to the death of writer's block

Hello. I'm Emma. I feel a lot of things. Sometimes I write about it.

[feelalot-writealittle]

This is how it starts:

You wake up and you are tired. Not tired in the way like you need more sleep, but tired in the way like you are also restless and the sunrise bores you because it is not new. There is an urge to do something significant and that is how you know your sleep has not been sound: the refreshed, not-sleep-deprived version of yourself recognizes the futility of human action and accepts the inevitability of death and is happy with things the way they are. It is only now that you realize that that is depressing. 

The journal you bought last year on sale at Barnes & Noble is fresh and blank like your soul, so in it you write about life and how deeply you care for it, because this - all of this - is beautiful, regardless of what it means.

This is how it ends:

You hear a fly buzzing next to your ear and think about the fact that it doesn't know it's a fly or you're a human, doesn't realize that it's life is ultimately inconsequential and weak, and, for a moment, you envy it.

The fly's wings whir as it hovers irritatingly close to your face. You are annoyed and it does not know. You kill it.

[feelalot-writealittle]

I am trying to become the kind of person who doesn't complain when it's Monday and smiles when I find out that it's still just Tuesday, because it's recently come to my attention that my life has been a collection of waiting for Saturday/Sunday and thus I have wasted 5/7 of my life being unhappy and that is sad.

So I am sad.

[feelalot-writealittle]

today i am leaning my head against the window of my car

and listening to a girl with bright pink lipstick prattle on from the backseat

and i am wondering if this is what they mean when they call it

"the glory days"

or if there is some punchline i still have to wait for

before i am allowed to be happy.

[feelalot-writealittle]

your love through the ages

i.

you are five

with scrubby knees

and a head sprouting feather-soft hair

as the ground is sprouting shiny green bulbs of life.

there is no man you could worship but your father

who is patient and kind

and cuts the crust off of your sandwiches.

you are seven

and you can't marry daddy

but you can marry prince charming,

who exists on a tv screen and in your heart.

you envy cinderella

his kisses.

iii.

you are nine years old

and your tongue sticks out at the mention of boys,

who are dirty and rude.

it is stupid to kiss frogs -

why would you want the prince?

iv.

you are eleven

and you are not sure if you think that boy is cute

but your friend does,

so you say you do, too.

(at the very least, he is not ugly.)

v.

you are thirteen but you wish you weren't.

thirteen is too young to marry

the boy in the magazine

or so your mother says.

she infuriates you sometimes.

vi.

you are fifteen

and you are testing the boundaries

of platonic and romantic love

because your best friend's hair is soft

and her smile is pretty

but you're not sure if you'd want to kiss it.

vii.

you are seventeen

and your boyfriend may not be forever,

but sometimes for now is enough,

especially when his kisses taste like fire

and his skin is soft like rain.

viii.

you are nineteen

and lonely

and you are realizing

that sometimes things just fall apart.

you don't like it.

ix.

you are twenty-one

and you sleep with that guy at the bar

because you can.

it feels good.

x.

you are twenty-three

and your parents cry

when you tell them the news.

you're not sure if they're happy

or sad.

xi.

you are twenty-five

ad your daughter is one.

there is no father to hold you,

but you love her,

and sometimes love

is enough.

[feelalot-writealittle]

when i'm without you

i am nothing but a book

missing my pages.

[feelalot-writealittle]

beautilism

We've started a new religion

and we call it

'beautilism'

and we worship the butterflies

and the flowers

and other beautiful things.

Our bible is no bible,

but an encyclopedia

of the creatures scuttling beneath our feet

and the trees hanging over our hears

and the rest of the things

we have destroyed.

Our apocalypse is no apocalypse

but it is the day

when we will hollow out this new earth with our bare hands

and dig until the skyscrapers are buried in the dirt we fling behind us

and then from these remains,

we will recreate the old earth:

the earth of green

and blue

and beauty.

[feelalot-writealittle]

shredded petunias

You are asking me something

and I'm not sure what the question is,

but the answer is “I don’t know”

screamed in all capital letters.

My mother would say I am being rude

but what she does not know is that

my mind

gets overwhelmed sometimes

And right now my brain is too tired

to work through the fear that comes with feeling

like you are the only one in the world

who could rip the weeds of my pain away

and leave flowers in your wake.

So honey,

please don’t argue.

Because that will feel like you are shredding

the petunias

you planted in my heart,

and they are too pretty to be broken like I am.

For the moment just tape me back together

and wait for me to heal

before you tear me down again.

