars in her hair

and tears of Rain in her eyes.

The Crone figure.

Mother Mayhem

Mother madness

Mother mischief

Mother Moon

Mother morning

drawing me in,

into pastel shades

of pink and blue…

Mother Sky.

It’s like a riddle.

It’s like a mystery.

It’s like a secret society of

women, mothers…

and I wonder, why can’t I?

Nobody knows the future.

Nobody has perfected

the antique crystal ball

that orb of old.

Mother Mayhem

Mother Madness

Mother Sky.

My inner wild child

My inner child

is wild, angry and more than a bit


She sits well with rage.

The rage I cannot tell.

The kind which feels unlawful

so I hide it well.


I hide it beneath

piles of dirty blankets

inside my mind.

I try to smother this rage

deep inside, with the hopes

it will not eat at me

from the inside out.

I hide my anger well-

I cover it with doubt.


My inner child, she’s a wild thing.

She deals with all

of my secret pain,

so that I can begin again.


They say certain nasty

words about angry women.

It’s as if anger is never allowed.


I want to be the “nice girl”.

I want to be polite.

I want to fit in

and never start any fist fights.


But despite it all

deep within

my inner child she is ranting and raving

eager to escape at my seams,

she swallowed a sky of my

emotions and I watch

from a safe distance


as she erupts

like a volcano

into my dreams.

Upcoming Free Kindle E-book Starts tomorrow!!!

My Volume Two of “Art! Art! Art! Before Words.” by Emily Sturgill (Jan 2014) will be available starting tomorrow August 6-August 10th as a free kindle download.
Here are some reviews:

1 of 1 people found the following review helpful
4.0 out of 5 stars A Delight of Imagery and Creativity…., May 12, 2014
By Michel Short “missmickeesunshine” (Seattle, WA) – See all my reviews
This review is from: Art, Art, Art!!! Before Words.: Volume Two (Art, Art, Art! Before words. Book 2) (Kindle Edition)
“It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.”.. William Shakespeare

If “Art, Art, Art Before Words: Volume Two” was an oversized hardback, it would be considered a “coffee table book”. This slim striking colorful volume is a delight to the senses! With only one poem, a condensed autobiography, and over 40 images this is a very quick read; this chapbook continues where “Art, Art, Art Before Words: Volume One” left off.

Artist/poetess Emily Sturgill recalls her experience of attending college and completing her education with a serious mental illness (SMI). A brief chronological outline shows her milestones and academic accomplishments. With her husband Dean encouraging her, she graduated with a masters of education in art education and therapy from Wayne State University, Detroit, MI. in 2012. Ms. Sturgill lives in the suburbs outside Detroit with her husband and pets.

The poem: “Painting With Fire” is a joyful expression of creativity, beginning with a hearts desire. The rotation of the nightfall, shooting stars, passion and love, the dawn inviting a new day. Shakespeare is quoted from ‘Romeo and Juliet’ and ‘Hamlet’.

Some of the artworks are from Ms. Sturgill’s earliest college days (1996) to more recent times. My favorites include:
Detroit Landscape: photography.. 2002 ~ Building #3: photography.. 2002 ~ Church: photography.. 2002 ~ Dream: drawing/mixed media.. 1999 ~ Anger: pen/ink drawing.. 1996 ~ Funky Town: photography.. 2002 ~ Goddess: photography/montage.. 2002 ~ Self Portrait: photography/mixed media.. 2002 ~ Flat Planet June: photography/montage.. 2002 ~ Digital Goddess Montage: photography.. 2002 ~ Self Portraits: webcam.. 2014.

Many thanks, and much appreciation to Emily Sturgill for the paperback edition to this beautiful chapbook. I recommend viewing these artist chapbooks on color e-readers for better clarity of the images.

5.0 out of 5 stars I really enjoy Ms. Sturgill’s artwork, July 21, 2014
By socrates – See all my reviews
This review is from: Art, Art, Art!!! Before Words.: Volume Two (Art, Art, Art! Before words. Book 2) (Kindle Edition)
I really enjoy Ms. Sturgill’s artwork. She is a gifted writer as well and I enjoy her poetry books tremendously but it is also nice to view her personal art, some of which she shares in this book. I think readers will enjoy the art and text. I’m a fan of Ms. Sturgill’s work. I was pleased to have a careful look at Art, Art Art!!! Before Words. I recommend it to other readers, particularly art fans.

HERE is a Link:

BookCoverPreview Art Art Art before words volume 2 paperback 2014
*****Note I do have many other upcoming promotions coming up so check back often-I know I just set three more e-books onto free promo for the kindle starting August 9-August 13,2014.
You can also visit my Authors page at -It is



by Emily Sturgill 6/24/14

that is the sum
of Us.

