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Real Estate
The cost of intellectual property has gone up.
I can already feel the ideas curdling like milk,
Strings of silver silk lining
Tangling it up so neatly--
A package for the loan-shark in my bed in the morning.
A message to my lover, to whom I owe such a debt:
All you ever do anymore is take.
My poems crumble at the touch,
Fading into the clusters of Sunday brunch and Family Guy reruns.
What's the price of the two seconds of quiet
Without a pile of unfilled lines awaiting my autograph
Ruffling through the papers you'll have me sign-
What wouldn't I give to sign with the devil, over you...
Teetering on the corner of thought,
My pen limp and balanced between my fingertips,
Like an unlit cigarette.
What I'd do to be out of this deal,
no heartstrings attached.
You lean in to kiss me,
and I forget how to breathe in anything but you;
Did I ever really need air
or words
or poetry?
You moved into the empty lot
Where my notebook used to stay.
And all I could do is shake my head at the bitter chang
:iconemerald-alexandria:Emerald-Alexandria 15 19
I'm Reading Again
Age 4:
She's already reading, earlier than most kids. I smile at her when she looks up from the pages almost as big as she is.
In the morning she wakes me up and holds a heavy book,offering it to me.
"What's it say?" she asks. "Sound it out," I tell her, avoiding her glance and hoping my mutter works as a snooze button.
It doesn't, and I immediately feel regret that as she shouts out syllables.
Blinking in the sun, I take the book from her hand.
I try not to laugh. I misspelled this word in a kindergarten spelling bee once upon a time.
"Anteater. Ant-eat-tur. Anteater." I place it back to her hands, so small she struggles to carry the dictionary.
She dances out of the room, tiptoeing as not to wake me up, ignoring my open eyes and tired stare.
Her ballet slippers are on backwards.
She screams out a whisper: "Okay. Thank you. Night mom!"
It is four a.m.
Age 6:
She shouts when I brush her hair now.
She's almost as defiant as the black tangl
:iconemerald-alexandria:Emerald-Alexandria 6 1
Drinking Oil
I hail from a Jordanian-Palestinian domain,
A home in southwest Detroit,
That always smelled of curry and bay leaves,
That grew its own tomatoes and blueberries
Sun-ripened with my youth,
Picked eagerly in the July breeze.
The Quran that weighed down my hands has shrunk in recent years,
Behind a playlist of punk rock and the scent of black nail polish.
Teenage rebellion drowned out the call to prayer
And cold sensibility rejected a hijab.
Tiptoeing the tightrope in my wardrobe;
To bear my cleavage is to betray my family
To bury my skin is to betray myself.
And I know the greetings, but I lost the accent;
Arab letters feel alien on my tongue,
They stay caught in my throat
Like every syllable is sipping olive oil.
When did a henna tattoo start to feel like cultural appropriation?
Why do I feel like I've been juggling faces when my Arab mask has been collecting dust for four years?
I’m craving shawarma, but my curls feel like a ruse.
I miss my sisters, all with the middle name
:iconemerald-alexandria:Emerald-Alexandria 10 12
'Gucci' With An 'H'
To the banana-blonde barbie doll
smelling up the back of the class
with Chanel No. 5:
What did you mean exactly,
when you were muttering so eloquently,
"Fuck this shit,"
as those baby blues rolled
behind fake lashes and tacky eye-shadow?
You may think that Daddy's check book
folds up into a nice little paper crown on your head,
but this isn't second grade
and we're not going to take time
from minimum wage burger-flipping
to tell you how pretty we think you are
just to blink in the sun's rays
that you probably assume
shine exclusively for you.
There are 128 students in this college course,
and we all know, believe it or not,
that Statistics-226 isn't the most glamorous
way to spend an afternoon,
but we would very much appreciate it
if you kept your mouth closed for that one hour and thirty minutes
instead of a wide open hole you usually keep reserved
for blowjobs and exasperated sighs.
The girl with a purse very similar to yours
but the Gucci is spelled with an "H"
:iconemerald-alexandria:Emerald-Alexandria 7 4
Swallowing Bricks
Sometimes every syllable
is like swallowing a brick
and I can't speak because I'm too busy rolling my tongue in gravel
chewing the mud I want to sling
but holding it back