[feelalot-writealittle]

Hey, I really like your poetry :)

Ah, thank you! It's literally so encouraging to hear that; you have no idea how motivating it is! Thanks for making my day :)

[mooneyedandglowing]

Hey, this is just a message to say that your poetry really inspired me to start my own poetry blog. I'm only 15, so I have a lot to learn, but I've actually gotten a really good response to my work so far and it never would have happened if it weren't for you. You're a really big influence on me and thank you for that xo

Aw, thank you, darling dear! I hope you continue with your writing, it’s really a great outlet for emotion. Send me your url sometime so I can check out your words! I’d be way interested in that. :) xx

[feelalot-writealittle]

Ahh she responded!

[feelalot-writealittle]

my heart is a word bank

Here is the truth:

I grew up knowing my words would be twisted

and I have scars from biting my tongue too hard

in your presence

and I am tired.

My mother told me my words have value

but now I am almost grown and the bank doesn't have a department

for saving the way it tastes when I say your name

and I think it should.

I was raised holding words like diamonds

and now I am seeing people waste my currency

and I am left to wonder if I've wasted time

by not telling you, 'I love you.'

[feelalot-writealittle]

rose-colored glasses of happiness

I am not stupid.

I know that you are sitting alone in your room right now

and I know that you are thinking things that would make your mother weep

and I know that you believe this sadness is the be all and end all of life.

I won't deny that there are plenty of people who would say that you are right,

but I also know what it looks like

when you are seeing the world

and everything is covered in the baby hues of spring.

I know that right now,

a man is looking at someone and seeing his whole world

and I know that someone could be you

if you let it,

because there is an entire planet of people

who care and want to be cared for in return.

I know that you think that isn't even a possibility,

but that is just because you have never let yourself believe you are special enough to be loved

and trust me,

it is easy enough to learn

the art of being beautiful

when you have eyes like yours.

So smile,

look at the world through the rose-colored glasses of happiness,

and let yourself be reborn with the spring.

Like nature,

you can start over

if you only love yourself.

[feelalot-writealittle]

lessons of love

And there are things about love

they don't tell you in grade school.

Like sometimes kisses

hurt the way funerals do

and that pain can make you bitter

Or maybe

you decide that

saying goodbye is the best thing for both of you

but every time you try

your mind becomes a storm of voices

all shouting your lover's name.

  These are the things they keep from you

because they truly believe

that ignorance is bliss.

But it isn't, not at all.

Especially not

when you wake up at 4AM

and you look at the person next to you,

feeling like you want to cry,

but you're not sure if it's because

you're happy or

you're sad.

[feelalot-writealittle]

there's only $200 in my bank account. it's not a lot by any means, but it's enough. it's enough for us to buy hotdogs in new york and fall asleep in central park, sheltered only by the blanket of night. and when we wake, we will have enough to buy coffee, and bread for the pigeons, because even they get hungry. then we can spend the rest on stupid, petty things like camping gear and supplies for s'mores. we won't regret it, either, because money is meaningless to us, the savage beasts of new york. all we need to survive is stars and shared body heat and the promise of tomorrow. and we laugh at those who tell us otherwise, because we know the truth of the world. (x)

[feelalot-writealittle]

a note to you, delivered via a secondhand copy of sylvia plath

When are you going to realize that no one is going to swoop in and save you?

I have been watching you sit in the corner of this bookstore for months now,

making your way through the works of dead, pretentious poets

like they were a packet of goddamn cigarettes

I do not keep looking because I think you are cute.

I keep looking because I can sense

that you are the type of girl who steals her parents’ shitty wine

and sits in her room listening to Morrissey all day

and thinks she’s special enough for someone to save just because she ‘isn’t like other girls’

and doesn’t understand that these things are useless

when your experiences are not yours

but instead belong to a caricature of a human being

that exists only in the pages of those outdated fantasies

you swallow like sleeping pills.

  Believe it or not there are thousands of girls like you,

fooling themselves into believing that they are just Cathy’s waiting for their Heathcliff

when in reality they are just lonely.

They waste their whole lives wondering when someone will save them

from this monotonous routine

instead of saving themselves.

And you can be just like them, or you can start questioning why Cathy is only ever defined by Heathcliff’s love for her and why,

amidst all this fuss about finding a husband,

she never worries about finding herself.

And when you realize that your reality, your cursed reality,

at least gives you the chance to be more than flat words on a piece of paper,

I hope you cry and kiss the very ground you walk on and craft goals larger than being some boy’s enigmatic, depressed lover;

I hope you go beyond the sulky, cryptic persona you project

and learn to be your own person

before you are someone else’s.