Dark Poetry Prose Poetry April 1, 2004 Dark Poetic Prose

4-01-04 thursday 10:32pm

it's hard to choose life knowing that it isn't choosing you. to try to love something that has only disdain for you.

soft nights turn softer still as the tasks steadily fall behind me. and i wonder will there be something else to do.

it's not easy to talk to people knowing they're actually listening to you.

don't know that i ever wanted anything other than. not wanting in the sense that you actually hold the belief you'll ever have.

there are in life two kinds of desires. the ones you'd like to have, but know that you can't. and the ones that might actually come to pass.

of those two kinds. the latter's all i've ever wanted. just one thing. jsut the one thing that everyone can always have if they're patient and/or persistant.

it's exciting and scary to think of being with you again. that red hair close enough to smell. to run my fingers over the peach fuzz. i never told you, but i've always loved red hair. don't have a reason, just always have. maybe because red has always been my favorite color. angry and desperate soldier of the rainbow.

will we meet again. will it actually come to be. and moreso yet, if we do, what's to become. shall we go back to trying to just be two people. or should we dive in to that fierce ocean of lovers again. i don't know. guess i'll leave it up to you.

4-01-04 thursday 10:49pm

who's looking. who actually sees. the girl behind the images. the human behind the paragraphs. they're not words. they're a heartbeat. they're not drawings. they're offspring.

who reads. who translates the cryptic messages. they're not metaphors. they're prayers without a heaven. they're not art. they're reflections.

what love can you cast in my direction? because any would be appreciated. what love have you to spare at the end of the week? cause even just a little would be so much better than this nothing.

it's not sarcasm. it's denial. it's not affection. it's need. an emptiness that craves filling, though it never can be. it's not life. it's waiting to die. numbness changing to pins and needles. trying to walk on legs that have forgotten how to feel.

perhaps we can share a few beers. and hour or two. outside the confines of telephone wires. i'd like to know that embrace again, but it's not neccessary. i'd love to feel that red hair again. to smell its scent. take that sensory perception and create a beautiful memoery trigger from it.

it's not friendship. it's better. it's not love. it's less restrictive. it's not the first time. hopefully not the last. it's not life. it's habit. but even still, perhaps it can be worth the effort once in a while. like it once was. it's not forever. might not even be tomorrow. but it is something worthwhile. something i can love, even if only from a distance.

it's not enough. it's just the best that there is. it's not a guarentee of happiness. it just a memory of.

04-01-04 thruday 11:22pm

from nothing came something. or so it seemed. empty files gave birth to.

from nothing suddenly there was something. like every aspect of life. sitting quietly in your muted rages divining secrets of. pages occur like movies. fading in and out in waves. night falls obliquely in the kingdom of your pain.

with no need to miss what you never had still you long for its retrurn. with no claims to what you desire, still you want so much for it to return fire. to shoot itself in the foot just so that it could join you in the infirmary.

from nothing something came. just like all of life is. blank pages steadily fill with the contents. and as you snuff out that last cigartete you wonder how much it means. how much it did. and how it has changd since.