Pushing

I push
Push into the water
Falling deep underneath
I'm sorry I'm not sorry
'Cause you hurt me
You're just kissing me

Kissing a Kiss -
Me, don't stop kissing me
Until I push you -
To the brink
You're on the brink
I'm sorry I pushed you to the brink

You kissed me until
Until you left me
Leave me, leave me
Please don't leave me
Just keep kissing me
Kiss me

Push me
I push too much
I'm pushing you
I'm sorry
I will be here
Move on, move on baby

I wont move on
I'll try
Try not to push you
Pushing me
I will try to move on
I wont move on

I'll keep trying
I will be here
Sitting on the moon
Legs will dangle off the speckled orb
Legs dangle off your bed
Off your bed

Pushing off the bed
Against the wall
Don't stop kissing me
Pushing each other beyond the sheets
Sheets of white

I'm pushing
Even with this petty attempt to spill the anxiety onto a page
I am pushing even with the good night kiss
Kissing, kiss me
Don't stop kissing me
I push and push

I'll be here
When you're with them- I won't push
When you're with me- I won't push
No pushing
Just idle
I'll be here

On the moon with my legs dangling off

Personal Essay (Common App) TAKE TWO.

        Preparation for the future could be determined as impossible, for who really knows what’s to come, if it hasn’t already happened? However if it was determined impossible, then every night before we fall asleep, our memories of waking up the morning before would be completely erased. We would have no recollection of how the sun rose, and how the frost that sat on our windows was the first thing we felt. We wouldn’t be able to prepare ourselves the way the soil has for the rain fall, because the future would be unknown. In spite of that idea, this is not the way the world spins. We prepare ourselves for the next minute to come, just as clocks prepare us for business meetings and appointments. 

High School is preparation in it’s purest sense. We rise with the sun and frost kissed windows, because the clocks we’ve set the night before have rung. Our lives begin with each step through the halls in which we’ve spent the last four years. Yet, with this universal preparation we are divided individuals. Each of us is a link and every link, every person, is connected with one another. We are thick metal strands comprised with a hole in the middle of every one of us. Through this hole is where we shine our individual light, then creating a fiery luminescent mass. We create this universal light, through our solitary holes. The light which is shone through consists of our lives. Every day accomplishments, family reunions, first jobs, first kisses. If we juxtapose high school with this light we would see the lines of preparation in which we subconsciously created ourselves. 

I am a link with grooves in it’s metal consistency. I intend on shining unfamiliar light. Throughout these past four years of my life I have come to many realizations, not only about myself, but about my contribution to my surrounding community as a student, a daughter, a sister and a lover.

Through the experiences in which these grooves on my link are placed, I have really found myself within writing and visual art. Art is a constant companion, especially to those who don’t quite see it yet. It’s always there, mostly within oneself. The ability to find it, to take action upon it is just the start of a masterpiece. Michelangelo had once said, “I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free”. The ability to see the angel in the marble is where Michelangelo’s art began. The carving of it’s wings was the action set out for the public, for people incorporate into their own realities. I strive to do the same as Michelangelo, to find the angel in the marble and begin to carve. On the other side of the art world is writing. It provides me with the opportunity to be whoever I want to be, just with the simple stroke of a pen. It’s a form of theater, just without a projected voice. Rather, one that could be interpreted how ever it may be by the reader themselves. I like to make people think, I like to inspire people. Through writing, painting and photography.  Some of my favorite authors consist of Sylvia Plath, Ernest Hemingway, and of course the members of the beat generation; Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, and William Burroughs.  It’s not often that these poets are are taught in school. I lie between the field of appreciating that factor, and completely despising it. I want to be the author that people react to, whether with hate or love, confusion or disgust. Regardless of being scoffed at, or admired, these people created a reaction from the general public, and I know I have the ability to do the same.

I am interested in the smaller things. There isn’t a time where I’m not thinking in one way or another. I’m curious about how things became, and the art within everything. I like to push limits and explore boundaries within the academic, political, and social world. I am a hard worker, and when I want to know or create something, I will. I am drawn to diversity and issues. I believe I’m a leader and have strong listening skills. I’m a good friend, and put my heart into everything I do. I am only one link within this chain, we are all a part of the gradual pull and the creation of light. We’re connected, and through the preparation we’ve been handed we’ve evolved enough to realize who we are. I am Emma Cherry, I am a writer, I am an artist, I am one link on this chain, and my light is different. 

