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Emma Howard Poem
I stare at my screen
Knowing the feeling I want to express but
The words refuse to come.
My fingers hover,
Waiting to be used
Waiting for my speech
My eloquent thoughts
To write themselves.
But nothing comes
I cannot say what I want
With the voice that I have.
My simple words cannot communicate
All the emotion I know is there.
They are not good enough to be beautiful
They are not enough.
I am not enough.
The screen turns black
As if telling me to give in.
My thoughts seem small and
Insignificant
Then
From the stillness sings a voice
To tell me I can.
To tell me it is not about waiting
For the perfect words
I must find my own way.
It is not about anyone else
It is about me.
And I know,
I know what to do.
Embrace my own hurt
Turn it into light,
And peace,
And joy.
Without knowing,
I have created a poem,
A song,
Something wonderful.
Beauty that came from despair.
They will say it is a waste
Of time,
Of paper,
Of myself.
That it is only endless words
Meaning nothing.
They are right.
It means nothing to them
Because I did not write it for them.
It is mine.
And it is beautiful.
Copyright © Emma Howard | Year Posted 2025
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Emma Howard Poem
The question I ask is
Simple
One that has been asked
For thousands of years.
I ask God,
Crying.
The family,
Remembering.
The doctors,
Angry.
Nobody can tell me
The answer to my question.
Silence meets my plea,
My demand,
My scream to the universe.
Others ask
My question.
Everyone wants to know, but
No one does.
The question
That inspired genius,
That broke boundaries,
That wrote and rewrote the limits of this world
Is short.
Three small letters, yet
It feels enormous in my mind.
Three small letters, yet
It seems the most important of all.
Why?
Why is there death?
Why did he die?
Why did they say he was fine?
Why could they not save him?
Why,
Why,
Why?
I will never know.
We will never know.
Me, and everyone who hurts.
We know we cannot find out why.
We know it is pointless,
But still, we ask.
Why?
So maybe I should ask
A different question.
Like,
How?
How do I heal?
How do I move on while still remembering?
Or
What?
What can I do?
What should I say?
Or
When?
When do I cry?
When do I laugh?
Or
Maybe
I should not ask a question.
Maybe
I should love
I should care
I should be there for the people who need me
Even when it hurts.
Maybe I do not need
To know why.
Because I cannot know why
It happened
I can only know
That it did.
I could fight
For justice
For the doctors who
Said it was fine
Said it was normal
Said he did not need help
When he did.
I could make them pay for what they did.
Or I could choose
Forgiveness
Even though
They don’t
Deserve it.
I am selfish.
I do not want to forgive
I want to hate.
But hate will not bring him back.
And I am ashamed.
Ashamed because
He would have forgiven.
So I will not ask why
And I will forgive.
In memoriam J.R.F.
Copyright © Emma Howard | Year Posted 2025
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Emma Howard Poem
You say
It's not my fault
For being human
But still
You put me in a box
You tell me I cannot
Wear my favorite clothes
Because
Of men
How they
Will do anything
But why should I
Change so they don't have to?
Why should I
Pretend I'm not a woman?
Why is what I wear
Anyone's problem but mine?
Simple answer:
It's not.
But who cares
About justice?
Who cares
About what I want?
Bend the rules for yourself
But hold fast
For me.
Why can't my clothes
Be tight?
"Leaving nothing to the imagination"
Maybe I should just
Wear a potato sack
Then they can imagine
Whatever they want.
Copyright © Emma Howard | Year Posted 2025
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Emma Howard Poem
They say
Justice is blind
But one person
Who cares only about themself
Gets to decide what justice is?
If justice
Is sending an innocent man
Away
From his family,
His friends,
His life,
No trial,
Because you don’t like his tattoo
Is justice,
I want no part of it.
Can you not see
If it can happen to him
It can happen to anyone.
Because he came here
Illegally
Is he less human?
Does anyone deserve this fate?
No.
But how are you so blind?
Why can’t you see,
If this goes on,
We will have nothing left!
Democracy
Is gone,
Supporting other countries
Is gone,
Love
Is gone.
So what is America
But an empty shell
Filled with people who care so much about themselves
That they cannot find it in them
To love anything but their ideals.
They have no compassion for an innocent man,
Less for those who may not be innocent
But still deserve due process.
Is this greatness?
To harden your heart and love yourself?
I am crying
Not only for this innocent man
But for you, America
For a country that was great
Only when the people were great.
Copyright © Emma Howard | Year Posted 2025
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Emma Howard Poem
The beauty in a blade of grass is
No matter how many times
You cut it down,
It always rises again,
Growing taller than before
It never gets discouraged.
Copyright © Emma Howard | Year Posted 2025
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Emma Howard Poem
‘Satire is traditionally the weapon of the powerless against the powerful.’
I sit, unnoticed, in the corner
My pen poised against my paper
They do not see me for who I am,
They do not know I can expose them,
And they see me as a fly on the wall.
The dissatisfaction of the common people means nothing,
The only people who can have opinions are those who can afford them.
Wealth and power, and ruling over the people, are the only things that matter.
We are nothing but an irritation,
The slaves on whom they built their kingdom.
Copyright © Emma Howard | Year Posted 2025
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Emma Howard Poem
What do you want to be
When you grow up?
Today it’s a doctor,
Yesterday, a chemist,
Last week, a singer.
It doesn’t matter
Because at eight,
You can be anything.
What are you going to be
When you grow up?
Now I say a professor,
Because I want to sound smart,
And really,
It doesn’t matter
Because at twelve,
You can change your mind.
What will your major be
When you grow up?
I hesitate, because I don’t know.
My friends do,
And somehow, I missed the memo.
But now it matters
Because at sixteen,
You should have a plan.
Who are you going to be
Now that you’re grown up?
And it hits me that “grown up”
Was never something I thought I would achieve.
Someday, somewhere, someone
And it’s all that matters
Because at twenty,
Grown up is just a child’s game.
Copyright © Emma Howard | Year Posted 2026
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Emma Howard Poem
“Not in my house.”
Well, fine then.
I’ll leave.
You say it’s offensive
That I’m counting down the days
Until eighteen
And freedom.
You tell me that I am “not that kind of person,”
That I have to be different.
But you keep the person I really am
Locked way down deep.
Never thinking about
The way you use shame and guilt
That maybe
Your rules
Your religion
Are for you, not me.
Copyright © Emma Howard | Year Posted 2026
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