only for it to pressurize into a solid rock that leaves my stunned lips
Like spitting bullets into the wind and being surprised when
nothing flies back.
You say you want to feel something real,
So I bleed my heart out,
and you say “No, I said REAL.”
and everything smells like tears,
or whatever tears are
supposed to smell like,
because in my mind they smell like you in the morning
like your smile in the bend of my neck
like the bricks we've etched our fingerprints into.
They smell real.
:iconemerald-alexandria:Emerald-Alexandria 8 3
Funeral of a Hard-Drive, Never Backed Up
May God rest the soul of my hard drive,
a chunk of tempered metal, veins of copper
and sunset gold
rippling and writhing
with letters and commas and misplaced semicolons,
and that photo he took of me with my mouth full of cake.
Superfluous "winks and parentheses" and "less than threes"
And that novel I never finished, set aside
for a semester of finals weeks.
Bookmarks tabs lost forever in a crash of blue screen of '14.
:iconemerald-alexandria:Emerald-Alexandria 3 6
Confessions of a Teenage Love Affair
I was sixteen, but I knew the ghost of urban love
lingering on my lipstick-stained tongue
like smoke and dusk
was more than just a phase
Caught between my pimples and my accent
And my love affair with the color gray.
:iconemerald-alexandria:Emerald-Alexandria 8 0
The Murder of Ashley Crow
Ashley Crow, who painted stars
in shades of ink and blue,
forced to replenish pickled screams
in only blissless mews;
and Mother beckons, Father taunts,
for ice is worse when black,
and took dear Ashley's loss of red,
for stubborn lack of tact.
Linguistic warfare licked her skin,
and coals laid in her stride.
Boisterous tongues like sandpaper,
wore at her turquoise pride.
The air she swallowed laced with scarlet
disdain in Mother's kiss:
tallied as insecurities,
a barcode on her wrist.
When Mother Crow and Father Crow
had pecked and scraped the bone,
she flew that day and hid away,
for black had beat crimson.
Her coffin smelt of pine and blue,
her parents taunt no further,
How fit to call a gathering
Of cackling Crows a murder.
:iconemerald-alexandria:Emerald-Alexandria 11 11
The blistered moon,
Yellow and jealous,
peeked into my third floor
city girl's window last night;
Bright enough just to break through
the layer of Arizona red dust
but not enough, still,
to rip my eyes from the setting sun.
(Sorry, Moony, maybe you'll get your spotlight next time.)
I felt the breath shimmy out of my lungs,
heard the skeletons rattle in my closet,
and relished the faux reflected warmth
ripping through the starless skyline;
The twilight smells like storm clouds and poison,
So I take a swig on midnight instead,
burning like fermented acid rain should,
But it has a sweet silver rumble in my belly,
and I detect a tangy--
What is that?
Is it desperation, or last month's rent?
Maybe it's a dubstep remix of rapped jazz?
Hmmm.... more like bottled poetry and a monkey's paw.
Or maybe it's just gas.
:iconemerald-alexandria:Emerald-Alexandria 11 4
The Screamer Tells the Truth
When the blonde-haired bombshell
swa-shayed down Central avenue,
I couldn't help but tuck in my gut;
after all, back rolls speak louder than heels,
but men don't want a girl who talks.
But then I realized in my 16th year,
Held back by holy books and dirty looks,
That the words have been in me all along;
And boys, prepare yourself;
arm yourself well against the spoken word,
For I'm a screamer.
I'm non-certified
and my hips may lie,
but I will never give up an opportunity
To shout from my prodigal soap box
the truths of the millennium:
Han shot first
Beyonce DID have the best video of all time
My drink is the only thing virgin about me
And I'm queer as a three dollar bill.
I will never apologize for that.
:iconemerald-alexandria:Emerald-Alexandria 3 5
How To Be A Writer
My parents said I shouldn't be a writer,
and throughout the last few weeks
of scarcely sprawling stray thoughts
on the napkins that line my trash bin,
I'm inclined to believe them.
Without a medical degree folded in my back pocket,
my wallet's looking a lot thinner;
I'm left with an abused and worn vocabulary
sagging on the edge of its seat,
stinking of whatever poison-laced shock value
I inject into my phrases,
and festering in the melodrama
of a teenage conspiracy theorist's soul.
(It smells kinda like rebellion, miniskirts, black nails, and rolling eyes.)
I hate to be the cliche of a struggling artist,
