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John-Chris Ward Dec 2020
Do not invite yourself into my inter monologue.
That space in-between my rib cage is no longer in use,
No thanks to you.
What else would you expect me to do?
Empathize,
Lick your face and wipe your eyes?
Cry.
Boo-hoo cry if you’d like.
If you wanna fight
We can strap up behind it...
But spare empathy?
I have none to share.
When you cold-cocked those lies betwixt my eyes;
Where was your sympathy then?
A calculated crime you didn’t have to commit,
But ya did.
Now I must search for forgiveness?
Crawling through sand, just to watch you lie in it.
The least you can do is apologize,
Because I’ve grown accustomed to your lies.
Never once pegged you as the murdering kind,
But murderers rarely look like murderers
Upon first sight.
Just like a thief in the night
You robbed me
...my hope, my peace;
my everything.
Confession #4
Home is where the heart sings, not where it whispers.

:):):)
John-Chris Ward Dec 2020
When will you feel the need to apologize without filling the need to be forgiven?
I have decided, that just like trust, there is no need for peace.
What use is that for me?
What good are flowers to a dead man’s grave,
But a gentle reminder that, yet and still, he simply cannot breathe.
Are we truly living or just waiting to grieve?
Confession #2
I am totally at peace with letting people go, because the truth of the matter is; you deserved the right to let go of anything not contributing to your growth.
John-Chris Ward Dec 2020
I cut my hair because you loved it, and I hated everything that reminded me of you.
Confession #1
John-Chris Ward Jun 2020
I’ve imagined killing myself.
It’d be easier.
You know, sorta biting the bullet?
Blowing them a kiss before they shatter my grin,
Can you see it?
Course then, I couldn’t have an open casket funeral
And that’s just plain unAmerican.
My father couldn’t come, my mother wouldn’t allow it,
And my sisters are all uninvited,
Because when black boys bloom we turn blue,
And no one should have to see that
But there’s a bullet for every name,
A ****** for every cop,
And the block is too hot to handle.
I have only ever known freedom as a figment of another nation;
A sensation I’ll never live to feel.
Truth be told,
I’ve already heard what you have planned for my eulogy.
I just knew if I kept listening eventually I’d catch you slipping,
Whispering at crowded tabletops.
As far as I’m concerned,
There are no good cops.
If there were such a thing,
They’d be protesting,
Instead of celebrating the life and times of another dindu nuthin with nothing on em but a degree.
Every fiber of my being is an act of protest, even my joy.
  Jun 2018 John-Chris Ward
Meg
I am alive by luck at this point.
I wonder if the gun that will eventually take me has been made.
Whose trigger will bury me.
How many bullets, like a flock of sparrows, will come carry my life to its final bed.
Today, I am alive but there is no law to thank.
If not me, then someone else.
Born into a game of chance we never asked for. Traded diplomas for obituaries. Traded graduation speeches for eulogies. Traded futures for an early grave. Forced to cash in their chips. We don’t want to play anymore.
And this too is eulogy. And this too is prayer. And this too can resurrect the coffin wood back to a tree. Can sing back alive whatever parts of you died with them. Whatever leapt in your throat at yet another headline.
Mourning until you, too, are a thing to mourn.
But we will no longer be martyrs.
We are the rude awakening to politicians who pawned out our safety, who bartered our lives for bribes.
You say “gun reform is not the answer” but all I can see is a bullet rattling like a pinball in an innocent student’s jaw.
You smell like gun smoke and
I can see the AR15 you're holding behind your back and
I guess it's easy to crack jokes about dodging bullets when you're the one firing them.
Give teachers books not bullets:
Kafka isn’t kevlar.
Bronte isn’t bulletproof.
And how sick is it that we must add school shootings to your list of proud american traditions.
Throwing opinions like punches.
How many more have to die before you decide your ego isn’t as important as you think it is?
And I, too, am buried alive
My soggy grave parting its greedy lips.
To you, my bones, when ground into gunpowder and mixed into water, taste like champagne.
My pulse, as thin as an obituary panting beneath sweaty palms, and sure
We are “just kids,”
But you are forgetting we are the next generation
And you autopsy your fists.
Call it reclamatory.
Lately, when asked “how are you?” I respond with a name no longer living.
And who knows if mine will be next
Performed this yesterday in my first poetry slam and won second place :)
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