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Best Poems Written by Emma Atkins

Below are the all-time best Emma Atkins poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Emma Atkins Poem

I Hate the Sunset

I hate the sunset tonight,
it looks so familiar.
It reminds me so much
of you.
I hate the way the colors blend together,
because it reminds me of that night we spent
just you and I
allowing ourselves to collide
and this sunset won't let me forget any of it.
How warm your skin was.
How pink your lips were,
or how soft your hair was.
I hate the sunset,
yet I can't bear to look away.
As much as it hurts 
it reminds me that it was real,
you ... that you were real.
And you slipped away from me 
just as quickly as the sun slips away
from the Earth.

Details | Emma Atkins Poem

acrobatics

Perhaps I am used to being
     posed, arranged, framed
in a certain way.
What if I told you
     every move
     every flicker of an eyelid
     every shift in weight
is carefully orchestrated
and perfectly executed.
Always a performer
who is overworked
never receiving compensation.
     And why,
why must I continue
to spin on my axis
at your command?
     And why,
why do I enjoy the
performance more
than executing my
existence of free will?
     Where
is my performer?
There is no
     dinner & a show
for the acrobat
who climbs to the
tallest of heights for
     your pleasure
and falls for
     my own.

Details | Emma Atkins Poem

Love is not War

There was a time when love felt like hunger,
a quiet ache
a constant reaching 
for scraps of affection.
I learned to survive on the smallest gestures
hands that brushed past,
but never quite touched
words that barely whispered
before fading into silence.

I learned to beg for a seat at the table
to plead for the bare minimum
hoping to be seen,
like a star struggling to shine 
in the light of someone else's eclipse. 

Then, you came.

And suddenly, love was not war
but a soft, steady rhythm
like the ocean kissing the shore
gentle, unhurried, endless.

You see me, not with the eyes 
of a man who's learned to take
but with the reverence of a worshipper.
Like I am the sun
and you, drawn to my warmth, 
could not live without my light.

You hold my hand like it's sacred,
like the very touch of it
is enough to heal the broken parts of you
that I never even knew existed.

You whisper words that taste like honey,
each syllable a prayer
and I, the temple you revere
not for what I do
but for who I am.

You move through my days like a blessing,
with soft gestures
quiet tenderness
a kiss on my forehead
that speaks louder than promises,
a love that doesn't demand, but gives,
with no end in sight, 

In your eyes,
I am not the one who begs.
I am the goddess, 
and you worship me
with every breath,
every thought,
every quiet, perfect gesture. 

For the first time, 
love is not a fight to survive,
but a place where I thrive.

And I will never let go
of this soft, holy feeling,
of being seen,
of being enough.

Details | Emma Atkins Poem

Why I Write

I think I write because I don't know what to say.
I write because I don't know how to talk to you. 
I change what I write
scratch it out and erase it.
I can't take back the things I say.
When I talk, I talk too fast and don't think.
When I write, it's slow and controlled.
When I talk to you, it's like I'm kissing you for the first time
it's scary and quick, rushed. 
Writing to you is like kissing you softly in the morning,
habitual and natural,
not stuttering and not thinking twice.
I know how to move my pen better than I know how to move my own lips. 
But I think you understand, somehow. 
So, thank you,
for letting me stumble when I speak,
and appreciating my spoken words
just as much as my written ones.

Details | Emma Atkins Poem

language

We don't speak the same tongue,
but the air between us hums
with understanding.
It's in the way our eyes meet,
the way silence bends
to the shape of each other's heartbeats.
The words we don't say
fill the space between us,
more certain than any language.
More lasting than syllables 
that can be misheard or forgotten.
We understand each other,
not in the way the world teaches us
but in the quiet truth of touch.
The unspoken rhythm
that flows between souls
without need for translation.
You don't need to say it for me to feel it -
your hand on mine
is a sentence that needs no punctuation.
The tilt of your head,
the slight shift of your breath
speaks in a way no words ever could.
A language older than any we've learned.
And maybe that's all that matters,
the knowing without speaking.
The way our hearts meet
in a place deeper than language
where every unspoken word
is already understood.

Details | Emma Atkins Poem

riley's painting

The sunset slips beneath the horizon,
and I think of you.
The colors spill like memories
warm, fleeting.
A reminder that you were here
that you still are
in every fading light.

