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 Mar 2014 Jess Ram
Chris
One day you might look back,
and you might not remember
how I cracked open
my already splintered ribcage
to give you whatever I had
left inside.
You might not remember
how stars went dim
when we walked in empty streets.
You might not remember
silences that felt too full,
or nights that felt too short.
But please,
please remember;
at least I tried.
 Mar 2014 Jess Ram
Chris
I just wanted to be the sunlight
that woke you up in the morning,
the warmth you wouldn’t mind
slipping through the curtains.
But I suppose it’s enough
for me to be
the memory
you hope to forget.
 Mar 2014 Jess Ram
Chris
I should have realized
from all of the half-filled
coffee cups that
you’d leave everything
unfinished.
 Mar 2014 Jess Ram
Chris
I’ve been around long enough
to know these wounds don’t heal.
I will wake up tomorrow
and put down half a bottle
of hydrogen peroxide,
hoping the void inside
my chest won’t get infected.
This ribcage is missing
more than just bones.
The black hole I met
in my living room
decided to stay for dinner.
He said you’re doing great.
I poured another glass
of regret and told him
that’s ironic.
I’ve realized this is just what
“okay” has become;
fists embedded in sheetrock promises,
sitting alone in the rooms where
everyone told me they would stay.
 Mar 2014 Jess Ram
Chris
Still am.
 Mar 2014 Jess Ram
Chris
Here I am, looking up causes for headaches
at 1 am
when I know it will always come back to you.
My hands found the bottom of the ocean
as I cleaned old movie tickets out of my car today.
I can see your honesty from here.
It took my composure on its way out the door.
I’m not bitter anymore.
I’m just tired.
And I’m tired of being so tired.
I’m sorry you didn’t stay.
I’m sorry that I apologize
for all the times you didn’t.
I keep forgetting these things
are not one-sided,
and so,
I’m sorry I gave you everything
for nothing in return.
You tasted like love,
and I was parched.
Still am.
It's terrible, but it needed to make its way out
 Mar 2014 Jess Ram
Kay P
On Poetry
 Mar 2014 Jess Ram
Kay P
Poets are just authors
who get straight to the point
at least that's what my teacher
told me once

I don't know if I believe it
I'm an author too, sometimes
and others it just seems better
for poems, for prose, for rhyme

Sometimes I wonder if
The earth is really rounded
or if it's just a oblong
distant lands and distant seas

I like poetry because with stories
They want you to make sense
and with poems you can
just go and go and go

I like poetry because
my prose is all that's judged
not my grammer or my speling
or anything at all

Perhaps it's all too clever
so poetic, so in tune
Artistic and amazing
so clear and so immune

I feel immortal with my poetry
with my rhymes and with my nots
All the way to everything
All the way to nothing
March 6th, 2014
 Mar 2014 Jess Ram
Kay P
I feel in love with a girl, once.

She was shy and sweet and liked to keep to herself.
She only spoke when spoken to, and it was always much too quiet
to hear properly
or above everyone else.
Instead of asking her to speak up
I learned to listen.

I fell in love with a girl, once.

She had brown hair and the sort of eyes
poets dream of
I'm no Romeo but Paris better keep to himself
For starlight shifted in those orbs of blue-grey-green
and whole galaxies exploded into being
in my chest
expanding and multiplying
with the power of the universe.

I fell in love with a girl, once.

Her gaze dipped from mine whenever I complimented her
but she gave the sweetest smile
when she thought I wasn't looking
(and I was always looking)
and my mind refused to stop its hellbent pace
as it named our children and decided
she'd have the perfect wedding
she'd be a teacher
(it was her dream)
and I'd be an author
(a dream of my own)
that I'd rock her to sleep
(she has problems dreaming)
and play with her fingers
(so small in my own)
and buy her a constellation
(she loves stars more than she loves life)

I fell in love with a girl, once.

Knowledge flew from her lips as easily as prose from my pen
Facts she deigned to know
littered my mind in her voice
and I strived to remember it all
I did not always have any particular passion for the subject
but her voice was all I needed to become
the most adept student
in existence.

I fell in love with a girl, once.

My iPod filled itself
with music she'd hum under her breath
and I found her in the moments between thought
the pauses between songs
the spaces between stars.
She seeped through my life
leaving stardust on all she touched
She glowed in my mind
as the full moon on a clear night
controlled my emotions
as the moon does the tides
unintentional as gravity.

I fell in love with a girl, once.

Death slipped through her lips
and walked beside her as a constant companion
Her fingers were stained with acts of self-violence
her pale skin bruised and battered
her smiles quickly becoming
the most beautiful endangered species
She was my happiness
but I was no good for her
only another
on the long list
of unworthy.

I fell in love with a girl, once.

I couldn't tell her sister or her mother
her father, or mine.
I could never let the words slip from my own lips
grace her ears with harsh emotion
though she deserved every word
though  they were the truth in every sense
I could only tell our friends
and they knew all along.

I fell in love with a girl, once.

Her hands were small, compared to mine
Her body was petite.
She was soft where I was sharp
smooth curves where I was harsh angles
She was by far more polite and feminine
neater and far more oriented
Whilst I was dirt and mudpies
piles of belongings and wipe-your-nose-with-your-sleeve
She was the good, of the two of us
but ask her and she'll say
the same of me.

I fell in love with a girl, once.

Slipped, more like
slid without noticing
descended at a pace most distressing
in hindsight
and ended up in far deeper in water
than could have been anticipated
(and I can barely swim)

I fell in love with a girl, once.

And still, I sink.
Spoken Word Poem, kinda

— The End —