The Poet That Was Meant To Be Poem by chris schwartz

What harm have I done
To my fellow man?
He keeps haunting me
Daunting me
He won't let me
Be free.
I keep trying to run
I keep trying to hide
But the memory
Of Him
Just won't subside
Can't blink past the
Little girl
Who had so much
To hide
But then, she
Would be telling.
Beautiful stained glass
In churches
Was made
By those
Who had no other way
To cry for help
And still,
The sun shines through
It's panes
Like Crystal Chandeliers
Messaging poets
Crying for them
To read Between the lines
They could only paint
Instead of feel.
The colors of that glass,
I think,
Must be cherished,
And not broken.
It is sacred,
Dusted carefully,
And put into preservation
To ponder upon.
But the person who wrote
From the time she
Was a little lamb
And raised against
The Glory
Of something she
Always doubted,
Still cries for you to break her
To set her free.
To just love her
For the heart
You knew that she could be.
Maybe then,
She could be someone.