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 Feb 2015 Adam Smith
ll
Walking towards the gate
in the dusk of day.
Such a proud boy.
You have found your way.

With your chin held high,
and your doubts in check.
You can hold yourself
with your dying breath.

And just past the gates
you can see the sun.
You are going home
and becoming one.

One with the earth,
and the great big seas.
You will turn to sand
and become the breeze.

(Thinking of the dream,
and his wife in that white dress.
Where the rust from his veins
made quite the  mess.
The sutures barely hold,
and eternally, he feels the ache
of the serpents cut throat
and the choices he will make.
Like a dagger in the heart of God.
That proudest **** of his life.
He made his final notice
and he kissed goodbye his wife.
He was the patient one
by the ocean and bay.
Only he has the power
to turn off the light of day.)


You hold your trinkets
and you hold them tight,
and you remember your father.
That immortal light.

How he taught you well
but now it's time to go,
to that same place
dead songbirds go.

And in your cold heart
you hold that hex,
that drags your broken body
towards what comes next.

And oh, that devil still plots
spewing his disease and hate,
but the good son soldiers on
and that ****** devil is going to pay.

(The golden gate shines
in the distanced so far
and he is so sick
from what humans truly are.
He coughs blood violently
and cries painful shards of sand.
He is the entire world
and God's dead right hand.
To exist forever
with a tattered right wing
his left wing untouched
spouting the cancer it brings.
He is the most evil man
walking a path carved of light.
He is the one that discovered fault
His only wishes to make it right.)
 Jan 2015 Adam Smith
PrttyBrd
If at first you don't succeed
Spill your tears on paper
Pour your lamenting soul into the universe
Take a deep breath
And try again
12415
 Apr 2014 Adam Smith
ll
I remember a summer Erie day.
when we just went for a walk
We enjoyed each others company
We didn’t even talk.

Me lagging a little behind,
my back stiff from our sleep.
I watch you walk on.
You were a picture to keep.

You and your wrinkled summer dress,
and your morning messy hair.
Looking more confident than ever.
I loved how you didn’t care.

The breeze was chilled by the lake
as it cut through the cherry trees.
A billion white cherry blossoms fly.
Fly wild in the welcomed breeze.

Like snow on a warm summer day.
Their color matched your summer dress.
The scene couldn’t be more perfect.
They covered the walk in a pretty mess.

Our feet cut paths to a bench,
where we stop and enjoy the endless view.
Endless to our eyes at least.
I’m glad I shared that day with you.
 Nov 2013 Adam Smith
Tallulah
There’s nothing I’d rather do
Than watch TV with you on my lap
Sleeping the afternoon through
As the raindrops continually tap-tap

There’s nothing I’d rather kiss
Than that hollow of your throat
When your breathings gone amiss
Cuddling under a cashmere coat

There’s nowhere I’d rather be
Than sitting on the roof at midnight
With you and a cup of pepper tea
Carefully tracing dawn’s first light

There’s no other I’d rather
Than you right now, right here
Even when we lose hold of together
I’ll love you long after We disappear
 Sep 2013 Adam Smith
ll
The Fate
 Sep 2013 Adam Smith
ll
The ascended one rises up towards the sky and looks to the horizon. He can see city after city and factory after factory. He can see fields of fallen trees. He grows tired. Black smoke plagues the breeze. His body of energy feels sadness, but there were no tears. He grows even more tired. Black smoke still plagues the breeze. No birds in the beautiful skies this morning. He grows tired ever more. Black smoke still plagues the breeze. His mother is sleeping and dreaming of better days. He is near collapse. Black smoke still plagues the breeze. In her rest she weeps and slips under the line between the living and the dead. Black smoke will always plague the breeze.

Red, red, red the sun appears as it comes out from hiding. Madness, madness, madness is the child’s disease.

He temporarily silenced the chirping of transistors and squeaking of poorly oiled joints and gears. The chirping slowly returns, but never the loud boom of a heartbeat. His energy has all been used up. Nothing but the void is left for him.

He finds little comfort left in the universe. He drifts to the Sun, and waits a while. Gazing back at his beautiful mother Earth in wake.  

The machines live off of what’s left of the corpse. In a single decade, no chirping is left.  Earth grows quiet. Her seas of life turn to fields of crystallized salt and her land rots and dries into jet black deserts where life cannot be found. Earth is silent.

After mourning the death of all things he had ever held dear, he finally weeps and his tears extinguish the Sun. He lays flat on the mass staring - staring out into the great expanse as the stars burn out - one by one.

No birds in the skies anymore. Their wings were severed decades ago and they lived wretched lives. They crawled on the filthy ground as vermin and exhale vile smoke laced with disease. No one is left to see the fields of fallen trees. No one left to grow tired. No heartbeats anymore. All hearts of man have shriveled into obsidian. No gods left in the heavens. The last of the stars finally burn out. No more energy. No more sound. The only thing left was an eternal memory carved in stone. A memory of black smoke that once plagued the breeze.

Earth is silent.

Earth is dead.

He watches, and watches, and watches. There will never be light again.

Only the knowledge he still has, and nothingness.
I know this is not the place for short stories and whatnot, but it is the last few paragraphs of my book that I may never finish - I at least wanted to share it here so someone else could read it if it is never finished. It is based off of a seven chapter short story I wrote when I was about 18. It is the hardest thing I have told myself to do. Hopefully, it will be done someday. Some poetry I write is about this character, as I put myself into my work, so it is also a reflection of me in a few ways.

Thank you.
 Aug 2013 Adam Smith
Tallulah
Am I here?
Because I can’t see a reflection
In those distant blue spheres
Only an empty projection

I feel the enormity of space
Between your skin and mine
Yet I can hear your heart race
As hands choking, entertwine

Am I here?
Because I don’t see my shadow
It began to disappear
Such a long time ago

In silence & bone
We both understood
To love was to be alone
& so we parted for good
 Jun 2013 Adam Smith
ll
I'll be ******, but our hearts are carved out of sandstone.
Cracking over time, crumbling into sad broken poems.

We are hardly capable of putting the pieces back.
They are always crumbling to dust, lost to the black.

Like a dream so clear just after waking from sleep.
Taken like a memory you're just not allowed to keep.

So stop trying to paint another picture and try to pretend,
that dreams can come true, and we all meet a good end.

Because as human beings we are very good at many things.
Like genocide, greed, hate, torture, and pillaging

So understand when I spoil that pure ocean where dreams are born,
because there is nothing we can do to redeem us from wrath and scorn.

We reap what others sow and fund the conquest of greed,
to fill our lives with things we could never need.

Sometimes I feel so filthy for my take in all the lush.
The spoils of the nations our nation likes to crush.

Maybe recently we haven't been much of kind souls?
Why are so few of us saving this world as it grows cold?

Cold, like those pieces of our hearts we can't ever seem to find...
Cold, like what's left of our hearts as we share in the decline.
 Jun 2013 Adam Smith
Tallulah
I drink just to feel
What I had with you
I drink to bend like steel
I imagine you do too

I drink because I don’t remember
What actually occurred
That dark December
When shifty lies became blurred
 Jun 2013 Adam Smith
Tallulah
I realized the other day
That poetry has become
How I color in the gray
How I scrape up the ****
And salvage it

At times I think it’s nonsense
Stanzas of here and there
Of love and its expense
A sad whispered prayer
To someone, to no one

But looking back
To how I wrote then
And how I *****
Like leaky pottery when
I write now

I understand
Who I was then
& How unplanned
time and time again
I find myself alone

— The End —