I hold the words in a tight throat,
I so want them to spill forth
full of the passion that I feel,
rattling around my chest, knotted.

This constant refrain hurts so much,
and there is no pleasure in this pain,
each word gnaws and bites in frustration,
burrowing to get out, to speak such affection.

The emotional pain is almost too much,
bitter tears flowing hot as lava, burning,
but I will not say it, risk even the slender touch,
for to be without entirely would surely kill me.

©️ Emma Steel

I crouched in the darkness,
waiting for the sun to rise, 
waiting for the light to shine, 
bright through dusty windows,
but it evaded my eyes, lost to sight.

I took me so long,
so much wasted time,
to figure out all these long years
I had been sat with my back to the glass,
ignoring the world that walked by,
out in their summer clothing,
while I, I, sat in shadow.

I kept the window closed, 
air still, dust accumulating in my isolation,
the sound of birds held back
as though they were mute, but it was merely the glass
6 mm of window pane between me and the world.

Perhaps I could start with something simple,
something that does not threaten 
to bring the world tumbling down,
opening the window and letting the stale air out.
Breath deep the fresh clean scent,
perhaps that will wake me up
from the decades long slumber
that has held me like Rip Van Winkle's sister.

The world has always been there,
the sounds of birds, the scent of flowers,
and while I turned my back on it,
building a prison where I felt safe,
it was just waiting to be noticed.

© Emma Steel

I am caught in a silver stranded web,
a tangle of emotion that holds me firm,
the object of my desire so far away.

I wonder if this silk is strong enough,
or should I struggle to break free
from something I have ensnared myself in.

And as the web beneath shakes and vibrates,
I sometimes wonder if I am the fly, caught, 
or the spider hidden behind words, coy?

©️ Emma Steel

When was the day I died,
the life leaving my eyes that last time,
the blue turned grey,
my light made dark.

My world is full of silhouettes,
not people,
but the remains of the shadows they cast,
and I must make do with their echoes.

Now that my spirit is dead,
all I am waiting for
is for the rest to follow,
this walking carcass to stop and decay.

©️ Emma Steel

I lie here at night in a bed of brine, 
salt-stung and half-forgotten,
never really known enough to be fully lost,
for you have to found before you can be let go.

And in the morning light of dawn,
when the only breath I hear is mine,
with eyes half-closed, I wait for the eye to burn my,
begging for the pain so I can at least feel the world.

What does a girl need to do to find love,
for if we stay home, we are recluse,
and of we go out, we are loose,
there is no in-between.

In this world where once choice was free,
and queer wasn’t a four-letter word, 
the feelings of loneliness pile higher 
than the mattress I lay on, fitfully.

And at my weakest, the tears sting my eyes,
salty as the ocean torn by storms, 
as though I might drown the world with them,
but all that drowns is me, slowly, one night at a time.

©️ Emma Steel

The sky is dark here,
no signs of urban life to intrude,
no light bleeding out into the abyss,
just the Universe itself, shining.

And every star I can see,
given silent permission to be
kisses me with its light,
from a billion miles away.

Whispers of yesterday,
snuffed out by a candle light,
now free to fill my eyes,
and set a fire in my soul.

©️ Emma Steel

The wind whispers of April’s warmth,
the rains have passed, for now,
and the pink cherry blossoms 
throw their scent into the air with abandon, heady.

April’s winds talk of tomorrow, and the coming days,
of the sun and warmth that will kiss our skin,
laid in a hammock in serene repose,
resting after the callousness of winter, now a memory.

These are the days that I wish I could hold,
tight in the palm of my hand, forever still,
so that I could live them over and over,
‘til the end of time comes, tomorrow just a story.

©️ Emma Steel

Yesterday’s child sits quietly,
she looks forward, and I look back,
I can see her, but see will never see me,
but I hope that I am all she would have wished for.

