going gray

go swiftly into

the darkened night

my beautiful gray russian blue

go swiftly into a rainbow bridge

I will stroke your fur one last time

as I cry these horrible teardrops

which feel heavy salty with bitter regrets.

go swiftly into darkened night

go gray beautiful sweet kitty

i will always remember our 16 years

together as owner and friend

go swiftly and silently to sleep

closing those emerald eyes one last time

but before you go always know

I have loved you long and well

I will miss you so.

Rest in peace my gray ghost Godzilla.

2000-2016

 

Regrets

Regrets

I regret my decision to stop

taking my much needed bipolar

medications.

I regret the pain I caused

everybody and the mania which ensued.

When I am unwell I am simply not myself

I am something other

somebody both frightened and frighting

now I am left to pick of the

shattered pieces of stability

and attempt to weave them together

again.

Apologies just never seem good enough

the devastation seems huge-

regrets loom large

lessons seem to be never learned.

living with mental illness is very difficult

but thankfully I am not alone

I have friends and family

a wonderful loving husband

we get through the tough times together

we get through the tough times together

despite my regrets.

I know this time I will try to do better.

the missing muse

the missing muse-

poetry left me

it left my mouth dry

my words dried up as well

depression and mania

stole my creativity

it stole my summer

the rocky rope bridge

between emotional extremes

it extinguished the flame of poetry

my blog was left lonely empty

now new medications

a path to recovery

trying to find my muse

trying to find my voice

trying to find words

to weld into a web of internet

connections and old friends.

What lies beneath?

What lies beneath?

Emily H. Sturgill

5/7/15

What lies beneath

this porcelain glass sculpted hand?

this enigma of uncertainty

What lies beneath

a broken body / a shattered soul/a splintered mind?

What lies beneath the rug

so often pulled right outta of me?

What is hiding there in the corner

beneath the waves of sleep

i’ve been missing

and all the hopes and dreams

I am pretending?

What lies beneath a blank canvas

which calls out for you,

for anyone who

has the courage to

create

a single black mark?

Am I the blank canvas or

am I the mark?

I haven’t decided which

but i will back up

and just

call that part

Art.

We live~ We breathe~ We die~(sometimes we even reincarnate just to start all over again.)

We live. We breathe. We die.

we swallow creativity whole

like gulping down the horizon

the place i see

deep into your eyes

where earth meets sky.

We live. We breathe. We die.

We eat creativity like koi

swim in battled waters

all at once at peace

yet fighting for their food

the soul that feeds them.

When the world was new…

Did the pagan Gods rise from the

Earth and sky to

greet them

the sleek slender Koi

I mean

as they went on swimming by?

We live. We breathe. We die.

and if and when we are lucky

someday we will live long

enough to know the why?

Bleeding colors

Bleeding colors-

by Emily H. Sturgill 5/7/2015

Bleeding colors

the colors on the backdrop

on my mind’s eye’s canvas

they run into an abstract painting.

they run into an abstract painting

a painting that burns & glows

within a dimly lit soul.

What question did you just ask?

Why do these colors bleed and run?

I do not own the why

i just know when they

don’t

i become undone.

Abstraction3_by_emilygodzillaAbstraction1_by_emilygodzillaAbstraction2_by_emilygodzillaAbstraction_purple_and_oil_by_emilygodzilla

flowers flourish bringing Spring.

Tip toe through the tulips-

by Emily H. Sturgill 5/6/15

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Tip toe through the tulips,

flowers flourish

bringing Spring.

My tabby

he’s lazy, yet smart

he enjoys the natural

surroundings – as he tip toes through the tulips…

looking for his next bunny,mouse, or bird

to “play” with.

He loves the chase and the hunt-

not enough warrior spirit to go

in for the kill

or no perhaps that is me.

He brings us presents half alive,

and I try to free as as many as I can.

It’s ruthless, reckless, dangerous-

yet even he knows how to

tip toe through the tulips.

He knows how to enjoy his day!

As Spring Flowers flourish the tulips eventually

will turn and tumble

downwards closing up their buds

dropping their petals

for the hot heavy humidity

of Michigan Summer,

just right around

the corner.

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Gimme a taste:

Gimme me a taste of this:

by Emily H. Sturgill 5/6/15

The color of honeydew

plush inside, hard on the outside.

Inside the soft firm pastel of

peach..

I try but its so hard to reach!

Gimme a taste of this:

what is this strange fruit?

What is this strange splice-

this thing called

Happiness…this mysterious?

nice?

Gimme a taste of this

the secret of spice.

the strange sound

of my own voice’s

laughter.

oh dear what is this matter?

this strangely

sweet desire.

Gimme a taste of this

this strange fruit

softly sweet colored peach,

something yummy to eat,

hard as a rock

on its shell.

cracked open the aroma

this sweet smell…

Gimme a taste of this:

the crackling of laughter

the glow inside

of joy

the noise of music

the aroma of something nice

to wear as a cloak

of musty spice.

Gimme a taste of this:

happiness.

it’s been out of reach,

just so long-now finally

i can pull you closer

and welcome you

into somewhere nice.

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A Mandala that happened on the way to a car crash & other sto... by Emily H. Sturgill

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Here is a review off of Amazon.com:

Most Helpful Customer Reviews

Format: Paperback

I have read many of Emily’s books. This book ventures out with some short stories, in addition to the wonderful poetry and beautiful artwork she typically has in her books. I was glad to see her utilizing her creativity and talent for an even broader spectrum of writing. Her writing is always colorful. The characters in her stories come to life through her descriptive words. There are themes of existentialism, love, and the brevity of life.

I loved the cover of the book, as is “Photo of Nightmare Monster”, the photo above There Is Noone Else, “To all the Women I’ve Loved Before”, and “Selfie”. All of the poems have beauty in their own way. My favorite poem in this work is Surface. She creates a personal list of things to be grateful for at the end of the book, which I believe everyone can benefit from creating their own so bravo to the author for reminding us of this and giving us an idea of how to approach it.

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