Basketball Game

Your swift, bolting movement across the court
A marble squeaking beneath the feet of the athletes beside you
Sky blue and red flashes from one net to another
And if I tried to take my eyes off you my mind would yell and yell

Right across from each other
On opposite sides, you winked your eye I knew it was for me because after my blushing and a look down to my feet your stare was still there
I thought I've written about something like this before, but I swear I swear I haven't
My fingers can't type the words fast enough
My head can't compile the sentences
My heart
My heart
But is it in my heart where I feel this ?
This push and pull, and please please please say you feel it too

We've been trained
Told that it is in our hearts where the lovers are felt
Where the passion beats
Where the need stays

Maybe it's because the heart is the one thing we can feel functioning inside of us
If we allow it to, that is
Maybe it's because the heart is written in all of the books
All of the movies
All of the classic literature
One of mom's favorite thing's about you is that you want to be an English Professor

What if instead it was all of us
All of our body, not just the beating of our hearts which felt this thumping
Thumping of your feet from the shower to your bedroom
Thumping of the three squeezes you give my hand
Squeeze squeeze squeeze
I            Love    You

Instead it was everywhere
The warmth in our cheeks and lower backs when we walk in from the coldness of the streets
Into the christmas tree lit living room
Instead I felt it in the heat of the pan as I made you dinner at 1am
I felt it in the reflection of our faces upon the computer screen
More pictures to add to the collection we already have
I felt it in the seaming of the couch which we fell asleep on
I felt it in the middle of the night
In my neck as your breath hummed against it

I feel it in every move
I've never wanted to have something so bad
Never been so driven to have this
This This
You
You and I are squeezing each others hands in the car
And we're kissing at red lights
And I feel my heart thumping
Not just my heart
I feel the seams of the couch kissing my shoulders like you did

A swift bolting movement across the court
And with every basket made I wished for you to be mine again

Believe Me When I Say

I’m trying
I will always try to love 
To love is to be convinced
Convince me
Convinced the jury, no murder here 
My friend
You’ve murdered my friend 
My heart, I’m trying to love my heart
Can feel you, You aren’t convincing 
You’re trying 
To murder is to kill, to rid of 
Get rid of the dirty fucking plates
Plates on the table, 
Plates of renewed skin 
Skin touching my heart and my eyes can 
Try, trying to convince
I am trying to convince my heart to murder my love 

It's Snowing Now, You Kissed Me in the Summer

'You were made to meet your maker' -Mumford and Sons

There will come hill
You'll see
Made of candle wicks
Lit for every stumbling heart
You'll hold hands with yourself and walk over fire
Awaken, Awake

Without Your Hands

How can we possibly come to terms with disappearance of coffee cup? 

We built the cabinets in which they lived 

How can we fully understand the lawn which grows 

And grows

And grows

Without your tender palms to tell the flowers to grow as tall as they can 

Will they begin to flourish in the spring ?

With the bed unmade

And the dishes in the sink 

I've been standing here 

Idle in this house we shared 

How could we possibly come to terms with the molding of the wooden picture frames placed on the bed side table

How they are so often glanced at

Cried over 

How they melt in the winter and re grow in the spring 

Like the flowers who need your hands 

Like the coffee mugs who miss the greeting of your lips 

Like the dishes that stay in the sink 

Because I refuse to touch anything you left behind 

How will I come to terms with the reality I live?

It's distant inconvenience has intruded my vision 

Welcomed itself into the closet we shared 

Ripped apart your clothes and tore every dress of its hanger

Smeared its smile on the mirror I can't look in

What will the flowers do without your hands?

We are unusual and tragic and alive 

Wolf Guide

Beneath 

Her feet crushed 

The foliage 

That had remained untouched 

For years of long decembers

Silent

Quiet, undisturbed springs

She couldn't seem to find 

The Redwood tree 

Which was marked with 

Spongy bark 

That was soft 

It was this tree 

That showed her which way 

To turn 

Today, instead,

She followed a wolf 

His thick coat 

Raised 

In the back

The grey tips 

White underneath 

He began to walk 

In front of her 

She followed 

His soft foot

Steps along the cold ground 

As he guided 

Her home