A poem by Keed Kersey: They Ask Me if I Still Love You

Read this poem.

It's not applicable to me right now.

But the beautiful thing about poetry is you can take it in and experience no matter what part of your life you are in.

I'm just thankful I haven't written a sad poem in a long time.

They ask me if I still love you.

I blush, grin and say;

of course.

Why?

Because your eyes are of the most utter ocean blue,

but other days they're the currents of the stormy grey sea.

I see a current of salty water, deep, once blue, but now a faded grey.

I see a bundle of darkened grey clouds in the distance,

and the thunder rumbles from your irises,

and I hear it pound in the back of my mind.

I wonder if you knew.

I see a spark of lightening flash, only once in a while,

while you look at her.

My throat corrodes with bile.

She says she sees green demons lurking in the depth of my own ocean currents,

and I shrug.

What am I supposed to say?

I know you think about her.

Night and day.

The hardest part,

is a generic, old saying.

If you love them,

you let them go.

If they love you enough to stay,

or to come back,

you never let go.

But you haven't come back.

The Nicest Place on the Internet.

If you want to be happy and smile and feel better....click on the link below:

http://thenicestplaceontheinter.net/

What I love about this, is that everyone looks beautiful.

Moral of the story: giving love enhances your beauty.

Have you given someone a hug today?

What to do with old letters?

Lately I have realized that I have a lot of letters from ex-boyfriends that I don't know what to do with. Granted, not all of the memories associated with them are bad....but they (the letters) don't make me particularly happy so....is it alright to just throw them away? I think I found a poem that helps me answer this question......

I Did Not Keep Your Letters

I read them,

and then I threw them in the trash,

but make no mistake, I read them.

I swallowed them whole.

I filled my eyes with every word,

I sewed them in patterns

into my flesh of my body,

at night I wake to entertain the ghosts

lounging in my bedroom

with impromptu recitations

of your letters, of your thoughts,

of the shape of you in words

but I could not keep your letters.

I could not let them languish

in a dusty box, fermenting

into poisons in the closet dark.

I could not let them lie in wait,

like coiled paper vipers

ready to strike the hand that strays

too far and stirs the den.

An Original Poem

Rag Doll by Brianne Ramsay

I want you to know:
You don't matter.
I just loved you.
But like a little girl
Loves her rag doll
Foolishly dragging it
Everywhere
Thinking it loves her back

You comforted me
Played your role in my life.
But only when I held you there
Like my rag doll
Squeezing too tight
Never wanting to grow up
Or let go.

You became a crutch
Dragging along
Becoming worn.
Holes from misplaced love
And dependency.

I've out grown you.
Put you away in a box.
That doesn't mean
I didn't love you.
You were my world,
My everything.

But that love
Was the love of a little girl.
Innocent and naive
Nothing special or real.
Just enough for a useless rag doll.
To outgrow
And forget.

Soundtrack

I live in the upper corner of a very crowded college dorm and I am privy to the many sounds associated with ...people, just people in general. From garbage trucks to weekwackers to giggling friends to longing lovers' long goodbyes to young lovers' foolish fights. Sometimes the noise can be unbearable and annoying, but luckily not a whole lot of things can ever bug me enough to reach the point of unhappiness. My favorite noise I hear every night is probably one thought of as annoying to most residents. The Polynesian who lives two doors down from me starts playing music from her laptop when she gets home from work around eleven pm  and it goes straight on until the morning. They're all American songs, but I think I like them so much because it's the kind of music I remember listening to on my mother's and father's radio. Nothing modern or loud or abrasive and attention grabbing which most contemporary music aspires to be. It's just a simple songs that are becoming her soundtrack for her college life yet gently lull me into state of security and sleep as if the soundtrack of my childhood is a lullaby I had forgotten I needed. So I guess this whole post is meant to acknowledge I don't mind the music. In fact, I welcome it. It makes me think about people, about my life, about their lives. It's nice. A good way to fall asleep. It'll be a good soundtrack to remember.

She is a Book by Craig Froman

One of these days...I'd love to inspire a poem like this:

She is a breathing book

each night I touch her pages

delicately turn to find

her heart in letters

written by her hand…

Scent of vanilla

soft and sensuous

unveiling another thought

another smiling memory

another intimate piece of her…

And I read with such abandon

across her pages

my fingers trailing

her soft paper skin…

In her sighs

she speaks of

stories and sonnets

history and fantasy

blue skies and silvery silks…

I hear her voice

in the pages

wanting to know her

every line

every word

every letter…

Now I take her into me

share my book with her

until we know

can read each glance

each whisper

each touch…

She is a book

and I love to read her pages…

The Avoidance of Thinking

Why do I think it's important to write? Why do I think it matters at all to post on this blog that has gone untouched for almost a  year? Because I'm tired of not thinking. And when you write, you're forced to think. It's unavoidable. It's necessary for progress. It's how we come to understand ourselves. Yet we avoid it by filling our time with menial tasks and time wasters always excusing us from having to pen a single word or own up to a single thought. I have found myself retreating into the labyrinth of television and useless books, always saying "I'll get to it later, when I'm not so tired or busy or lazy". It's sickening to think of all the time I've wasted staring mindlessly at a screen giving no validity or time to the thoughts I think or the feelings I feel. I'm running away from reality and the difficulty of dealing with it. Loss, loneliness, love and longing are all easier to deal with when you don't have to think about them. When you just come home on auto pilot and end your night plugged into the world, never taking a moment for a solitary thought or even a smidgen of introspection, life just gets simpler...and less meaningful.  Well I'm done. I'm tired of falsity and shallow, solitary nights. I say that now, but I'll probably end tonight just like the night before. On my computer or my phone surprised when the sun comes up and I didn't do anything I promised myself I would. But I can try. This blog post (going into cyberspace unacknowledged) is a good start at least....