an iny_tRo_ duction

an iny_tRo_ duction.

Endo bite me!

Endo bite me-

a poem written by Emily H. Sturgill

April 25,2015

Endo can bite me!

with all of its cruel insults

its nasty-ass tricks

and its never ending

agony of pain.

Endo you can bite me!

with all your

bloody monthlies…

with your outward

attacks on my fragile

pain ridden body

causing scars and infertility

but changing my appearance

so dramatically.

I am like a Pear

in a bowl among forbidden

fruit.

I’m in the shape of a

mother

yet i’ve never born

another.

endo can bite me!

i hate it so much

I cannot tolerate

this illness

which drys invisible

like invisible ink

on old parchment papers.

So nobody can see

the twinges of pain

the muscle spasms

i so very much dread.

So endo, why don’t you?

Just go away, just for today?

Why don’t you disappear

like a nightmare grown

between both my ears.

A dream dreamt five years ago.

A chilling nightmare

where is freddy krueger?

when a girl needs a friend?

I am trapped in this god-forsaken

dream

this nightmare that only twists and turns

convorts my body

into the pretzel person lobby.

Endo you can bite me,

i am so sick

to death of you.

bother some other woman.

give me some peace

endo i am breaking up with

you-

and endo you can bite me too!

Why not?

I don’t understand Why not?

Why not?

Why are you unwilling to give it a shot?

Why not try something new?

Why don’t you trust me?

Why do you not believe me?

Why do you just assume I am

entirely full of shit-about everything?

Why assume I do not know,

exactly what I am talking about?

It hurts me deeply,

when you do not trust me

completely.

I have never told you

any lies on purpose I mean…

Why not?

Why can’t you?

Why do you refuse to

just hold my hand

and try to

simply

just

believe?

Why not?

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.

She pushed me over…the edge…but you just watched.

She pushed me over,
the edge…but you…you were worse.
you just watched.
As I spread out eagle and jumped off
that great Ravine,
which we call the Edge.

It even surprises me.
This instantaneous
fucked up
suicidal feeling that emerges.

How easy it would be?
To disappear forever-into a pile of
psychotropic pills. To eat them bit by bit
swallow them all whole-just to
never feel this fucked up
anymore.

But I remain steadfast and strong.
I am no longer a goddamn child.
I’m not letting a bitch like you
ruin my life forever.

You already stole away my father-
that much is crystal clear
but what you underestimated
is i fight dirty
i fight back
and fight much harder
than your smack-

of bullshit and lies.
it ain’t worth it.
i refuse to go over an edge for you.
As my father stands silent-just watching me-

as a lucidity of a daydream
as my eyes grow wide-
and I threaten nonsense
I threatened suicide.

just to freak her out a bit.
I am no twit.
I had no intention of dying today.

But you should feel ashamed,
for messing with his mentally ill daughter.
Have you no heart, no moral compass, no inner guide-

Do you feel no remorse
for being a evil bitch
to me? You must be even far more
crazy than I am.

Don’t know why-
he married a fool like you?

Not feeling well…”In a world of Pain.” by Emily Sturgill (2/4/2014)

Camera    “Women according to the three phases of the Moon.”Oil on Canvas board, 1992, E.H. Cato

In a world of Pain: My Body carries Sadness

My body carries Sadness

just inside

the blink of an eye.

I am weighed down,

too much mud and sand

as Time stands still.

And the ugliness from within

Pain-it takes over-my lights grow dim.

A secret kept,

like an unmade bed

messy, loud, yet silent too-

impossible to ignore

this fit

this pressure

this utter exhaustion

I discover myself

unraveling time and time again and

again.

This pain does not mesh

with the rose colored glasses

I’d like to fit in.

To bleed

is to be silent

to hurt

is the only way

to find your voice

among a sea of screams

but you lie and tell

yourself:

I will be ok.

I will be ok.

No matter what life throws my way;

I just know I will handle it

I will be ok.

Nature’s Envy

Surrealistic poetry written yesterday Sunday 11/10/13

Nature’s Envy-by emily H. Sturgill

Anxious Hornet,

is a Bear-toned, talent,

of a Dali-colored Moon-Rise.

 

Anxious Hornet,

dancing into a firelit

campsite.

 

wrestling with Bears~

causes,

bruises to form-

upon the chapped lips,

which surround

my lovely body-into the form,

of Anxiety.

 

Into the shape of

a hornet’s nest,

repeatedly & randomly

stinging me.

 

The brutality of Nature:

the curse of Vengeance lies, behind,

the tides

beneath-

A Dali-colored Moon-rise.

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

comprehension.

I am losing both the battle and the war.

Thats the only thing,

which stands out,

crystal clear.

 

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!!!!

Tired of the tug and fight

Today, I am tired of the tug and fight.

Between myself and I,

over how I am going to spend my time?

And if I am going to crash soon-

taking a nap? or if I am going to make some kind of art?

or will i read books?

I am so sick of this fight, this tug of war,

between my depressed side and

my manic-laughing hyena side?

I feel like I must be Dr,Jekyll and Mr.Hyde.

I cannot decide which impulses to follow;

do i do something crazy, yet grand, like drawing

a wonderful piece of art, in charcoal or pastels or even crayons?

Or do i tilt my hand-all aces-how grand!

Do I just take another anxiety med and sleep off

all the lame boring excitement,

of trying to create a manuscript or poems or paintings,

or bead another un-bought necklace-which only i will wear?

Tired of the tug and fight.

I want middle ground.

I just took another lithium about an hour ago.

I want all the stability that an entire

Starship fleet of doctors

once promised me.

I always take my meds,

but eventually they stop working-

or just real-life shit problems happen,

and stress me out,

so that my medicines stop working.

i try to be the ideal patient.

Still I remain a hybrid of Dr .Jekyll and Mr.Hyde.

So tired of the tug and fight….useless.

frustrations mount.

depression sizzles.

mania fizzles.

blame it on the weather-

or blame it on the stupid tug and fight,

stupid insanity-

it bites

me

right in the ass,

every-time.