Introspective retrospective
inescapable dreamscape
makes your scars twitch with
discombobulated self loathing.
Memories stained with
fear mongering
innermost thoughts
and knifepoimt teardrops.
Insomniac, somnambulist,
can’t tell the difference,
doesn’t want to fall
because sometimes
all the time
the rabbit-hole leads
to reality.
© Emilie C. Black, 2020
A sadness runs through him
Like the coldest river
Like the bluest river
Crashing and coursing through
Dams of debris
Dammed and dashed against
Banks and rocks of
Psyche and skin.
Coursing through veins
To the pools of his open palms
And drips from his fingertips.
A sadness runs through him
Like oil through saltwater
Slowly spreading and sticking
And clotting and clinging
To his body and soul.
A sadness runs through him
Like wild cats through
The limbs of the trees of his veins
Silent and swift but
He still feels the pain
Of their claws sinking In to his skin
© Emilie C. Black, 2020
This doesn’t have
A lot of metaphor, or simile,
Or writing techniques, or style,
Or rhyming structure, or metre;
To be honest it’s barely a poem,
and that’s fine because I’m barely
a poet.
To be honest, I’m a mess.
Mental health in decline,
Pretending to be fine,
Being confined,
Just reclined
On this sofa.
Where the cushions, the blanket, the duvet, the laundry, and emotions accumulate and
lie across my chest like a
heavy
warm
comfortable
something.
© Emilie C. Black, Apr 2020
4am hurts like
blunted knives in your ribcage
cold fire in your veins
and crushed glass in your skin.
4am hurts like your ex.
Your heart and body aches
for reasons you don’t understand,
curled around yourself and convulsing
cursing and breath,
Fists closed, arms crossed, jaw clenched
to protest and protect;
Every breath, every moment
feeling like hard time and hard labour.
Dull pain and panic burrow and settle
and scuttle and gnaw
like unwanted mice nestling
in your chest
Your body and soul is a punch bag
propped up against a worn out mattress
left out in the rain
ready for landfill.
© Emilie C. Black, 2020
A long short summary of 2017.
Another year over, and what a year it’s been. It’s had ups and downs and tears and laughter and clichés and bad metaphors. It has been a year.
But I have never felt as successful as I have coming out of this year. This year, I did so many things I didn’t expect me to do ever.
I won not one but two poetry slams, I performed music on stage for the first time since 2013, I managed to write 100 Poems in 100 Days (I still don’t know how I managed that).
I had my first ever stand-up comedy gig (it was terrifying, it was amazing), I got to perform alongside one of my poetry idols and busted some more comedy and broke my roleplaying game cherry with The Comedy Roleplaying Hour at this year’s Edinburgh Fringe.
I had my first paid feature poetry gig, I wrote, produced and performed my first ever full-length poetry show at the Edinburgh Horror Festival, and became part of the team that run the Edinburgh Horror Festival.
I had my first ever compere gig, started a new cabaret band/duo, and started work on a new live poetry event with a good friend of mine which is due to debut early next year. And finally, to top it all off, I was named Stage Time Promotions ‘Best Poetry/Spoken Word Act of 2017.’
Across music, comedy and poetry (and hosting) I’ve performed 36 times this year. That’s insane. That’s 36 more performances than I expected to do in my life. There’s so many people in my life that I need to thank. This has been unexpected. For the first time in 25 years, I feel proud of myself.
It’s not been without its battles. Mental health, homelessness, nerves, losing friends, drifting away from people. No life is 100% perfect.
But this year came pretty damn close.
I’d like to say a huge thank you to all of you, the people who’ve read the poems, the people who have listened to/watched me perform. The people who have let me perform (Inky Fingers’ wonderboys, Freddie and Ross, the beautiful Lloyd and Matt behind The God Damn Debut Slam, my good friend Ross who I produce the Freakeasy Showcase with, the Edinburgh Horror Festival, and the organisers of From The Horse’s Mouth).
My sound operator, Graham, and poster designer, Ash from We All Have Fears.
To all my friends who have supported me and listened to my surrealist ramblings while trying to write something. To all my friends who have been there on any level. My friends online and on the earth. There are so many of you. I can’t thank you enough.
And finally, thank you, dear readers. You don’t know me, and yet you’ve taken the time to stick around and read this. You’ve read the blogs, you’ve read the poems. You’re amazing. And I love that you’ve been hanging around, commenting when you can. Liking, sharing, communicating, supporting. Thank you.
Bring on 2018 and the next adventure!
Today is World Mental Health Day. I could take the time to talk about my struggles but that wouldn’t help anything or change the following:
One in four people will experience a diagnosable mental health problems at some point in their life.
615 million people suffer from anxiety and depression.
Sometimes, it’s not easy to know how to be there for someone struggling with mental health. It’s not the same for everyone. But you shouldn’t let that stop you from helping someone.
❤
“What Can I Do To Make The Situation Better?”
Text, call,
Pick up the phone,
Be there however you can.
Make sure they’re safe
Ask a question,
Take a breath.
Move the pills,
Move the drink,
Move the knives.
Keep 999 on speed dial
Distract,
React,
Be appropriate,
Cool them down,
Keep them warm.
Let them be human,
Let them breathe,
Let them cry,
Remember this isn’t about you.
Hold them close, give them space,
Give them what they need that makes them feel safe.
Remind them someone is always there.
If you can’t be present, be a presence.
Let them know they’re never alone.
Craig A. Black
I think that I think I exist.
If thinking equals being,
Then I think that I exist.
