Dark Poetry Prose Poetry January 9, 2005 Dark Poetic Prose

01-09-05 sunday 12:50pm

i can't decide.

who i should be.
who i can love.

can't decide.

how long i should live.
nor when i should die.

gave it all i could.
was it enough?

can't decide.

you know how i am,
it can never mean that little.
can never mean too much.

let it go or
hang on tight?

i'm asking you
to choose for us.

because
i can't decide.

01-09-05 sunday 9:25pm

don't take your time. there's not much of it to spare.

just jump in. find out what it's like with a splash.

walk. it don't matter if you feet are bleeding. it'll leave a trail. eventually you'll want to be found.

go under the water. it don't matter if you can't breathe. it's not like you really want to anyhow.

polka dot parade through the streets of your barricaded heart. wear those colors are you may. it don't matter at all when the music stops.

1-09-05 sunday 10:11pm

why i wonder do the leaves return again. every year. only to after the summer be discarded.

pinwheel dreams on hearts made of glass. caught in the wind they cannot outlast.

shattering as they do. turning as they must. looking to time for the adhevsive with which to reconstruct.

but why. only to spin again. and break as they inevitably will.

even engines made of glass seem to desire to run sitll.

i can't ask again why. stretch those metaphors so taut.

i'd rather just observe. let them do what they want.

it doesn't matter what you remember. what they do. livining your life like an unmailed letter.

clinging to a recipient who'll never open you.

so full of words they'll never know.

01-09-05 sunday 10:30pm

hello, god can you hear me? of course you can't. you're not there.

just the hero in so many fairy tales. just the good counterpart for all the evil men will do.

when i was i child i wanted to believe in such things. that hope that can never be defeated.

people are afterall, needing more than they have. it's never enough. life is not sufficient. must have more.

god, can you hear me? of course not. you're not there.

there's just the earth holding tightly onto us with gravity's fist. and the burning of the sun heating the stone on which we sit.

just a book. that's all it is. a novel written by many men. to fulfill the need for something greater. just like every song ever written.

just need supercedeing reason. just life trying to prolong its existence.

it's not in the hands of us. we are. always have been in its grip.

as so we shall remain. until we give up these fantasties of someone greater looking out for us.

cuz no one is.