Emrayla's Writings - College: Junior year

Freshman Year Sophmore Year Junior Year Senior Year

Freshman Year Sophmore Year Senior Year

~☆~

Small Poems

No Excuses
I don't want to remember
any more painful memories.
Consequences forgotten
Loved ones faded
I stabbed myself
by stabbing him
My hand slipped.
It's no excuse.
Who lets their loved one die
because they were clumsy?
I stopped writing poems
because I rarely write poems when I'm happy.
I know he's sad I don't write more,
but I don't write more because of him.
I write this poem because of me.
I'm sorry.
This is where the words
stop
coming.
I'm sorry Brad.
My sad excuse is...
well, you don't want to hear it.
And at this point
neither do I.
An eye for an eye
would be so much simpler.
Equality, perhaps.
Not really
never, even.
I wish he could beat me
like I beat him
so I didn't have to feel this anymore
But wishing for the normal again
is wishful thinking
But how do I survive without it...
-Emrayla S.

Happy New Life!
Happy new life!
Congratulations,
on a wonderful disaster.
You should be proud.
What a wonderful way
to start out your new life together.
I'd say I'm jealous
of your little parade.
How often do you see
a man so perfect.
Yet you had more!
I perfect man
ah you little whore.
How cute.
-Emrayla S.

Inexcusable, Understandable Reasoning
I could explain
my thoughts, my feelings
but in doing so
they loose their meaning.
Pain
mistrust
are not ok
no matter what the words I say.
I don't want to sound
        --like I'm justifying.
It's understandable
        --but not excusable.
-Emrayla S.

Tide Drifting
I sat in Theory of Computation today,
as I've done for several days now in that class,
silent, and lost.
I will sit there for hours; to the edge of tears
without wanting to indicate that I'm lost,
or confused.
Why? Negative motivation.
I don't want to look stupid by going, 'teacher?
could you explain...err....everything on the board?'
This summer, as I have before,
I fell victum to the same kind of thought process.
I lay on the couch,
as I've done on several different days,
silent, and lost.
I will sit there for hours; to the edge of tears
without wanting to indicate that I'm lost,
or confused.
Why? Negative motivation.
I don't want to say no to the instincts my body is telling me,
even though they're tearing my heart and my life apart with each moment left to silence.
This fall, as other falls before,
I risk freezing in winter
because I didn't speak up.
-Emrayla S.

In a Last Breath
My heart is banging banging banging
shaking
like a bag of bees.
I'm scared;
I'm scared of feeling
what I do not know to be.
I could loose my heart
I could loose my will
and it's all because of me.
-Emrayla S.

The Now and Then
Ties and formal shirts
mixed in with baby-T's
smells
and future tease
crying wolf.
We all want to be children
with freedom beyond;
We all want to be adults
with youth's freedom.
So show me the line where I want to stand
Show me the freedom that I want
wish
want
need
get
running down our eye's walls
color blinding the artist.
-Emrayla S.

Self-Traveler
Hello World!
Counting in binary
Is easier
Then adding up life.
Bonjour, tout la monde!
I find, I fly steel birds
More often then I’d like.
It is a theory,
And,
I believe,
The heart is where the home is
Even when it’s spread
Over multiple wired pieces.
And I believe,
That every life is filled with shades,
Even when you see
In black and white.
It all makes sense
When adding up.
Confusing?
Counting with steps
Is the best way, to help.
I travel swiftly,
With two feet on the ground;
One to push on
And the other to push up.
-Emrayla S.

The Tired Earth
Sandy, rainy day.
I leave home past the sandy stone pillar.
Tints of brown echo through the sidewalk
As it strolls past wood fences and trees, mail box posts, and closed wooden doors
And I’m left with the sound of the ground resting.
It sounds— like muddy water trickling by the sidewalk;
Like golden brown light floating through the trees.
I wonder, as a brown-grey bird dodges me behind a bush,
Who sits in the floating loveseat by a passing home’s door.
Wind chimes
Boxes in a garage
Plastic, smiling lawn deer
It’s getting darker.
Flat stones of a fishpond
Incense in a window
An old milk jug
It’s cold, but I’m almost home.
Anthills by the sidewalk
A cat surveying its own savanna
A broken down wood shingled shed
And my sidewalk leads me home.
-Emrayla S.

