Dark Poetry Prose Poetry March 23, 2003 Dark Poetic Prose

3-23-03 sunday 9:18pm brick NJ

never friends -
just something similar
pretending;
never real love -
just some feeling
grasping for some;

you come into my world
like a thunderstorm suddenly
when skies are clear,
a downpour breaks and
i am drenched in the
hopeless possibilities -

you come into my world
and touch me like a blade
cruising gently across
tender veins,
leaving marks, cutting wounds,
deep enough that
they keep bleeding
after you've gone,
but time always mends,
time refuses to let me die
even when it's all i want to do,
even when she knows i've
given all she has to you
and now my own is empty.

never friends -
just faces with names
i can remember;
never more than,
that's how you prefer
to keep it,
that's how the distance
seeks its victims
when the loneliness
wakens itself again;

you come into my life
because i invite you,
because i can't say no,
you come into my life
and exit knowing the
void you leave behind you,
and if i can't resist -
if i am not strong enough,
then isn't it your responsibility -
as it seems it would be
so easy for you.

repetition makes the night
a little less sober,
silence tends to make
the sadness just
slightly bolder;
but i can't cry for the end,
i can't cry for anything when
it never really happened,
no closure when there
was no beginning -
no friends, only strangers
who's names i can remember,
no love, only faces
in memory that linger
when the loneliness
finds its faster pace;

i'll see you again
in six months i guess,
maybe a little longer,
maybe a little less,
but i'll feel you always -
every minute, every second
that my heart beats,
it still begs for your acceptance,
i'll see you again
in six month i guess,
a little longer a little less,
doesn't really matter,
i feel you always -
constant as my every breath,
you come and go as it suits you,
but in my heart you've never left.

3-23-03 10:21pm brick NJ

who's afraid of stacie forman. the great authors. the great composers. the great artists. all mentally ill. many suicides. and here i am writing, creating only in my idle time. wasting my days making commercial web pages pilfering stereo and costumes and sex toys for the money it can give. who's afraid of stacie forman. no one, but me. afraid that i'm so busy worshipping the all migthy dollar that the real things i am are neglected. that whatever i could want to be falls secondary to the consumption and creation of money.

i can't commit suicide because i've nothing worthwhile yet to leave behind as my legacy. i don't want to be remembered for web pages, regardless of how much they sold or how well they were ranked by the major search engines. i don't want that to be my legacy. and yet i let the real parts of myself. what i write. why i do. fade into the background as i pursue more money. more things. all that which cannot fulfill me becomes my obsession. taunting myself by cheating my spirit of what it truly covets.

what i write. what i compose sits quietly in its lonely folder on my personal computer. untouched by fingers other than my own. unseen by eyes besides mine. should it be? i cannot judge. but should it be given that chance. this is without question. if it should go unrespected or praised is not the issue. only that it should have the chance to be ignored or to be loved. just like any living thing. it too has this right. it too deserves the same privilege. and still i hesitate. as much as i can't justify, my drive fails me again. and that i suppose is what separates me from those that came and died before me. they may have died. they may have given in to the pressure, but they took their chance before they took their lives. and i still cannot say that. they may have taken their own lives, but before they did, they gave their art life. the life i've yet to give mine.

it's just not enough only to sit here alone and write words of love unrequited. of dreams untaken. it's not enough to leave the pages to their unknown folders. they came before me. they dared to take the life so frightful to do. they took what grew in their hearts and showed the world. they might have cheated in the end. taken the quicker exit, but they made their impact before they did. what impact do i have? only writing quitetly suppressed in places only i can go. only verses no one knows. only a longing to die without any good excuse. that is where the great ones and i differ. they may not have been strong enough to live, but who could blame them. this world what it is. but they were stronger still in their passions. to breathe life into the art their hearts cried. to voice the silent songs of madmen and poets. this that i have yet to do. this is why my time will not let me go. this is why they are remembered and i am still forgotten. this is why they leave legacies behind even in their selfish deaths. and why my death would be nothing but an empty exit. an empty life abruptly ended. without any reason to remember it.