Dark Poetry Prose Poetry April 6, 2004 Dark Poetic Prose

8:06am 04-06-04 tuesday

i feel so lost. especially when the sun shines. that it accentuates how dark. how dark is my life.

i feel so alive. especially when love gives off its poison gas. that my heart is dying. that it's free at last.

i feel so dead. especially at night. that these words are my coffin. my own hand constructing it.

i feel so alone. especially when i write. that every sentence is deepening the moat.

i feel so lost. especially when the sun shines. that it accentuates how dark. how dark is my life.

04-06-04 tuesday 8:51pm

this morning i wrote differently. instead outside myself, i was so trapped within. the words didn't just relfect the feelings. they were them.

i'm such a sylvia plath facsimile. only at least she was recognized. but then again, maybe only after her suicide.

i didn't ask for this bell jar life. i read it once. don't really remember. but i guess it's good that i don't keep a copy of it under my pillow.

what i wrote this morning followed me all day. and it still is. it's not just words. it's an entity. just like the sorrow that gave birth to it.

the child of. the next generation. now i am a mother, but of very unhappy children.

i could be sylvia plath reincarnated. if so, she's sure to waste her second chance as well. she stuck her head in the oven for her first suicide. i wonder how she'll do it this time.

04-06-04 tuesday 8:59pm

much as this writing has been a friend, even when there were no others. carefully as it's listened to every single thought, still i wish sometimes that it was gone.

could i actually live without it. probably not. i guess it's not the writing's fault. i give it so many reasons. and what if all those reasons where suddenly gone... how would i feel then?

probably no better. perhaps worse. a crust of a person. a pie without a filling. without those tender sweet apples inside the crust would surely cave in.

a pause would be nice though. they used to come just enough so that it wasn't too much. just a pause, not to gather my thoughts, but rather to for a little while forget them.

just a pause that's all i want. not forever. just a little while not typing. not needing to.

04-06-04 tuesday 9:57pm

no more to say. no more to be read. just naked webpages shivering in the wind.

in truth there's more. still unfinished but. no further neccessity to ask acceptance. just let them.

no more to say that i care to share. whosoever was once looking. it's too much to watch them leave.

and all the things that i could write about will never be the right things to. all there might be to say feels wasted. useless.

have you ever listened to trans-siberian orchestra's "the dark". if not, then you should. then you might know. then you might understand where this originates. all that it destroys to find exit.

there's more to say. but i just don't know that i can. they'll always be more until i'm gone, but who cares. who cares who's looking. who cares who understands.

because no one does. even the most lost of them all. every lost is it's own separate hell. there are no corridors to unite the victims. whatever afflictions they suffer. they suffer them alone.

these words are not a bridge. they cannot nor seek to lead anyone in. these words are a grave that awaits its coffin. nothing more. nothing less. they are not for your sympathies. not for your entertainment.

nothing more to say. that's what i keep telling myself. but still it continues. there's more to say, but no one to say it to. there's always more to be written, but that doesn't mean it wishes to be read.

no more to say. or so i'd like to think. no more to say. or perhaps just a little less. that might be nice. if such a thing could ever be.

mozart and madness may know, but not people. not the meaniings they attach to verses they can never really grasp. instrumental songs are the best kind. they give you beautiful music to put your own words into. they presume nothing, but can still sympathize.

nothing more to say, i wish. just for a day or two and then i'd undoubtedly love it once again. just like life. and friends. and marriage. too close, too long erodes the heart. causes it to want other things. anything different.

because these hearts ought not to be caged. even if sometimes they are. there are so many bars that confine lives. love should be the one thing that makes them vanish. even if. even if only for a little while.

because i want to, but can't stop writing. good or bad or inbetween. it's not about the beauty. this isn't a pageant. these feelings own no swimsuits. and they have no other talents. it's not about the beauty. it's just beacuase it's true.

read them if you can, but only read them if they touch you. read them if you see fit, but only read them if you've ever been.