Building Blocks
Clay building box
Blocks pilled high.
Remembrance of younger years:
        Books, clothes, artwork, trinkets
Scattered across previously empty surfaces.
It is a cardboard explosion
Of so many rooms of the past;
A chaotic mess
Reminding me:
This square room
With cream colored carpet
Has never
Been home.
Light pine furniture pieces,
Known to me as time travelers,
Knew me as a kid, hopping on my bed.
        Knew me as a girl, working through school.
                Knew me as a young woman, finding herself.
And as I look around at these old friends
I find they look back at me.
Boxes piled high
Stuffed with memories.
unpacked trinkets:
wax, color dipped mice from a fair;
Carved statue from 7th grade history;
A small fountain I once painted for art class.
The taste in the air is of something lost
Like neon band-aids and baby teeth.
Smelling forgotten,
Sight in dim light
Of fossil puzzle pieces
Hidden from sight, and
Locked away.
Never to be home again.
-Emrayla S.

Tales to Inspire, Writings by a Christian, Jewish Aunt
I.
I used to help people
Officially.
So many insecure hearts
Looking for answers.
They came to me,
And I,
I solved their problems;
I gave them answers;
I… was their savior.
It was my talent.
II.
I write books now.
None of them published yet
                        Not yet
But soon.
One is titled Love, and the other: Courage.
They will help inspire people.
I can no longer help, myself,
Because they are watching me;
The PI’s I mean.
They will find me;
As they are always watching.
III.
Dear Journal,
Today I locked myself in the bathroom;
It is the only safe place left in the condo.
They are after me,
That family
From my practice.
Can’t they see I helped them?
When no one spoke up
I labeled the abusers!
I took apart their ignorance!
Where is their gratitude?
Like the loyal souls who bring me food.
They don’t cut me off,
Unlike my brother.
Oh such loyal servants,
past patients,
real appreciators.
They understand the needs of a starving writer.
I have enough stored
To last the month.
The FBI have listened to my phone calls;
Perhaps they’ll rescue me.
IV.
Did I mention I help people?
Last week I did a cleaning of the condo.
It was my mother’s, thorn of a woman,
So there was a lot to clean out.
My brother owns this place now.
Childish, really, that he locked the bedroom door;
Full of dusty boxes and old photographs.
Out with the wary, in with the expensive, I say!
I picked the lock.
Someday he’ll realize
I’m helping him.
V.
Money is really an illusion;
It’s the gesture that counts.
I take my porcelain-boned father
On trips to lighten his spirits.
We drive for miles
Days
Weeks
Months
Just to get away.
We bought a new car, just for the purpose.
Did I mention I’m still writing my books?
They are dedicated
To my supporters
And not to my traitors.
Did I mention I help people?
-Emrayla S.

Path from Poetry to Art
It is 11:40,
and I head to the outdoors for my lunch break.
The air swallows me as I enter the sun, and
I walk down cement paths
past the rows of perfect grass
and scattering of busy students.
At the base of the modern art statue
a girl sits, on her cell phone;
I saw her there yesterday.
She looks bored.
Take a left then
another
and a right.
They've closed off the main parking lot.
A man sprays asphalt
as if he was painting;
which he is.
Is he bored or having fun, I wonder.
I reach my picnic table.
Here is where so many have
passed,
sat,
eaten lunches,
and spoken words so deep or shallow.
For me I sit and eat my lunch.
From there it's off to class again.
This morning in Poetry I learned what was colorful;
this afternoon in Art I will learn to speak.
It seems confusing, but either way
I pack up my lunch, and head in the door.
-Emrayla S.

June 11th
On Wednesday we planted a garden
over my granddad's deathbed.
The ground was worn out
so we covered it in black, more luscious goodbyes.
I mixed the two, past and present,
in the wooden frame for the garden.
The frame measured 89 years by 1 lifetime,
and I couldn't help but worry
that there wasn't enough goodbyes to fill it.
"It will have to do", my mom said;
"we can always add more later."
I was hesitant, but agreed.
Next we planted young emotions:
Regret, Love, and Numbness.
Numbness looked a little unhealthy;
perhaps it won't last the week.
Next were seeds of devotion.
It's really too late in the season to plant them
but I had to at least try.
Finally, just for me, I planted forgiveness,
which I hope will stretch its tiny green arms
into the light soon.
We stepped back, and looked at our creation.
It was amazing how
where once there was only silence,
now lay the skeleton from my closet.
-Emrayla S.