But a cliche is better than a nobody, or so I've read;
So at least it's something to hold on to.
My notebook is growing blanker by the sunrise,
and with every passing week,
my head falls on a layer of bills
instead of silk-lined sheets.
My pen's ink has started to boil and rot
on the other side of my writer's block,
and though my thin career is a hard pillow to accept,
even harder wou
:iconemerald-alexandria:Emerald-Alexandria 31 23
From the first of dawn's early light
stretching into the windows of Walmarts nationwide,
to the grease dripping down my chin and the sequins in my baby-blue eyes,
America the Beautiful drops it's humble beginnings,
lost somewhere in the crowd of skin as pale as the moon we claimed,
Hair as blonde as amber waves,
stomping to the bravado of Red White and Blue
trapped in the LEDs of Red, Blue, Green, on the plasma screens.
And no, the red is not the sparks of fire in the midnight.
The stars in your dozens of fireworks outshine the billions in the sky
As the Crimson drops of your fathers' blood might out-number
but can't out-do the cheers you scream tonight.
And while the flag's royal blue can't compare
to the cerulean pixels on your can of Bud-Light,
Or the blue sheen in your pick-up's bumper sticker in the moonlight,
Or the blue rockets bursting in the freedom-rung air,
It was blue enough still, to see it was still there.
But can you still even see the white, over the green's ka-ching in
:iconemerald-alexandria:Emerald-Alexandria 9 8
An Ode To Hashtags
#Swag #NoFilter
#GoBama #Republican5lyfe
#SlytherinHouse #YoMomma
#BlackPeopleScurrrMe #<3AliciaKeys
#Snapbacks #Tattoos #SnapbacksAndTattoos #Snattoos
#WestSide #SouthSide #EastSide #NorthSide #CompassSide #SideEquality2014
#Illuminati #TupacLives #ElvisLives #MarylinLives #IsBobSagetStillAlive?
#ImSleepy #MyBoyfriendIsBeggingMeToStop
#IHaveAProblem #ThisIsTerrifying
#Horror #Addict #Rehab
:iconemerald-alexandria:Emerald-Alexandria 2 6
For Sale: Poetic Excerpt (Slightly Damaged)
Why can't I write?
I pick my mind for a rough phrase,
for a manipulation of stormy days and tired ways
Into words that run smoothly,
But end up with mostly
scribbled lines of stray dialogue;
Like a blithering sack, crowd-struck,
Stage-stuck on a monologue
With a swollen tongue.
My brain sprouts seven legs
Always running away from him,
Left to make decisions on a broken heart.
The poem curdles like old milk,
Once sweet, falling to strings of hair and spider's silk,
A poison apple perfect in its sheen and shine,
But only offering a seed and a bitter bite.
All I have left is a pen;
That's all I ever needed.
So why can't I write?
:iconemerald-alexandria:Emerald-Alexandria 5 7
To An Innocent Bystander:
Love isn't something people figure out in 18 years.
It isn't something people figure out in a lifetime.
People change, even at the age of 80, and sometimes,
you change at a different pace than that fellow human.
That's what happens.
Relationships are a huge part of life. But they are not our life.
Before you decide upon any interaction with someone,
you need to bring yourself to a sense of self-determination and identity.
You are finding yourself.
I am finding myself.
An innocent bystander sure as hell is finding himself.
And your mom is finding herself too.
You don't treat people the way you should until you know who you are.
Thus is life, and boy does it suck.
There won't always be people who are there for you. there will be days when you are utterly alone and trapped in a life you don't want to live.
I'd say this is one of those times, but I'm here for you, and I'm sure a lot of other people are.
During those times, you need to turn inward.
You need to absorb everything. Media, hobb
:iconemerald-alexandria:Emerald-Alexandria 9 2
Why Not To Love A Poet
I tell my love to be more poetic.
His eyes close and he lays back on the grass,
the sunlight tickling his skin,
as I smell the weeds.
He says,
"My passion... burns like... dry ice.
Isn't that... nice?"
I laugh at him, and he laughs back, his heart dancing below my ear.
"Burns?" I ask. "That's pretty lame."
And I bite his neck, the way he has told me not to for years.
But he doesn't push me away.
His chuckles go right through my bones
like the sweetest cavity.
"Your mom is lame," he mutters.
I snort dandelion fuzz and lay in the poetry of his breath.
:iconemerald-alexandria:Emerald-Alexandria 6 3
Feel free to look around! I love comments by Sedma

