maxine-schmidt - Hello Poetry

You woke me up - It is long before morning And I am bleary eyed All because you woke me up. You wake me up - I promptly regain life And I am falling apart at the seams But you continue to wake me up. You've been waking me up - The reason is beyond me And this exhaustion leaves me clumsy I go to bed knowing you will be waking me up. You have woken me up - Hazy and calm Only to keep me sleeping in your arms I'd roll over and continue because you had woken me up. I have woken up - In a different bed for the past year In a house we do not share I have woken up in his arms (with you waking me up).

0

Aug 11, 2014

Aug 11, 2014 at 8:22 PM UTC

maxine-schmidt

You could be my nightmare

You woke me up - It is long before morning And I am bleary eyed All because you woke me up. You wake me up - I promptly regain life And I am falling apart at the seams But you continue to wake me up. You've been waking me up - The reason is beyond me And this exhaustion leaves me clumsy I go to bed knowing you will be waking me up. You have woken me up - Hazy and calm Only to keep me sleeping in your arms I'd roll over and continue because you had woken me up. I have woken up - In a different bed for the past year In a house we do not share I have woken up in his arms (with you waking me up).

21

I can only write when he breaks my heart, And I never walk away, Because being a writer is about finding your inspiration, And holding on to it.

0

May 16, 2014

May 16, 2014 at 11:41 PM UTC

maxine-schmidt

I Can Only Write

I can only write when he breaks my heart, And I never walk away, Because being a writer is about finding your inspiration, And holding on to it.

4

What happened to my writing? What happened to my words? Could I call them back? Would I be heard? I thought this was my outlet, I thought this was how I was freed, Could I call it back? Should I plead? Should I pray for inspiration? Or give up for the best? Maybe my time is up, Perhaps it’s time for a rest. Yes, perhaps it’s time for a rest.

0

Jan 30, 2014

Jan 30, 2014 at 12:10 AM UTC

maxine-schmidt

Writer's Block

What happened to my writing? What happened to my words? Could I call them back? Would I be heard? I thought this was my outlet, I thought this was how I was freed, Could I call it back? Should I plead? Should I pray for inspiration? Or give up for the best? Maybe my time is up, Perhaps it’s time for a rest. Yes, perhaps it’s time for a rest.

13

Blue eyes, Bowties. Set of brown, Flowing gown. Asked to dance, Takes a chance. Handsome without care, Blonde hair. Beautiful without speech, Hard to reach. Hands clasp, Music doesn't last. Time ends, Paths bend. Apart, Back to the start.

0

Jul 27, 2013

Jul 27, 2013 at 12:54 PM UTC

maxine-schmidt

Formal Dance

Blue eyes, Bowties. Set of brown, Flowing gown. Asked to dance, Takes a chance. Handsome without care, Blonde hair. Beautiful without speech, Hard to reach. Hands clasp, Music doesn't last. Time ends, Paths bend. Apart, Back to the start.