Artificial Eyes
"If you were here..."
Words blow to wires
traveling traveling
under over so many feet
bounced to space and back again
finally vibrating past his front door
and into his bedroom
to be released
in .8 seconds
from their birth.
A bitter-sweet smile
crosses his face.
She returns it.
What days
        what days
                what days
                        these are.
3,000 miles
yet only prison glass between,
taking the form of a mic and computer screen.
Map it --
It says: 'reach Atlantic ocean; swim.'
What days
        what days
                what days
                        these are.
Where wires lift our souls from our bodies,
and silence drips in two rooms
instead of one.
-Emrayla S.

Units of Time
In the summer season
my life is an hour glass:
Silence...
Soft sand seeps
through a crack in my schedule.
It passes
through the pin-hole of glass
as if by the force of weaving rivers.
So many solitary, sedentary moments;
moments promised to tasks un-ticked.
Which brings me to wintertime.
Wintertime, is owned by a clock.
Time for tension.
Time for tasks.
Tick tick tick
Time to remember...what living is about.
So, as I reach the edge of
summer breaks,
books and teachers,
I wonder:
What will the world bring?
Will there still be time to wonder?
-Emrayla S.

Drifting
My eyes are tired.
Flat on my back on the dirty white carpet
I stare up at the ceiling fan.
My eyes are tired.
A hanging tassel is twirled between the wind's thumbs;
Wha…wha…wha…
the wind breathes.
I haven't been getting enough sleep
sleep
sleep my brain is telling me,
but black circles need to be 'o's not 'z's
soaked into paper
for this is the time for poetry.
Wha…wha…wha…
Where did the day go?
Did it escape under the carpet?
Did it take ambitions with it?
Wha…wha…wha…
My eyes are tired...
I'm 10, listening to porch summer thunderstorms
I'm 7, cooking with my mom
I'm 15, dreaming of travel
and 16, dreaming of galaxies viewed from a blanket.
I'm in New Hampshire.
I'm in Ireland.
I'm in Massachusetts.
I'm in London.
I'm here –
lying on my back on the dirty white carpet,
listening to the fan go:
Wha…wha…wha…
-Emrayla S.

Fortress
Some people spend their whole lives making walls:
Instead of speech through walls, they throw bricks.
One tries to be heard and not yell,
but voices rarely carry.
So do you not fight them
for fear of being
victim, bully;
or do you
simply
hide?
-Emrayla S.

Choosing Distance
Two weeks, two months, two years and then
a tear to heal and tare again;
goes softly patterns of the heart
wishing to be whole again.
Too far, too soon, a love can call,
reminding what it's worth to fall,
but it is something worth the fight
if finding one, is finding all.
One push in every day till break
reminds me of the home I make;
the trade is worth the hollow days:
something gold that will not break.
Remind me what's at stake:
a life to make;
I choose:
To keep it.
-Emrayla S.

Ivan the Terrible
A top a mountain sat a king;
a mound of papers set for him.
He was a proud and noble king
who pleased himself when you were grim.
If you were wishing for that mound,
his grin would widen knowing this;
for worthy treasure had he found;
his pampered soul would reek the bliss.
He ruled his kingdom carpet wide;
no wall or door could hold him back.
If forbidden was the other side,
it was a rule he wished to lack.
So bow your head and tip your hats
to the king of kings, the cat of cats.
-Emrayla S.

The 4th
Five years ago,
on the 4th of July,
I met a man from another world.
He smoked a cigarette and slouched in his chair
amongst the family party air.
He seemed so confident;
so wise for so few years.
He'd never gone to college
but he'd recommend it for his peers.
He was a philosopher
and we talked throughout the night.
His ideas seemed as bright as his cigarette’s red light.
The only thing I denied was his last statement of the day:
he said: "Five years from now you will never remember talking to a guy named [...]"…?
-Emrayla S.

