Puzzle Pieces

We are puzzle pieces, walking around everyday of life,
Walking puzzle pieces fighting the battle everyday releases,
Until our living ceases to exist.
You’re a walking puzzle piece – where do you fit?
To whom to you belong?

Your match – your perfect fit – could be anywhere.
Go have a look-see.
Search for him if you can – that perfect fit, that perfect man,
Someone out there who will hold your hand – go search for him.
You’re a walking puzzle piece searching for your match – where do you fit?
To whom do you belong?

At night you sleep alone, but you dream of him.
In the morning, you can’t remember.
Off you are again to find him – your new best friend.
Cursing every man – all the men, trying to find him.
You’re a walking puzzle piece without a match – where do you fit?
To whom do you belong?

You’re one in a million-piece set – free from the box.
You’ve tried to fit with those who obviously don’t match.
You’re done trying to find someone who will only free your mind,
You feel you’re running out of time – he has to be out there somewhere.
You’re a walking puzzle piece unable to find your match.
Where do you fit?

And so, the piece missing its match wanders along.
Street after street singing song after song.
You hear the one you’re missing singing the same tune.
It stops, and you find him kissing a girl who doesn’t belong.
A girl who is not his match.

Run away with tears welling up that you’re trying to hide,
You make it home safely.
Wiping your eyes, you close the door, slump down, and cry.
You can’t fathom all the lies.
You are a puzzle piece who is missing a match. Where do you fit?
To whom to you belong?
Only to he who sang the same song.

~EMS
11:39 PM
1/19/09

The organ sings that well-known tune

as soon as she enters the room.

Clasping her daddy’s arm so tight

she looks at everyone but the groom.

The grass tickles her bare feet

as she walks down the aisle to meet

her bright future and her destiny,

her path paved with dirt, grass, and defeat.

The onlookers smile their smiles -

making her long to turn and run for miles

she plasters one on her face

as she walks down a million aisles.

A vision in white and eyes of green

like nothing they’ve ever seen

is let go by her loving father

still innocent and completely clean.

There he stands 3 feet away

together, they repeat what there is to say,

the kiss is brief, but meets applause,

forever in each others’ lives they plan to stay.

Tears are dabbed at by family

friends congratulate enthusiastically

it’s too late to take it back,

bound are they, in holy matrimony.

~EMS

12:38 AM

3/8/09

Stompin’ around on the Earth,

it’s much too big for me.

I’m just a speck on the wall

you’d need a microscope to see.

I’m one teeny tiny person

in the grand scheme of things

I can’t see what else there is -

He forgot to give me wings.

I fall at heartbreak and sorrow

the common cold and cough -

and one day gravity will fail…

and I’ll be falling off.

~EMS

4/4/09

11:19 PM

~No title~

The butterflies are confused,

they’re returned to their broken cocoons,

to bring back their original form:

an ugly, wriggling, fuzzy worm.

They sit at the bottom and wriggle around,

other feelings are more pleasant, I have found.

But the fluttering I enjoy so is gone,

as is he from which they were drawn

Their cycle, their way of life, is now reversed.

Because of this girl and her awful curse.

No spice is there to make them grow

into the butterflies I’ve come to love and know.

Instead of feeling that I can fly,

I want to curl up and never reply,

the fluttering has ceased – no more for me,

goodbye, beautiful little butterflies.

~EMS

4/14/09

12:23 AM

Emily’s poetry, a history

I’ve been writing poetry for years. My mother named me after her favorite poet, so why not carry it on? I started out with a composition notebook that I decorated with stickers. Everyone just assumed it was my diary, as if it couldn’t be anything but a shallow notebook with all of my deepest secrets and fears hidden inside. Nobody gave me enough credit. Boys would steal it from me, but I managed to get it back without any harm done. They were only teasing. Teasing is harmless, right?

After that was filled, I moved onto a pink camouflage notebook that had pens attached to the front of it. It was nifty because if I had an idea I didn’t have to hunt for a pen before being able to write it down. The pens were just there. That notebook was also known as my “diary” and even a teacher asked: “why do you bring your diary to school?” To which I simply replied: “it’s not a diary.”

I poured random thoughts and whimsical dreams into those notebooks. Within about a month, the pages started ripping out of the pink camo notebook, so I saved the paper, but threw the rest of the notebook in the garbage. It was time to move on again.

I found a regular old yellow spiral notebook and plastered it with quotes, stickers, drawings, and pop-up sunflowers that I ripped off a thing I had at home. Poetry was transferred from my head onto the pages of that thing for about a year. I entered the seventh grade with the same notebook, and only showed the ones I was proud of to my then English teacher (who is now a teacher in the high school). The boys in my grade grew up a little and stopped calling it my diary, and I continued writing.

For my birthday that year, one of my best friends (we barely speak anymore…) bought me a hardcover spiral notebook with puppies on the front. Said notebook lasted me for nearly two years. That notebook taught me something important. Because I wanted the notebook to last, I only wrote poetry when I really really felt like it and had a good feeling about an idea. I decided that I didn’t have to write about everything – but there are some things that I will always wish to remember. I still have one page left in that notebook that remains empty. If I fill it in, the notebook is done forever. I always want to have the option of being able to fill it up totally. It’s amazing to go from the earlier poems in that book to the last few. It’s like traveling through two years of my life in thirty minutes.

Eventually, I took a little notebook that was a party favor at some birthday party I went to (I think it was Carin’s) and ripped out the used pages. I then covered it with duct tape, and voila! New notebook.

Using the duct tape notebook, I rewrote some of the ones I am really proud of, but I also wrote a year’s worth of new material. I am still busy filling it up with my life, so it’s a work in progress. It’s crazy to see how much I have grown in the past year. There are some poems in said book that are extremely naive and young-sounding. I know I will say the same thing in the future when I look back at what I wrote when I was fifteen (the present… for now), but I like what is exploding out of my pen at the moment. Maybe I will post some examples in the near future (which is defined as: later today).

So quiet is Sir Night tonight.

Only soft whispers of wind

accompany the deafening silence:

a torturing silence for the sinned.

In this moment of deafness,

any noise is told to flee.

Fly away, unwelcome interruption.

Let the lonely wind fly free.

The floating balls of light we call stars

are visible, for now clouds are blocking their view.

The moon stands out, the brightest of all

revealing a clear silence I never knew.

The energetic bugs reply

to wind’s gentle call.

A conversation is taking place

in a language we have no knowledge of at all.

Humans weren’t made to understand,

just to wonder and dream

about Sir Night with a silence such as this:

natural beauties working as a team.

~ EMS

Saturday, July 26, 2008

3:45 AM