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Maxine Schmidt Nov 2012
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.
Maxine Schmidt Nov 2012
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.
To my best friend Asha, who speaks from her inside out, acts on her slightest urges and loves with a heart on her sleeve. She is a gift, but she just needs to be discovered.
Maxine Schmidt Oct 2012
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.
A look into self-injurious behavior.
Maxine Schmidt Oct 2012
I want a kiss that is soaked by the rain,
On a street with no name.
I want a kiss in the ocean,
With all the sunbathers watching.
Give me a kiss in the backseat of your car,
Under the light of a thousand country stars.
Park your lips onto mine,
Whether it is or it's not the right time.
Because you are handsome and I am ******,
Because like it or not, I want me under.
So give me my highly desired kiss,
So things go further than a simple poem like this.
Maxine Schmidt Oct 2012
If you love me, don’t leave me.
But if you leave me, I will still love thee.
If you love me, you can keep me.
But if you’re not mine to keep, I will set you free.
Oh love, you see when two halves don’t make a whole,
It’s best to leave things be
Love is fragile and made to fit,
If we are not love, so shall be it.
If you love me, don’t leave me.
But if you leave me, we both are free.
Maxine Schmidt Oct 2012
I was asked to paint a picture
Of love and all it brings
But me, I am no artist
I can only write of things
I Colour with rich feelings
And can only paint in poem
So when I was asked to paint a picture
Of love and all it brings
All I could paint with my poem was:  
A sorrow so deep it tore the page,
Of a pain I knew not of.
An emptiness that blackened my words,
A hole aching longingly for love.
So when I was asked to paint
A picture of love and all it brings,
I told the truth.
“I am no artist,
Nor do I wish to be.
I am a poet,
And love was not made for me.”
Maxine Schmidt Oct 2012
I can’t, I sigh.
But you have to, you assert.
There isn’t the time, I claim.
But I want it, you argue.
I want to give it, but not right now or today, I rationalize.
What if I needed it, you probe.
There are things I need too, but my plate is full, I exclaim.
Then I must find it somewhere else, you profess.
I can do it, I will give it to you, I assure.
When will that be and how long will it take, you inquire.
When I am done, I blubber.
Well, I am done, you declare.
Please, I beg
When will you be done, you retry.
Never, I murmur.
Never is too long, you calculate.
But-* I begin.  
No buts, what are you so busy with, you demand.
Loving you, I whisper.
Reassurance, it can be both positive and negative. With past experiences though, I know how negative it can be when demanded. Its hard enough to give to someone when you're already giving them your whole heart, and yet they still desire it. What is with this obsessive need for desire when you already have me, all of me?
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