Dark Poetry Prose Poetry May 19, 2004 Dark Poetic Prose

5-19-04 wednesday 8:24am

counting backward from the end. as if your last page has already been written, but you weren't meant to have seen it yet.

sitting in the spaces they once did. feel the ghost of their presense cool on your skin. no matter how long. they still remain. more than just a memory. displaced molecules in your atmosphere. atoms permanently rearranged. you can't see the difference. but you feel it always.

5-19-04 wednesday 8:58pm

i should've done something. not just listen. speak. or act. maybe leave. should've been someone. not just me. this joke without a laugh.

maybe flowers bloom. and trees make rings. thick roots split sidewalks. and tender stalks of pollen seduce the honeybees. but people, they must decide. born just a question mark. being human carries with it the burden of choosing what you will do. if you will do anything worthwhile.

i should've tried harder not to be born. when i was still that fetus swimming in my mother's womb. i should've tried harder not to be conceived when i was still just that egg and all those sperm were raping me.

05-19-04 wednesday 10pm05-

forgotten as it is. too many hours to fit into this tiny head. keep what's best. leave the rest to the sections you can't control. various chambers in consciousness that house stairways to hell. random moments in your life that you'll never again know.

i don't have much to leave behind. if anything at all. so take what i give in good faith. that i know just what i've chosen. knowing in every act of altruism there are still methods. i am no better. i'm only human. an inferno of want and regret that blazes. devouring everything that once grew in it.

i don't have much to contribute to a world i've always wanted to touch. for as long as i can remember i've been trying to breach that skin. but nothing i've done ever really seemed to matter. careless raindrops that missed their flowers. little changes. life hiccoughs. but nothing good enough to put on my grave. nothing for anyone to speechify at my wake.

i think that i got so used to giving that i forgot how to take. that the very thought of it made me disbleieve whatever it was i was worshipping at the moment. like a heroin addict being substituted methodone. it can kill the urge to vomit. can allay the ache. but they'll always be something missing. you still feel that absense like a breath you cannot take.

i think that pain is all i can truly understand. the only feeling i can trust. that anything else would only be a another substance for me to use. that eventually it would prove itself to need much more than i can take.

i think that love is for some, but not for all. just like children and wealth. and countries you wonder why you were born into. just like time it moves through your veins with deliberate motion. it has always known, but you still don't.

just waiting. waiting patiently for your chance to die.