But it’s not a conscious
Decision to will myself
Into this existence
And this is evident by
The persistent indecision
That I find myself facing
On a daily basis.
Because I’ve lived
My life thinking
“I think, therefore I am”
But I find I am in
A constant battle of
Positive versus negative
And logic dictates
I wouldn’t wish it
Upon myself so
Who did?
How would I know
If this wasn’t just
Some kind of crazy,
Inconsistent coma dream
From one too many
Car crashes, causing
Flashes of different lives
To flash across my eyes
In a systematic series of
Fortunate and unfortunate events.
Maybe this isn’t even me,
Maybe I’m someone else’s
Fantasy or hallucination,
A nighttime thought creation
Or process of dissociation,
A cultivation and culmination
And overall manifestation
Of stress and frustration
Or a figment of a
Perfect stranger’s imagination.
But at the risk of waxing existential,
I don’t think we’ve considered
The absolute potential of
Being part of an extraterrestrial
Game of The Sims.
Being trapped at the whims
And mercies of martians
Or deities who let us
Virtually have no control
In our lives.
Question from Justine F. from Facebook
I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt.
Were you expecting me to say
Something more fitting,
More form fitting,
Something more pretty?
Or would you rather I said
I was wearing a shirt and tie so
You can fetishize my school uniform
To try and justify his actions
And make the victim him and not me?
Were you hoping I would say
I was wearing nothing but
My sexuality on my sleeve
And leggings so you could say
“They were practically begging”
And then pin the blame on me?
Then go on to say that I was
“Preying on his fragile masculinity”
Twisting the situation and implying
That the problem was me?
Because the truth is
I wasn’t wearing anything that would
Let you dress consent as a foregone privilege
Instead of a basic right.
And the only reason his
Arms and ego are bruised is because
I tried to fight back and tried not to
Not let it happen but I was
Too frightened and pinned down
With brute force and fear.
I still feel his hand
Over my mouth,
Forcing my screams
To back down my throat.
I am forced to wear scars
Carved by his nails and I’m
Stained with bruises that
No shower can wash away and
No knife or razor can cut out.
And I’ve tried.
No noose or antidepressant
Can change the way that
I have been changed.
And if you think,
If you believe,
That I would ask for this,
For my life to be hollowed out,
For my body to be mutilated to the point
I don’t recognise my reflection,
Then you are just as much to blame as him.
I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt,
Now they’re stained, tattered and torn
And strewn amongst the shreds of
My dignity and innocence and
Shards of shattered dreams that
Have given way to nightmares that
Don’t let me sleep
And broken-record memories
That play over and over and over,
That remind me the victim was me.
I have a threesome every day
And I’ve been having threesomes
Every day for what seems like
My entire life.
I don’t expect you to know
What that feels like but
Let me tell you,
It’s exhausting.
It’s a constant barrage of
Twisting and tossing and turning
And pushing and pulling
And burning and biting
And clawing and cutting
In a never-ending search
For happiness.
A happiness that never comes,
Much like myself because
I am too generous,
I am on the receiving end of
Two toxic partners working
In discord and out of rhythm and harmony
To give me the best worst fucking
Of my life.
Partner A:
Definitely built for speed and not comfort
And when I say speed,
I don’t just mean in terms of firing rate.
I mean the drug, because
He lives at a million miles an hour,
Never slowing, taking me by the hand,
Taking me to the brink,
Taking me on a rollercoaster ride
Where there’s no safety bars,
Where there’s no speed limit,
Where there’s no means of self-preservation,
Only self-destruction and sado-masochism
Partner B:
They like to take it slow,
Painstakingly, mind numbingly slow.
And it’s not so much sensual
As it is sensory, with a blend of
Substance and pain,
Blood play and asphyxiation,
Everything is a threat and a challenge,
Like waking up or doing literally
Anything because she leaves a mark on me
Brandings of bites and bruises
And cuts and cigarette burns.
Like I’m her property.
My bedroom is a BDSM dungeon,
A Bipolar Disorder and Sadomasochism Dungeon,
Where I’m locked in my bed and my head
With two lovers who love to fuck me
At every given opportunity.
And it would be fine to
Take them one at a time,
Treat each of them with the right
Time, dedication and medication
But unfortunately, I often find
I’m locked in a situation where
They’re both fucking me at the same time,
Tearing my body and mind apart
With thoughts that cut like a knife
And fingernails that run
Over and under my skin.
I have a threesome every day
And I’ve been having threesomes
Every day for what seems like
My entire life.
I don’t expect you to know
What that feels like but
Let me tell you,
It’s exhausting.
Question from Michael Clark from Facebook
It was the calm after a
Torrential downpour of depression
Which washed away my sensibilities.
It was after the storm in my head
Subsided into the choked whispers
Of voices who would leave me high and dry.
Nothing leading up to the moment was peaceful,
My body and brain fighting tooth and nail,
Fighting my will to not fight anymore,
My breath becoming a shallow imitation and
Turning into a desperate rasp,
My pulse frenetic and thrashing like a shark in a cage
Filled with a rage that fills it with a desire to survive.
Until the noose buckled.
And I crashed down with the weight
Of myself and the world
In slow motion.
A dark euphoria of
Pins and needles crawling like
Electric insects through my veins,
Tingling and tearing through my body.
My ears ringing like
The the sound of a thousand flatlines,
Loud enough to drown out the world.
In this moment,
There was no guiding light,
There was no distraction.
Just calm,
Just darkness,
Just perfect quiet.
Just reminders that
I am alive.
Question from Delaney A. from Facebook
Mxcellany - Poetry, Music, Art 