A Courtroom Woman
This is where I begin and you end.
I
have never
had the chance to find
myself past your echoes.
Here I sit on a wood bench, and a bell tower begins to chime.
Can you feel the bells chime?
This is the end,
where silence lingers in shiny hallways and shoes leave their echoes.
Can you feel where you left me? I--
find
you loved me but freed me never.
So I will return, never.
Can you hear it chime?
A courtroom door is all that's left to find.
This is the end.
All that's left is stuttering I, I, I...
will from now on choose my own echoes.
All actions make echoes.
You never
saw eye to eye.
Seven, eight, nine...bells chime.
I just want this day to end!
I hate your pains because they scurry to warmth, and it's me they find.
What verdict will they find?
Each burrowing story I much remember echoes
in my mind. I want this to end
but like the bell tower-- it never
seems to stop its chime.
It's you or I.
I
find
bell chime
echoes
never
end.
I'm sorry but I've found that this will never end
unless rule chimes for one of us.
Hopefully you will learn that actions always echo.
-Emrayla S.

Back to the Top

No Excuses I don't want to remember any more painful memories. Consequences forgotten Loved ones faded I stabbed myself by stabbing him My hand slipped. It's no excuse. Who lets their loved one die because they were clumsy? I stopped writing poems because I rarely write poems when I'm happy. I know he's sad I don't write more, but I don't write more because of him. I write this poem because of me. I'm sorry. This is where the words stop coming. I'm sorry Brad. My sad excuse is... well, you don't want to hear it. And at this point neither do I. An eye for an eye would be so much simpler. Equality, perhaps. Not really never, even. I wish he could beat me like I beat him so I didn't have to feel this anymore But wishing for the normal again is wishful thinking But how do I survive without it... -Emrayla S.		Happy New Life! Happy new life! Congratulations, on a wonderful disaster. You should be proud. What a wonderful way to start out your new life together. I'd say I'm jealous of your little parade. How often do you see a man so perfect. Yet you had more! I perfect man ah you little whore. How cute. -Emrayla S.
	Inexcusable, Understandable Reasoning I could explain my thoughts, my feelings but in doing so they loose their meaning. Pain mistrust are not ok no matter what the words I say. I don't want to sound --like I'm justifying. It's understandable --but not excusable. -Emrayla S.
Tide Drifting I sat in Theory of Computation today, as I've done for several days now in that class, silent, and lost. I will sit there for hours; to the edge of tears without wanting to indicate that I'm lost, or confused. Why? Negative motivation. I don't want to look stupid by going, 'teacher? could you explain...err....everything on the board?' This summer, as I have before, I fell victum to the same kind of thought process. I lay on the couch, as I've done on several different days, silent, and lost. I will sit there for hours; to the edge of tears without wanting to indicate that I'm lost, or confused. Why? Negative motivation. I don't want to say no to the instincts my body is telling me, even though they're tearing my heart and my life apart with each moment left to silence. This fall, as other falls before, I risk freezing in winter because I didn't speak up. -Emrayla S.		In a Last Breath My heart is banging banging banging shaking like a bag of bees. I'm scared; I'm scared of feeling what I do not know to be. I could loose my heart I could loose my will and it's all because of me. -Emrayla S.
	The Now and Then Ties and formal shirts mixed in with baby-T's smells and future tease crying wolf. We all want to be children with freedom beyond; We all want to be adults with youth's freedom. So show me the line where I want to stand Show me the freedom that I want wish want need get running down our eye's walls color blinding the artist. -Emrayla S.
Self-Traveler Hello World! Counting in binary Is easier Then adding up life. Bonjour, tout la monde! I find, I fly steel birds More often then I’d like. It is a theory, And, I believe, The heart is where the home is Even when it’s spread Over multiple wired pieces. And I believe, That every life is filled with shades, Even when you see In black and white. It all makes sense When adding up. Confusing? Counting with steps Is the best way, to help. I travel swiftly, With two feet on the ground; One to push on And the other to push up. -Emrayla S.		The Tired Earth Sandy, rainy day. I leave home past the sandy stone pillar. Tints of brown echo through the sidewalk As it strolls past wood fences and trees, mail box posts, and closed wooden doors And I’m left with the sound of the ground resting. It sounds— like muddy water trickling by the sidewalk; Like golden brown light floating through the trees. I wonder, as a brown-grey bird dodges me behind a bush, Who sits in the floating loveseat by a passing home’s door. Wind chimes Boxes in a garage Plastic, smiling lawn deer It’s getting darker. Flat stones of a fishpond Incense in a window An old milk jug It’s cold, but I’m almost home. Anthills by the sidewalk A cat surveying its own savanna A broken down wood shingled shed And my sidewalk leads me home. -Emrayla S.
