Dark Poetry Prose Poetry February 9, 2003 Dark Poetic Prose

2-09-03 sunday 9:39pm brick NJ

three years is not enough. not nearly as much as we could be. three years is just the beginning. three years waiting and i could wait a thousand more. there's no one else . there's nothing.

songs and darkness. there's nothing more than this. though i shame to know it. three years friendship perched on a picket fence. it's not comfortable, but it's what i am. it's us i guess. tomorrow will tell us if another year will take us. tomorrow is what lonely hearts feed on. but it always leaves them still hungry. because tomorrow is an empty promise and today just doesn't want us.

one call could make that difference
between the future and the past,
oen call holds all that power
over these frail lives,
one call is all that a life
sometimes has;

one person you know
si out of reach,
chooses to be,
one person whose
thoughts invade your own,
whose feelings infilitrate
your empty night;

you don't know why
you feel this way,
until you find out
they have been to
that same place;

life just keep on going
regardless of whether we're willing,
love just keeps on breathing
even as i hold the pillow
firmly over her head;

you can't be my soulmate
if i am not yours.
this is the logic that protects
lives from greater failure
that they can withstand,
so why if i know this can't
i convince the places in my soul
that make these demands?

if i let the sentences gather the thoughts and the punctuation tether the sorrow.

or if i shoudl resort to the verses,
much more succinct, what's the difference
really when they all sing the same dirges,
the funerals seem to come more often
than the lives i have ever been able to live.
the dying seems to insue long before
i've had the chance to;

it's just me i guess,
incomplete sentences
pretending they are poetic,
half hearted sentences trying
to be more than they can.

i wanted to know you.
to really know,
but you wouldn't allow it,
and yet i never wanted to love you,
but you never tried to stop me then;

three years couldn't be enough,
but still i wonder three years of what?
a face i long to see, a voice much too seldom,
a touch i can't forget, but may never know again.

three years are what we've collected.
put it in the scrapbook of your life
and look back sometime when
sentiment decides to strike.

three years is not much i guess
considering all the years previous
and all those that haven't come yet,
but three years is what i know,
three years is the love i have kept,
wondering if what i believe is true,
friend or foe. lover or love,
it's still unclear after all these years,
it's no more or less lonesome
thana it's ever been, but the older
we get the sadder it seems to be
caught in these three years we have
with so little so show for them.