You pull me closer
just to push me away.

Or this, you pull me closer
and I am the one
to push you away.

Or this?

Do I pull you closer,
as you push me away?

It’s all semantics
this push/ pull game
that we both play.

Nobody is perfect.
And Nobody’s marriage is perfect
either, that one for sure
is true.

Everyday, as I taste my lips
the words I say to you
I love you

and you mirror
back to me,
i love you too…

but this push/ pull thing?

Why do we choose
to do the things we do?

And no, I don’t wanna
I don’t wanna
I don’t wanna…

fight and argue
with you.

for one thing
you do not fight fair.
you always fight dirty.

you spin, twist & turn
my words around
like a game of monopoly

you argue only to win,
when I fight with you-
its my attempt
to communicate with you.

in my opinion there are never
winners nor losers.
i want to get down to the middle
to the riddle of our

and settle the matter.
But you are too keen
on who wins or who loses/
and you are the most sore loser
I’ve ever seen.

why can’t we just agree
to disagree???

this pull/push thing
i hate feeling this way
it sure is a shitty
way to start my day.

If your in front of a door
and you push but nothing happens,
then you must compromise
and pull the door closer

just like me.

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
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.

The journey towards forgiveness

I do not usually post blog-style confesionals. I’m much more of a poet, than anything else. In fact in addition to my poetry online, I have been keeping multiple journals at home and handwritten. One is more private confessional journal type enteries and the other is mostly poems, ideas, and sometimes tarot readings I give myself or lists of things to do or lists of music playlists.

HERE…is mostly just where I share poems, unless I am all fired up. Today, I am all fired up and I think its vital to share because it might help others to move forward.

I am all fired up about the notion of forgiveness. In theory, I do believe it is better to forgive even if not forget or forgive ANd forget-whatever works best for you. But in practice I find this to be a slippery slope. i struggle very much on how to forgive, when to forgive and how to let go. Honestly, I hold horrible grudges. And they are horrible in truth because mostly they only serve to hurt me-myself-nobody else.

All that angry righteous high horse b.s. I desperately hold onto-a sense of who iswrong and who is right? Honestly, it does not serve me much any longer-in fact it wears me down, makes me feel guilty and mad, like an angry hornet shook lose from its nest.

so today, I was with my hubby and we were at the bookstore out of nowhere i spotted like the ideal book and he bought it for me with a couple other items. This book is called, “The forgiveness formula: how to let go of your pain and move on with Life.” It was on sale at barnes and nobles-only$6.98-hardcover-by author Kathleen Griffin. @2004.

I am only on pg 16 so far but this book is exactly what i needed to hear at this time. i am in fact blown away.I am just writing about this because forgiveness can be ajourney-a pathwy-towards feeling lighter-less burdened. And in my heart, i realize it is not an easy thing to forgive. That more folks than just myself struggle with it. Holding onto the past so tightly it only distorts your vision of the present moment and it poisons the well of your future happiness. This seems true to me.

Someday I really hope I can learn to forgive, hopefully sooner than later because all this angry i hold deep down inside-it only strangles me-making it harder to breathe making it harder to reign into my sanity. I realize i am not the only sufferer out there but by refusing to allow forgiveness its like picking a scab, bruised and bleeding-the wound will not heal. I know I will not heal either. By the way, I highly reccommend her book-so far its very good.


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.

the losing battle

the losing battle

before winning the war,

the War rages on, forever and a day-

have i always felt this way?

the losing battle,

my mind cracks into half,

like an egg-shell,

the whites of my eyes pour out,

into a flood of never weeping tears.

the losing battle,

will i win the war?

I am so sick &tired of us-

fighting all the time-

we only fight when i get “sick”-

whenever I am not myself, and having

another “episode”

these pretty words beneath the encased glass

of quotation marks-keeping them shiny and brand new-

as the day i wish i never first heard them,

in the first goddamn place.

They are just pretty flourish, whipped cream on top,

decorative descriptions to explain,

i am clearly going crazy again.

the losing battle,

always the same, so sick & tired of losing

this fight.

it’s hard to explain,

but when you say i am crazy,

that’s about the same-time

as when i feel most alive.

When i feel the tiniest speck of happiness,

wetting down the back of my neck.

the losing battle,

as the war wages onwards-

i only take the damned pills to-

shut everyone up!

no i do not hear voices-

these are real life persons. who nag beyond


I am losing both the battle and the war.

Thats the only thing,

which stands out,

crystal clear.