Dark Poetry Prose Poetry January 8, 2003 Dark Poetic Prose

1-08-03 wednesday 10:06pm brick NJ

on the verge. my home away from home. breathing in shallow bursts waiting on when that won't be necessary anymore. we've met. we've touched. we clung when there was nothing else left. weakness does strange things to the human heart. but when your strength returns again i'm not needed.

my life or lack thereof has nothing to do with you or us. it was sketched out on these pages long before i knew there could be a you. i always wrote those verses to someone. pain is my gig. loneliness my one steadfast friend. not that i don't want you. but i know full well what i can't have. i never needed love or anything else to show me who i am. it's always been all too apparent.

but it's funny how as you get older it gets so much harder to live life sober. those same nights you once relished now you can't imagine. those same hours you lived a million time without it, now you can't face without several sips. call it a habit. call it a vice. call it anything you like. but i prefer to call it a symptom of life. it's gone on long enough that i know what can be and what i may miss. it's gone on long enough that any lives i've touched will still remember when i'm gone.

on the verge. but then again i've always been. only now i have the excuse that i've actually lived. if i could feel what you feel. that insatiable desire for another breath. well even if i could, i guess i wouldn't be me then. i've never understood it. i don't think that i can. you can say i need prozac, but i can't agree. living just to die in the end... you explain that to me. you live a day in my life and then tell me i'm whining.

life has a million ways to change. but postive or negative are entirely up to her discretion. we cling to our vices and hope for the best. we keep on breathing because that's what they expect. but if no one objects, i'd really rather not.