Dark Poetry Prose Poetry January 28, 2005 Dark Poetic Prose

1-28-05 friday 8:43pm

bury your tears. broken child.

for you have been made well aware that justice is not blind.

cut your hair short for them. as they cut short your life.

on someone's teeth there's 3 dead childrens' blood. but conveniently someone's teeth are all gone.

there was a dead woman, mother of in his bed. yet still he walks free while damien watis for his injection.

bury your victims. in the ground. under the earth. or else in prison.

dedicated to the west memphis three.
"Paradise Lost: The Child Murders at Robin Hood Hills" and "Paradise Lost 2: Revelations"
Damien Echols, James Baldwin and Jesse Miskelly

and

Mark Byers: the real killer.

01-28-05 friday 9:25pm

forget me. don't ever remember again. that grey cloud of a person that rained down all over you.

don't recall my words. nor my faces. as i would lie to you. pretending the rain wasn't falling all the while you thought you saw the sun.

the peak is over and now i'm heading down again. i'm swallowing all that falling and it's. it's still better than nothing. i'd eat anything just not to be that hungry ever again.

don't sleep with dreams prepared like passengers ready to board that doomed flight.

just let me go down with it. all alone. let me go just this one time.

and never to ask again. wrinkled treaties win the heart unsigned. throw away all propositions. resign.

1-28-05 friday 10:15pm

wheezing winter days expire. draped in summers lost. the words are my time. the barren. the deaf leaf is my life.

let me leave. release the branch. and watch me falling. falling more gracefully than i ever have. because i can feel. i know. this last fall. it will be my last.

i watch them. try to see how. time becoming memories as their lives like velcro tear away from them. that ripping sound. that giving out. all those thousands of tiny hooks losing their grip.

i listen. it's so loud. and the smell of defeat so dominant. as i look upon myself and know that as different as they can see it, it isn't.

they're just bottles i never finsihed. the bottoms still left. i'm just a page they happened upon. in the middle of the novel. they never saw the beginning. and they won't see the end.

these lives we foster as if they are our own. they are given. and we adopt them. but the only blood we share with them is the blood spilled when they decide they'll end.

these lives we trust are our own. never have been. lost in escrow and mortgages to the people we claim to love. and all those other debts these hearts have accumlated.