It's strange,
how the sky can hold so much of you.
How the day lets go
and night settles in with your presence - 
quiet, but unmistakable. 

You taught me how to see
in the spaces between. 
The moments that pass, unnoticed by most. 
I find pieces of you,
shapes of your smile
shadows of your voice
and I feel you
in the silence of the evening sky.

Details | Emma Atkins Poem

the quiet return

There was a time  
when I couldn’t remember  
the sound of my own laughter - 
it had been so long
since I’d let myself forget the weight
of yesterday.

But today,
I woke to the light that isn’t harsh,
to the air that isn’t so heavy
with what was.

I don’t need to push it all away anymore -
the grief, the ache, the silence.
I’ve learned
to sit with it,
to let it breathe beside me
without letting it drown me.

I’ve started finding peace
in the small things -
the way the morning light spills across the floor,
the taste of coffee that’s mine alone,
the sound of my own feet
steady on the ground,
moving forward.

I don’t have all the answers,
but for the first time in a long while,
I’m not looking for them.
I’m here,
just being,
learning to love the space between
who I was
and who I’m becoming.

It’s not perfect,
but it's enough -
the slow unraveling, 
the quiet return,
and the feeling,
finally,
of being okay again.

Details | Emma Atkins Poem

echoes

I stand before your door with trembling fist,
the wood worn smooth by lovers braver, whole.
Yet still, I knock-- a hesitant insist,
a hollow echo seeking its own toll.
  Your heart is open wide beneath my hand,
its pulse a plea, unguarded in reply.
But fear has carved a fortress where I stand,
each stone a promise not to break or try.
  You offer me the rawness of your name--
a melody too bright, too fierce to hold--
while I, encased in shadow, drown the flame,
still haunted by a love that once grew cold.
  I knock, though every tap is laced with dread,
each cadence stifling what wants to rise.
My echoes bruise your chest, your breath unsaid--
I see the aching written in your eyes.
  Yet chains are safe; they bind, but they protect--
or so I tell myself to mask the cost.
For every door I’ve left closed and unchecked
was never truly guarding what I’d lost.
Your heart remains, patient and bruised with weight, 
while I, a coward trembling in disguise,
stand knocking, loving-- but too scared of fate,
to open wide and let our echoes rise.

Details | Emma Atkins Poem

space between

I woke up today, feeling like I could conquer the world.
                                     Smiling in the mirror -
                      like I knew something no one else did,
                      like I had all the answers to everything
                                  that's ever been wrong. 

                     The sun was shining, just the right amount
                                      too bright to care
                        too warm to be anything but hopeful.

                                  I could run a marathon,
                                      climb a mountain,
                              maybe even dance in the rain
                            with all the grace I've never had.

                                              And yet,
                           there's a heavy weight on my chest
                                  but I don't really mind it.
                            It's a comforting kind of numb - 
                       the kind that makes everything feel like
                                          nothing at all. 
 
                                          I could scream,
                                 but I'm too busy humming 
                           a song I've forgotten the words to.

                                          I could vanish,
                                  but I'll settle for a laugh,
                         another smile no one dares question. 
 
                                           And here I am,
                                   alive enough to pretend
                            while dying in the space between.

Details | Emma Atkins Poem

december

The taste of iron clings to my tongue,
sharp and thick,
like something pilled from the earth's deepest wound,
cold as the air that cuts through my lungs
freezing each breath before it can leave my chest,

Winter has a way of making everything feel like glass
	Brittle, sharp, waiting to shatter.

My lips are cracked, numb
And I can feel the weight of the cold in every step
a blanket of frost on my shoulders,
the world silent but for the creek of old bones
and stinging of frozen skin.

Every inhale burns, leaving a metallic taste
A reminder of something forgotten.
Something old and bitter.

The sky hangs low, heavy with gray
as though it too is choking on the cold,
unable to swallow the weight of the passing days. 

And still, I move through it -
through the biting wind,
through the haze of something I cannot name.
Leaving behind tracks in the snow,
each one swallowed by the cold,
erased before it can matter.

The taste of blood - salt and iron
mingles with the frost on my lips
and I wonder
does anyone else feel it?
The way the world is paused,
frozen between breaths,
waiting for something to break.