	Building Blocks Clay building box Blocks pilled high. Remembrance of younger years: Books, clothes, artwork, trinkets Scattered across previously empty surfaces. It is a cardboard explosion Of so many rooms of the past; A chaotic mess Reminding me: This square room With cream colored carpet Has never Been home. Light pine furniture pieces, Known to me as time travelers, Knew me as a kid, hopping on my bed. Knew me as a girl, working through school. Knew me as a young woman, finding herself. And as I look around at these old friends I find they look back at me. Boxes piled high Stuffed with memories. unpacked trinkets: wax, color dipped mice from a fair; Carved statue from 7th grade history; A small fountain I once painted for art class. The taste in the air is of something lost Like neon band-aids and baby teeth. Smelling forgotten, Sight in dim light Of fossil puzzle pieces Hidden from sight, and Locked away. Never to be home again. -Emrayla S.
Tales to Inspire, Writings by a Christian, Jewish Aunt I. I used to help people Officially. So many insecure hearts Looking for answers. They came to me, And I, I solved their problems; I gave them answers; I… was their savior. It was my talent. II. I write books now. None of them published yet Not yet But soon. One is titled Love, and the other: Courage. They will help inspire people. I can no longer help, myself, Because they are watching me; The PI’s I mean. They will find me; As they are always watching. III. Dear Journal, Today I locked myself in the bathroom; It is the only safe place left in the condo. They are after me, That family From my practice. Can’t they see I helped them? When no one spoke up I labeled the abusers! I took apart their ignorance! Where is their gratitude? Like the loyal souls who bring me food. They don’t cut me off, Unlike my brother. Oh such loyal servants, past patients, real appreciators. They understand the needs of a starving writer. I have enough stored To last the month. The FBI have listened to my phone calls; Perhaps they’ll rescue me. IV. Did I mention I help people? Last week I did a cleaning of the condo. It was my mother’s, thorn of a woman, So there was a lot to clean out. My brother owns this place now. Childish, really, that he locked the bedroom door; Full of dusty boxes and old photographs. Out with the wary, in with the expensive, I say! I picked the lock. Someday he’ll realize I’m helping him. V. Money is really an illusion; It’s the gesture that counts. I take my porcelain-boned father On trips to lighten his spirits. We drive for miles Days Weeks Months Just to get away. We bought a new car, just for the purpose. Did I mention I’m still writing my books? They are dedicated To my supporters And not to my traitors. Did I mention I help people? -Emrayla S.		Path from Poetry to Art It is 11:40, and I head to the outdoors for my lunch break. The air swallows me as I enter the sun, and I walk down cement paths past the rows of perfect grass and scattering of busy students. At the base of the modern art statue a girl sits, on her cell phone; I saw her there yesterday. She looks bored. Take a left then another and a right. They've closed off the main parking lot. A man sprays asphalt as if he was painting; which he is. Is he bored or having fun, I wonder. I reach my picnic table. Here is where so many have passed, sat, eaten lunches, and spoken words so deep or shallow. For me I sit and eat my lunch. From there it's off to class again. This morning in Poetry I learned what was colorful; this afternoon in Art I will learn to speak. It seems confusing, but either way I pack up my lunch, and head in the door. -Emrayla S.
	June 11th On Wednesday we planted a garden over my granddad's deathbed. The ground was worn out so we covered it in black, more luscious goodbyes. I mixed the two, past and present, in the wooden frame for the garden. The frame measured 89 years by 1 lifetime, and I couldn't help but worry that there wasn't enough goodbyes to fill it. "It will have to do", my mom said; "we can always add more later." I was hesitant, but agreed. Next we planted young emotions: Regret, Love, and Numbness. Numbness looked a little unhealthy; perhaps it won't last the week. Next were seeds of devotion. It's really too late in the season to plant them but I had to at least try. Finally, just for me, I planted forgiveness, which I hope will stretch its tiny green arms into the light soon. We stepped back, and looked at our creation. It was amazing how where once there was only silence, now lay the skeleton from my closet. -Emrayla S.