16

I must get lost in inspiration… because he was inspiring and I was taken. I felt the need to keep him in view and let the colour of the world bleed beside me like the blur of an oncoming car, recognized then forgotten. I could sit there consumed in patience, and when he spoke I would listen. Though, if he never did speak again, I would have been content listening to the way his shifted weight reset the chair beneath him. I still think back to the night we met and I cannot quite grasp why he was there, or why he approached me. Maybe it was the laws of emotional physics that force those who are lonely to embrace another’s loneliness. So, from across the room he came, confident in the fact that I had no one to talk to. It took me less than a second to figure out that he was a fresh face, so I allowed him to ask me question after question. At each pause an appropriate nod, yes, or smile was inserted. We were having a conversation. They say misery does love company, so maybe it was merely the atmosphere of dingy black lights and unfamiliarity that brought us together. A connection rooting from a mutual desire to be anywhere but there. I shocked myself when I asked him to come home with me. He shocked me more when he said he would. We walked together in the snow, along the sidewalk leading to my basement apartment. He didn’t wear a coat, and I thought he could have been freezing. But the expression on his face seemed to imply he didn’t mind. I remember I was wearing a red rain coat, with the hood over my head and brown curls falling down either side of my face. My hair was brown and long in February. I thought I looked like Little Red Riding Hood. I felt at home in the snow on College Avenue. We lay in my bed, with the lamp on nightstand switched on. I remember how cold my room was during the winter, but can’t recall feeling cold that evening. We talked about ourselves, each sharing pieces of the past and future. He talked about what he cared about, he talked about his grandfather. I thought that was lovely, a boy sharing something personal. He looked like he might cry, and I thought that was pure. He had a tattoo of a finch on the inside of his right arm. He wore glasses, ones that looked like they belonged on the face of an aged man, but they fit perfectly on his. He told me about his passion for writing and photography. At the time he was working on portraits. I told him I was into landscape, and he was interested in seeing some of my work. I was interested in him, though I only know this now. I can quite put my finger on what may have initiated our first kiss. It didn’t last long though; I knew I didn’t want to be the girl making out with a stranger in my bed. Yet, I had invited him- a contradiction I never grasped. He fell asleep in his jeans, and I on his chest. We spent the next few weeks with one another. Our nights were filled with dinners, shows, red wine and scrabble. Our walk through the icy forest was our last encounter. I often find myself looking back on that afternoon and wondering what I could have possibly said or done to have caused him to feel he had had enough. At this point, I was beginning to understand that this was a person I would have liked to spend my nights with for much longer than a few weeks. I was under the impression he felt that way for me. So when he texted me the next day explaining why we would no longer be seeing one another, I couldn’t help but cry. I cried for a long time. I cried harder because I didn’t understand his explanations. There were many, and each one wasn’t a logical reason for not wanting to be with someone. As difficult as it was, I avoided asking why and said that I understood (no I did not) and acted much more mature than I felt necessary. He appreciated that, and hated him for it. He said we could still be friends we would get a coffee sometime soon. I knew that we couldn’t and we wouldn’t. I thought back to the night we had first met, and how two options presented me. I debated over going downtown to join my friend at her boyfriend’s birthday, but I had chosen the party on College Avenue. I cried about not choosing downtown. I wished I had not met him, wished with everything I had that he had not made a place in my life. That was when I realized I was heartbroken. I never realized it until then. Through all those weeks I was under the impression that he was the one consumed with me, and yet here I was – defeated. My hair is short and blonde now, it is July. It took me five months to write this, five months to heal. I look back on this relationship and one line continues to resurface. A few months ago, I was looking back and trying to pinpoint the signs of a failing relationship that I missed. I still can’t. But I do realize now, that I was always scared, timid and silent. I want to stress silent. And I can present our relationship with one line; I think it may actually even do somewhat of a good job explaining its failure too. He filled the spaces with prompts that I do not take for I feared he would recognize all that I lack.

0

Jul 26, 2013

Jul 26, 2013 at 3:09 PM UTC

maxine-schmidt

College Avenue

I must get lost in inspiration… because he was inspiring and I was taken. I felt the need to keep him in view and let the colour of the world bleed beside me like the blur of an oncoming car, recognized then forgotten. I could sit there consumed in patience, and when he spoke I would listen. Though, if he never did speak again, I would have been content listening to the way his shifted weight reset the chair beneath him. I still think back to the night we met and I cannot quite grasp why he was there, or why he approached me. Maybe it was the laws of emotional physics that force those who are lonely to embrace another’s loneliness. So, from across the room he came, confident in the fact that I had no one to talk to. It took me less than a second to figure out that he was a fresh face, so I allowed him to ask me question after question. At each pause an appropriate nod, yes, or smile was inserted. We were having a conversation. They say misery does love company, so maybe it was merely the atmosphere of dingy black lights and unfamiliarity that brought us together. A connection rooting from a mutual desire to be anywhere but there. I shocked myself when I asked him to come home with me. He shocked me more when he said he would. We walked together in the snow, along the sidewalk leading to my basement apartment. He didn’t wear a coat, and I thought he could have been freezing. But the expression on his face seemed to imply he didn’t mind. I remember I was wearing a red rain coat, with the hood over my head and brown curls falling down either side of my face. My hair was brown and long in February. I thought I looked like Little Red Riding Hood. I felt at home in the snow on College Avenue. We lay in my bed, with the lamp on nightstand switched on. I remember how cold my room was during the winter, but can’t recall feeling cold that evening. We talked about ourselves, each sharing pieces of the past and future. He talked about what he cared about, he talked about his grandfather. I thought that was lovely, a boy sharing something personal. He looked like he might cry, and I thought that was pure. He had a tattoo of a finch on the inside of his right arm. He wore glasses, ones that looked like they belonged on the face of an aged man, but they fit perfectly on his. He told me about his passion for writing and photography. At the time he was working on portraits. I told him I was into landscape, and he was interested in seeing some of my work. I was interested in him, though I only know this now. I can quite put my finger on what may have initiated our first kiss. It didn’t last long though; I knew I didn’t want to be the girl making out with a stranger in my bed. Yet, I had invited him- a contradiction I never grasped. He fell asleep in his jeans, and I on his chest. We spent the next few weeks with one another. Our nights were filled with dinners, shows, red wine and scrabble. Our walk through the icy forest was our last encounter. I often find myself looking back on that afternoon and wondering what I could have possibly said or done to have caused him to feel he had had enough. At this point, I was beginning to understand that this was a person I would have liked to spend my nights with for much longer than a few weeks. I was under the impression he felt that way for me. So when he texted me the next day explaining why we would no longer be seeing one another, I couldn’t help but cry. I cried for a long time. I cried harder because I didn’t understand his explanations. There were many, and each one wasn’t a logical reason for not wanting to be with someone. As difficult as it was, I avoided asking why and said that I understood (no I did not) and acted much more mature than I felt necessary. He appreciated that, and hated him for it. He said we could still be friends we would get a coffee sometime soon. I knew that we couldn’t and we wouldn’t. I thought back to the night we had first met, and how two options presented me. I debated over going downtown to join my friend at her boyfriend’s birthday, but I had chosen the party on College Avenue. I cried about not choosing downtown. I wished I had not met him, wished with everything I had that he had not made a place in my life. That was when I realized I was heartbroken. I never realized it until then. Through all those weeks I was under the impression that he was the one consumed with me, and yet here I was – defeated. My hair is short and blonde now, it is July. It took me five months to write this, five months to heal. I look back on this relationship and one line continues to resurface. A few months ago, I was looking back and trying to pinpoint the signs of a failing relationship that I missed. I still can’t. But I do realize now, that I was always scared, timid and silent. I want to stress silent. And I can present our relationship with one line; I think it may actually even do somewhat of a good job explaining its failure too. He filled the spaces with prompts that I do not take for I feared he would recognize all that I lack.