She left messages for me, 
letters written on fine paper and folded, 
slipped between the folios of books on the shelves
for me to find in her future.

Letters of hopes and wishes,
markers of where she was,
so that I can chart how far I have come,
and so, I sit and write letters to my future self.

And one day, when I open a book, 
and find the letter, unfolding the sheath,
I will be able to see the depth of growth,
how far I have climbed from those distant days.

©️ Emma Steel

Don't forget you can support my writing with a poetry collection.

Soft skies hold sharp memories,
lies and broken promises stitched into clouds,
the sun shaded by words that confound.

There is nothing that Apollo said
that cleared the grey to shining blue, 
and the final betrayal was like a knife.

When the sun is hidden,
the only brightness is the gaslight,
there is no illumination, just shrouds.

And it is those peeks behind the curtain
that cause the greatest pain, 
the lies revealed in a thousand cuts.

©️ Emma Steel

Don't forget you can support my writing with a poetry collection.

Is there a need,
really,
to always be stretching fot the sky,
to be digging deeper,
to excel?

I would contend,
wholeheartedly,
that it is more important
too be happy 
than to always be your most productive.

Take that day off,
have that glass of wine,
read that book - 
for pleasure, not growth
not to be the lesser god.

happiness is not found
in the constant unrest of stretch.
Not in the displeasure of self as you are,
but in giving yourself permission to live and 
to be ordinary.

©️ Emma Steel

Don't forget you can support my writing with a poetry collection.

How soon does it come, 
the pain born of carrying a weigh
breaking ivory bones and cracking ribs,
the marrow plucked from them with a knife.
  
Do we really need to do this, play this game
when the time could spent touching 
the delicate alabaster skin between us in subtle passes,
stoking the fires of love to burn fiercely.

They say all things come in time,
but how long is the wait, the change, 
before we leave grey seasons of loss, 
and find the amber seasons of becoming.

With permission rendered, tickets punched
let love loose into the world again. 
Haven’t we cried enough,
and felt the bitter swell of tears once too often?

Pull back the heavy cerulean drapes,
let in the light, and feel its warmth,
almost as hot as my hand on yours,
and finally set down your load, your burden.

©️ Emma Steel

Don't forget you can support my writing with a poetry collection.

When my thoughts bleed,
seeping through my skin
like rivers of red 
it means nothing to me.

I have bled before,
for more than one cause,
some natural, 
some not,
and it’s not the greatest pain.

Feeling my thoughts unfulfilled 
is a pain I could do without,
a longing that scolds 
deeper than flesh,
a heat no water can subdue.

So, I make the sounds,
the screams of anguish and frustration,
setting the pain free. 
Allowing it rip from my lungs,
raucous, raw, unfettered,
screaming at the sun, the moon, the stars.

Why would I do this, 
uncork myself and 
let this out into the world?

Because no one will answer 
what is spilled into the void.
I am just dreaming out loud,
giving them wings to find another,
one that might be able to fulfill them.

©️ Emma Steel

Don't forget you can support my writing with a poetry collection.

Beyond the darkness something shimmers,
a million stars birthed in the fire of eternity,
but what does that mean to me, here?
Nothing, but a reminder in a thousand shades,
the constellations just markers for where you sit.

Are the stars different where you are?
Do they glitter the same brilliant light I see,
shapes static when all the world around me groans
in the agony of growth, becoming more than I can bear,
until I scream with the pain of separation.

Give me your love, take me away from this place,
and I will be the freak, wear the red letter as an honor,
no depths that I will not stoop to for you, 
nothing I won’t surrender to you,
because isn’t that what love is, setting aside self?

So, to that sky full of the strange,
I offer my prays to the stars that glimmer upon me,
a proclamation of my intent, the deep desires,
for there is nothing stranger than me,
and I belong to you for the asking.

©️ Emma Steel

Don't forget you can support my writing with a poetry collection.

