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 Dec 2013 Adam Mott
Fish The Pig
You think because I'm quiet,
that I am hateful too.

and you think,
that because I am quiet,
I am clever.

Quiet means so many
different things to different people,
innocent,
bored,
unhappy,
angry,
resentful,
narcissistic,­
dreamy,
mysterious,
quaint,
selfish,
shy,
rude,
ignorant,
misant­hropic,

But did you ever think,
that maybe my silence
is the loudest
of all cries for help?

Did you ever think,
that maybe I am silent,
because I am afraid?
 Dec 2013 Adam Mott
T
i fell in love once
and my love was the ocean
deep and dark and unexplored
a mystery wrapped in seaweed
and colored with the shades
that nebula and dying stars
reserve for their coldest parts
it was an easy fall
like laying down after a long day
of holding up the universe
with only your pinky finger and
a stack of phone books
or like sinking into the water
not drowning
but hovering
just beneath the surface
air is just an inch away
and you are surrounded by warmth
by cold
by water
my love was so beautiful
their voice was a dying star
an explosion as life is melted into light
the noise of it absorbed by void
and absence
and nothing
their body was the oldest tree in the oldest forest
tall and wide and strong
and dying
but still beautiful
still green and lush where the branches were resisting
still brushing leaves across the sky like caressing the clouds
still humming the noises of a settling life
and since this act of falling in love
i have found that the easiest love to fall into
isn't romantic at all
Unless, of course, your love of art and nature is of a romantic nature. In which case, I apologize for being so inconsiderate.
 Dec 2013 Adam Mott
John
I'm standing on the sand
The grains sifting through my toes
I smile as I look out and raise my hand
What I'm looking at, wishing for, nobody knows
But I know exactly what I want, what I'm doing
I'm not some lunatic talking to himself and smiling
It's all because of what's happened and what's been brewing
You put me on your hex list, I watched as you were writing

But hey, do what feels and looks right
Take it as it comes, leave it as it goes
These things always start a fight
From one side to the other coast
Everything happens the same way
Someone says something and another hears it
Then it goes on and on and they play
Little by little, the truth becomes a tiny bit
A blip in the burning stratosphere
 Dec 2013 Adam Mott
Riley
Her prayers are
Breathy I love you's,
Warm and pained against your skin.
Your body is her altar,
Her temple,
The cathedral surrounding her
In her heartbroken worship
As she unravels,
Crying,
Shaking,
Clinging to you with
Everything
She
Has
Left.
The shattered pieces
Of her heart are the broken winged swallows,
Flocking in fluttering storms
In your bell tower,
Nesting in your rafters
Alongside the owls you've let be
To this point,
Content to allow them to roost.
Her hands are your bibles,
The creases telling a thousand stories
Of the girl who weathers the fiercest storms,
But falls apart at the seams
For love of you.
Your laughter serves as her hymns,
Ringing through the expanse of you,
Singing in her ears.
Sometimes she tries
Laughing alongside you,
But her voice cracks
Like an untuned piano
Whenever she opens her lips
To add her laughter to
Your songbooks.
You each find a different kind of heaven
In the stained glass windows
Of the other's eyes.
Hers are the ocean,
Deep and stormy,
Only ever calm
Just before lightning shakes her frame,
Rain and froth
Pounding
Against the glass,
Breaking it's way through,
Trying to flood your halls
As the tempest carves new legends
In her outstretched hands;
New biblical stories to lose yourself in.
She finds summer nights in your gaze,
Bonfires dappling damp grass,
And a boy
Laying on the hood of a run down car,
Staring too intently at the stars
To truly register their fragility,
Their mortality,
Even as they plummet from the sky,
Bursts of white light
Reflecting gold through green glass.
The comet-light ripples,
Climbing to the rafters,
Startling the owls from their perches,
And you can feel them thrumming,
Beating their wings against the ceiling of your ribs.


