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 Apr 2020 Adam Schmitt
Mateah
What if every little thought
That lives inside your head
Instead of hiding away in there
Was spoken out, was said?

Would you be embarrassed?
Would you hate your mouth?
Would you rather be mute
Than let the truth come out?

What if every little thing
That people thought of you
Instead of being tucked away
Was heard, was listened to?

Would you be ashamed?
Would you cover your ears?
Would you rather be deaf
Than let the truth come near?

And what if every image
That passes through your thoughts
Was freed from its prison
To roam until it rots?

Would you be disgusted?
Would you look away?
Would you rather be blind
Than see your thoughts at play?
 Apr 2020 Adam Schmitt
Meera
He doesn't burn photographs
He doesn't join therapy sessions
He doesn't smoke too many cigarettes
Nor he drown himself into alcohol
He scratches his wounds daily
And never let them heal
He doesn't try to get rid of the pain
Instead he let it grow on him
He waters the seed of sorrow with his tears
He feeds it with the manure of old memories
He takes it to sleep with him
And nurtures it in himself
Till the moment when every single drop of his blood gets replaced by this pain
Until his fragile heart can bear no more
And his soul starts overflowing with emotions
That's when he dip his pen into this pain
And empty his heart on a piece of paper
He bares his soul for us to feel
He creates poetry that the world would cherish for centuries to come
That's how true poetry comes into existence
she glanced at the fragments
of herself
her
lost memories
danced
within the blurred tones
of loss
Medicate to sleep
Slowly feel like a creep
Poison starting to seep
Is this what it means to be free?
I see you, see her, see the skies crack within blue panes of the burnished windows I watch you from.
I see how she plays
with the strands of her blonde hair, like I see the sun play with yours, burning fire within darkness, your hair  
like a night sky devoid of stars, lit ablaze with the awakening
of the sun.

I press my fingers upon the glass
until they are mere yellow stretches of skin.
Fingerprints; grease stained smudges paint the cracked windows, as they immerse themselves within my sadness, behaving as if a prism would, separating each nuance of this sadness into the cruelty
of time.  

Strung upon
upon each  "tick tock"  of the clock,
My movements begin to uniformly shadow the loss of time, how fleeting its beauty is, how the moments that once bled in vibrancy and sound, slowly mute themselves into disjointed melodies, fractures of what nostalgia holds dear.

And, oh god
I see you you kiss her,
tenderly.

You slip away from me, so gently
that perhaps I may
fall for you again
You slip away from me  

as if I held time.
This isn't my normal style of writing, it's too long for me. But I needed to let this go.
 Oct 2017 Adam Schmitt
Zero Nine
This tributary
Happy accident
Shyness
Flagrance
Deeply inspected

This notorious
Dearth, designed my life
So why
Not write
Why not paint pictures?

The donor with the ink
The spread recipient
Left and stayed

The ink that he left fades
The fade that he left stains
She made the mistake of
Looking for love as an anchor

Two lovers' worth or lack alike
Fabricate their draft designs
I'm incomplete, a mess
Two lovers' worth or lack alike
Fabricate their draft designs
A complete mess

Best if I reverse design
and I publicize
notorious dearth as proper opulence
Palm Trees and Concrete Mix V3

— The End —