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Memories dwindle down like constellations in a smoky city sky.
Soon there's nothing left to go on,
nothing recognizable. 
and it hurts; growing pains
stretching from head to toe
to fit hand-me-downs 
as full of extra space as your wallet. 
Childhood is golden,
because you never needed gold.
All you needed was a hair-ful of sun. 

More on the Challenge:

11:00 PM ChallengeSo this is what I'm doing:
 At 11 PM every night, I am going to write something. 
It might not be good. It might even be the worse possible thing ever. 
But the point is, I'm going to write.
It will be posted in my journal every day. 
This is probably going to be a one month challenge. 
So on the 15th of September, we will see what I come up with in my caffeinated, sleep-deprived stupor. 
Wish me luck, guys. 


Emerald-Alexandria has started a donation pool!
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Okay, I'm starting a donation pool for the page :iconthe-black-hole: And I want to start a contest for it, but they need a prize. Anything would be accepted.

Donate for faves and features!

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Add a Comment:
Madam--Kitty Featured By Owner Jan 27, 2015  Hobbyist General Artist

Hi. wanna join my group called Anti-illuminati-01? anti-illuminati-01.deviantart.…

P.S. The group is about politics in case you were wondering.

seeker3218 Featured By Owner Dec 24, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Happy Holidays.
Emerald-Alexandria Featured By Owner Dec 24, 2014  Student Writer
Happy Holidays to you too!
zheawesomeonejv1 Featured By Owner Sep 17, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
thank you so much for the faves ^^
Erozja Featured By Owner Aug 22, 2014
Hello and welcome to GROUP: :heart: :icondeviantartsupporters: :heart:.

Please read (if you didn't yet) GENERAL RULES and RULES OF SUBMITTING before adding. Thanks! :aww:

P.S. Hope you will have great time there :meow:.

Greetings! :huggle:
Tyrison Featured By Owner Aug 4, 2014  Student Writer
Thanks muchly for the favorite! =D
Emerald-Alexandria Featured By Owner Aug 4, 2014  Student Writer
You're muchly welcome ^_^
Edges-to-Everything Featured By Owner May 27, 2014
Hana, thank you again for joining

- Michael
sevenofeleven Featured By Owner May 26, 2014
I am doing a Watcher's feature journal
ChocoholicB Featured By Owner May 7, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
I just stumbled across your writing and I love it!! Keep up the great work! 8)
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