I don't know what emo means.

So, generally one of two things happens when I retreat into my Catullus to break a bit from the pressures of producing semi-coherent academic prose: 1) I get back to work because "fuck it's been weeks and I haven't done jack shit" or 2) I write poetry. The following should make it clear which of the 2 has occurred.

reading Sappho is eating a cheseburger -
it's a burger - like the rest - with
a little something extra you like
or clumsily try to peal off.

everyone likes their Sappho different ways -
some with mustard - some hold the onion -
some get rid of the bun entirely for
fear of too many carbs.

everyone loves Sappho even if not -
their skin sloughs, and they proclaim
a thin flame is seen to lap the miles -
tongues numb hum-drum

everyone knows Sappho is the best,
still you wouldn't eat her every day.
her snatch is kinda nasty.

If that's not quite to your taste - it certainly isn't much to mine - occasionally I do actually approach the lyrical.

when I told him to fuck off,
he beat me bloody;
when I said he could suck - my - dick,
he kindly obliged.

And every so often, I happen to put together words into phrases I'd actually admit to another human being that I wrote them. It's rare, but it does happen.

love is dumb because you are;
it's blind because you played Lear
too many times at the Globe.
love's dumb because you won't say
how much you need him to touch you.