Beyond the darkness something shimmers,
a million stars birthed in the fire of eternity,
but what does that mean to me, here?
Nothing, but a reminder in a thousand shades,
the constellations just markers for where you sit.

Are the stars different where you are?
Do they glitter the same brilliant light I see,
shapes static when all the world around me groans
in the agony of growth, becoming more than I can bear,
until I scream with the pain of separation.

Give me your love, take me away from this place,
and I will be the freak, wear the red letter as an honor,
no depths that I will not stoop to for you, 
nothing I won’t surrender to you,
because isn’t that what love is, setting aside self?

So, to that sky full of the strange,
I offer my prays to the stars that glimmer upon me,
a proclamation of my intent, the deep desires,
for there is nothing stranger than me,
and I belong to you for the asking.

©️ Emma Steel

Don't forget you can support my writing with a poetry collection.

And here she is,
the one you like,
wise words spun for you.

So quickly she is gone,
the woman who turns her back,
so you don't see the tears.

One day they are from laughter,
the next from the dagger she holds,
each extracting a toll.

Let me roll the die, 
and count their faces,
for that will be the number I show you,
                but which is the real one? 

You decide.

©️ Emma Steel

Don't forget you can support my writing with a poetry collection.

I feel as if I am a little less each day,
consumed by the world around me.

First, it broke through a skin too thin and
unable to protect me from its teeth, too sharp.

Then, it gnawed through my very flesh,
taking me one bite at a time.

Until finally, it discarded me wasted,
and leaving nothing, but an apple core.

© Emma Steel

Regret is a shallow grave,
a hole that waits, patient,
like the silence after thunder.

And your words still scold,
like boiled water poured on skin
I wince at the thought.

So, I fold myself back into the ground,
bones cracking to fit the space 
you left for me in your world,

never to raise the issue again, 
lest I feel the wither of your gaze,
disappointment sharper than a whip.

©️ Emma Steel

Don't forget you can support my writing with a poetry collection.

Words are creatures of their own,
wild and wooly things 
that come rushing at times, eager,
and carrying knives at others.

Sharp bitter things that bite,
gnawing and rough.

But I prefer those that snuggle,
only biting the corner of a lip,
nibbling gently, soft in care,
and resting with tender comfort

So, choose yours well,
bitter sweet is only for chocolate.

©️ Emma Steel

Don't forget you can support my writing with a poetry collection.

When does the thought of love
become more than love itself,
a grey addiction to the want, the need
without ever seeking to satisfy it
so that the heart withers 
for the lack of what it needs to feed it.

When do we stop seeking and start doing,
giving ourselves permission to bloom,
when do we find the courage to let go
release the thoughts and start to feel,
for the heart doesn’t burn with ideas,
but with emotions given as kindling.

The body bends to the bright light that shines,
not to a yellowed torch that gutters with black soot,
casting shadows in the night 
but in the darkness, we seek to clutch at any light
only to find it pale when we catch it,
cold and unsatisfying without the emotion to support it.

Release me from this thirst, 
like a woman caught by a silver desert mirage 
that will never slake my need for water,
and let me walk the golden hot sands 
until I can find a spring that wells for me,
free and clear where I may flower, beautiful, once more.

©️ Emma Steel

Don't forget you can support my writing with a poetry collection.

I want to hear the sound of your voice,
speaking the words you think,
not just writing them on paper
for the world to see,
but spoken, for me, medicinal music to my ears.

And if I were honest,
it's not any words I want to hear,
but the sound of my name on your lips,
carried gently, with feeling, and affection,
tripping over halting breath.

I want to hear the sound of your voice,
raised in passion, time standing still,
for what does time mean to us,
counting the minutes like misers
holding each one precious.

And if I were honest,
the fortune of yours, would out weigh mine,
for I would value time with you,
above time with myself,
wealthy would I be, if gifted that.

©️ Emma Steel

Don't forget you can support my writing with a poetry collection.