13

For the holidays, we exchanged metaphors You recieved a chinese latern And I a snow globe Your lantern did not light Looked full but only held a space of nothingness My snow globe did not disturb settled fake snow There was no magic in my winter wonderland We laughed because we both knew Our thoughtless gifts held much more meaning then intended For the holidays, we exchanged metaphors for the love we shared (Or lack there of)

0

Jan 6, 2013

Jan 6, 2013 at 12:15 AM UTC

maxine-schmidt

Gift Exchange

For the holidays, we exchanged metaphors You recieved a chinese latern And I a snow globe Your lantern did not light Looked full but only held a space of nothingness My snow globe did not disturb settled fake snow There was no magic in my winter wonderland We laughed because we both knew Our thoughtless gifts held much more meaning then intended For the holidays, we exchanged metaphors for the love we shared (Or lack there of)

11

A young boy No more than five Holds his happiness within a glass jar He has trapped a wave within the mason And when sunlight shines through He is happy Because to him, happiness exists in the suns reflection He rests his jar on the window sill Hoping to collect the sunshine Praying it will be enough to keep the darkness away When darkness comes It brings crying, screaming, yelling and hurt His mothers bruises feed off the darkness His fathers liquor controls in the darkness When night falls And he rests in bed He stares at the jar The water no long contains the suns gleam It is black and heavier than it was during the afternoon He hears a shout, a pound, a creak and a shatter He hears tears, anger, apologies and hatred But all he feels is guilt He could not keep the darkness away Not with all the suns warmth he collected Darkness stole it Darkness stole his happiness Darkness stole his childhood Darkness stole his mother's life.

0

Dec 30, 2012

Dec 30, 2012 at 6:12 PM UTC

maxine-schmidt

The Thief Named Darkness

A young boy No more than five Holds his happiness within a glass jar He has trapped a wave within the mason And when sunlight shines through He is happy Because to him, happiness exists in the suns reflection He rests his jar on the window sill Hoping to collect the sunshine Praying it will be enough to keep the darkness away When darkness comes It brings crying, screaming, yelling and hurt His mothers bruises feed off the darkness His fathers liquor controls in the darkness When night falls And he rests in bed He stares at the jar The water no long contains the suns gleam It is black and heavier than it was during the afternoon He hears a shout, a pound, a creak and a shatter He hears tears, anger, apologies and hatred But all he feels is guilt He could not keep the darkness away Not with all the suns warmth he collected Darkness stole it Darkness stole his happiness Darkness stole his childhood Darkness stole his mother's life.