k. f.
Fell asleep in a hoodie that isn't mine and The Front Bottoms on shuffle. I woke up with this. Dedicated to my brushfire boy.
I am 10 and the things said to me
again and again are like bullets
in my gut, and punches to my head
they tell me 'its your fault your dad died'
but my friend still turns to me and says
'god, you're so perfect'
I am 12 and these things are still being said
but now by different people, infact,
they are being said by the boy I used to care for
funny that, i thought he cared too

I am 13 and my eyes are bloodshot
and the ****** tissues on my bed
from the state of my wrists
lay scattered in pieces, much like my life
and the next day my friend asks
'why are you so perfect Georgia?'
but she hasn't seen my wrists yet
and she doesn't know about how many tablets
i've taken in one night
just to escape this so-called "perfection"

Now I am 14 and while my friends are out
having a laugh and making memories
I am sitting at home with an elastic band
tied around my wrist, so i keep pinging it
because people started to comment on the state
of my wrists, and legs, and stomach
and I couldn't bear any more mockery
But I'm on pills now, every morning
to control these urges to rid myself
My friend, naive is she, still messages me
saying 'I want to be as perfect as you'
No darling, you do not want this
whatever this may be,
it is not perfection
what sort of perfection
kills you from the inside?
A piece of longing that pinned by me ....
At the heart that no longer had a side....
Lattice that hard to become a imagination ....
Unfettered grating of heart that getting tired and kept moaning ....

Deep inside my soul implies a scratch wound ....
When the angel that i wish can't afford to carve a smile longingly at the horizon soul ....

Where is the peace that you hide for.... ?
Where is the love hat you intimated.... ?
I'm tired of constantly treading....
Take me to every your wishes....
Don't let your white sheet blank without a love story with me..

Come on.... !
Moving forward and leave the mirage behind....
We're greet the days with love....
We're knitting the bridge of love to warm the soul....

All will be meaning on....
Because i didn't want my days always sore and wrapped by moan....

O desert....
In your desolate, reveal the secret spring of love....
So that i can satisfied this subordination......
Ended this suffering....

I've been long time felt subordination in anxiety....
Loop of time is misleading me to the valley of hesitation....

Endless suffering..
Restless with no direction..

Come on....  !
Lets dance and doing jaunt together with the amours....
Leave the sadness behind....
So that grief never again to come....

Love....   ?
where is the love....  ?
In the bottom of my heart....
I'm still wishing....  !
 Dec 2013 Adam Mott
Sofia Paderes
Pen
Please, I've forgotten
how to hold a pen, she said.
Those were the words that
convinced me to write a letter
from a stranger to a stranger.
So this is a message to you
from her.

She's asking how you're doing.
She wonders if the stars are brighter where you are.
You know,
there's a meteor shower coming
in a few weeks' time, she's
she's asking if you knew, and if
you'd watch it with her at eleven in the evening the Saturday after the next
so she'd feel like you were right there beside her
pointing out which streak held the most brilliant color
and if you're asking,
she's doing fine.

She's wondering if you know
how silkworms spin silk,
because a friend asked her the other day
she didn't know how to reply except by telling herself
that you would've known, so
how do they spin silk?
Let me know as soon as possible, she says
my friend wants to know.
But I think she's asking that as an excuse to hear your voice
but also because she really wants to know
how silkworms spin silk
and if you think jade is the nicest kind of green
or if you prefer hiking or swimming
if you agree that innocence is just untested character
and if you're asking,
she's longing for answers.

She's hoping you don't think of her,
and she's hoping you do.
She wants me to tell you that
she wants you to remember
but she wants you to forget the pain,
so might as well forget everything
because hurt is the price of loving someone.
She confesses that she's tried to stop
writing about you
but every time she sits down to
write her soul into words
your memory slips in and dances off her pages
and she tries to stop it
and if you're asking,
she's trying to find ways to make thinking about you easier.

According to her,
she's quieter now
not just her mouth but her feet,
her hair
her eyes
her spirit
Look at what you've done, she says.
I

I've always been a terrible liar.
Please, I've forgotten
how to hold a pen.
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