Artificial Eyes "If you were here..." Words blow to wires traveling traveling under over so many feet bounced to space and back again finally vibrating past his front door and into his bedroom to be released in .8 seconds from their birth. A bitter-sweet smile crosses his face. She returns it. What days what days what days these are. 3,000 miles yet only prison glass between, taking the form of a mic and computer screen. Map it -- It says: 'reach Atlantic ocean; swim.' What days what days what days these are. Where wires lift our souls from our bodies, and silence drips in two rooms instead of one. -Emrayla S.		Units of Time In the summer season my life is an hour glass: Silence... Soft sand seeps through a crack in my schedule. It passes through the pin-hole of glass as if by the force of weaving rivers. So many solitary, sedentary moments; moments promised to tasks un-ticked. Which brings me to wintertime. Wintertime, is owned by a clock. Time for tension. Time for tasks. Tick tick tick Time to remember...what living is about. So, as I reach the edge of summer breaks, books and teachers, I wonder: What will the world bring? Will there still be time to wonder? -Emrayla S.
	Drifting My eyes are tired. Flat on my back on the dirty white carpet I stare up at the ceiling fan. My eyes are tired. A hanging tassel is twirled between the wind's thumbs; Wha…wha…wha… the wind breathes. I haven't been getting enough sleep sleep sleep my brain is telling me, but black circles need to be 'o's not 'z's soaked into paper for this is the time for poetry. Wha…wha…wha… Where did the day go? Did it escape under the carpet? Did it take ambitions with it? Wha…wha…wha… My eyes are tired... I'm 10, listening to porch summer thunderstorms I'm 7, cooking with my mom I'm 15, dreaming of travel and 16, dreaming of galaxies viewed from a blanket. I'm in New Hampshire. I'm in Ireland. I'm in Massachusetts. I'm in London. I'm here – lying on my back on the dirty white carpet, listening to the fan go: Wha…wha…wha… -Emrayla S.
Fortress Some people spend their whole lives making walls: Instead of speech through walls, they throw bricks. One tries to be heard and not yell, but voices rarely carry. So do you not fight them for fear of being victim, bully; or do you simply hide? -Emrayla S.		Choosing Distance Two weeks, two months, two years and then a tear to heal and tare again; goes softly patterns of the heart wishing to be whole again. Too far, too soon, a love can call, reminding what it's worth to fall, but it is something worth the fight if finding one, is finding all. One push in every day till break reminds me of the home I make; the trade is worth the hollow days: something gold that will not break. Remind me what's at stake: a life to make; I choose: To keep it. -Emrayla S.
	Ivan the Terrible A top a mountain sat a king; a mound of papers set for him. He was a proud and noble king who pleased himself when you were grim. If you were wishing for that mound, his grin would widen knowing this; for worthy treasure had he found; his pampered soul would reek the bliss. He ruled his kingdom carpet wide; no wall or door could hold him back. If forbidden was the other side, it was a rule he wished to lack. So bow your head and tip your hats to the king of kings, the cat of cats. -Emrayla S.
The 4th Five years ago, on the 4th of July, I met a man from another world. He smoked a cigarette and slouched in his chair amongst the family party air. He seemed so confident; so wise for so few years. He'd never gone to college but he'd recommend it for his peers. He was a philosopher and we talked throughout the night. His ideas seemed as bright as his cigarette’s red light. The only thing I denied was his last statement of the day: he said: "Five years from now you will never remember talking to a guy named [...]"…? -Emrayla S.		A Courtroom Woman This is where I begin and you end. I have never had the chance to find myself past your echoes. Here I sit on a wood bench, and a bell tower begins to chime. Can you feel the bells chime? This is the end, where silence lingers in shiny hallways and shoes leave their echoes. Can you feel where you left me? I-- find you loved me but freed me never. So I will return, never. Can you hear it chime? A courtroom door is all that's left to find. This is the end. All that's left is stuttering I, I, I... will from now on choose my own echoes. All actions make echoes. You never saw eye to eye. Seven, eight, nine...bells chime. I just want this day to end! I hate your pains because they scurry to warmth, and it's me they find. What verdict will they find? Each burrowing story I much remember echoes in my mind. I want this to end but like the bell tower-- it never seems to stop its chime. It's you or I. I find bell chime echoes never end. I'm sorry but I've found that this will never end unless rule chimes for one of us. Hopefully you will learn that actions always echo. -Emrayla S.