28

I wish upon a star to be The girl you think you see in me I wish upon the candles of cake To be the girl I try to fake I wish upon each fourth clover To become the spitting image of her I wish upon each coin I throw To be the girl you desire to know I wish upon each rainbow I see That I was the girl you'd ask marry me I wish upon every white horse Our paths will blend to a single course I wish upon each full moon To become the girl you notice soon But a wish is merely a wish, you see A boy like you is never to be With a girl like myself, a girl like me.

0

Nov 8, 2012

Nov 8, 2012 at 11:46 AM UTC

maxine-schmidt

A Wish is A Wish

I wish upon a star to be The girl you think you see in me I wish upon the candles of cake To be the girl I try to fake I wish upon each fourth clover To become the spitting image of her I wish upon each coin I throw To be the girl you desire to know I wish upon each rainbow I see That I was the girl you'd ask marry me I wish upon every white horse Our paths will blend to a single course I wish upon each full moon To become the girl you notice soon But a wish is merely a wish, you see A boy like you is never to be With a girl like myself, a girl like me.

17

She was born a peculiar case, A miraculous creation of a new vulnerable race. Hair of night and skin of sand, But startling beauty was not the issue at hand. Born of a peculiar race was she, With insights further than the wisest can see. A gifted voice of reason and rhyme, Completed with a soul as anceint as time A miraculous creation and an awe abiding miracle. A strong soul surpassing her biological obstacle. Vulnerability comes with the placement of hearts. Which is protected by ribs and fleshy parts. She was born apart from you and me. Her heart beat beneath her thinly knit sleeve. With ours hidden within, we can ignore Feelings of love or feelings of sore. With her's open for all to see, She must live with her heart totally free.

0

Nov 8, 2012

Nov 8, 2012 at 11:27 AM UTC

maxine-schmidt

To Asha

She was born a peculiar case, A miraculous creation of a new vulnerable race. Hair of night and skin of sand, But startling beauty was not the issue at hand. Born of a peculiar race was she, With insights further than the wisest can see. A gifted voice of reason and rhyme, Completed with a soul as anceint as time A miraculous creation and an awe abiding miracle. A strong soul surpassing her biological obstacle. Vulnerability comes with the placement of hearts. Which is protected by ribs and fleshy parts. She was born apart from you and me. Her heart beat beneath her thinly knit sleeve. With ours hidden within, we can ignore Feelings of love or feelings of sore. With her's open for all to see, She must live with her heart totally free.

18

I thought maybe, just maybe If I cut deep enough I could reach my insides Because that's where the hurt was, Deep inside, beneath a layer of skin and flesh. If I just broke through it, Maybe it would leak out of me, An overflow and ooze of pain and hate. I knew my blood would be black, it had to be, Since that's what I was filled with- darkness. The amount wasn't surprising, It was beautiful. Each stream released a different pain bottled inside of me, Like a delicate river in the black of night. What did surprise me though, was its sticky substance. But without much thought, the obvious reason came to me- It was my sickness. Everyone knows sickness is sticky. And since my body was all sickness, It too would run in my blood. So it was the sticky blackness that kept me going. It became my reward, It was empirical evidence that I was getting better. I had to be, I was losing so much sticky darkness. There was no plausible way the outcome was reversed. It wasn't till later that I realized, If my darkness and sickness was so consuming, And it was my blood- Then it was keeping me alive. The more I drew, the less I lived. I was not getting better, I was getting closer to death. How could I be getting better, If what I desired most was a cut of flesh, a pool of black, a sticky mess, a one-way ticket.

0

Oct 24, 2012

Oct 24, 2012 at 9:15 AM UTC

maxine-schmidt

One-Way Ticket

I thought maybe, just maybe If I cut deep enough I could reach my insides Because that's where the hurt was, Deep inside, beneath a layer of skin and flesh. If I just broke through it, Maybe it would leak out of me, An overflow and ooze of pain and hate. I knew my blood would be black, it had to be, Since that's what I was filled with- darkness. The amount wasn't surprising, It was beautiful. Each stream released a different pain bottled inside of me, Like a delicate river in the black of night. What did surprise me though, was its sticky substance. But without much thought, the obvious reason came to me- It was my sickness. Everyone knows sickness is sticky. And since my body was all sickness, It too would run in my blood. So it was the sticky blackness that kept me going. It became my reward, It was empirical evidence that I was getting better. I had to be, I was losing so much sticky darkness. There was no plausible way the outcome was reversed. It wasn't till later that I realized, If my darkness and sickness was so consuming, And it was my blood- Then it was keeping me alive. The more I drew, the less I lived. I was not getting better, I was getting closer to death. How could I be getting better, If what I desired most was a cut of flesh, a pool of black, a sticky mess, a one-way ticket.

37