Dark Poetry Prose Poetry April 4, 2004 Dark Poetic Prose

11:24am sunday 4-4-04

life doesn't happen. it just repeats. maybe it's my fault. maybe i'm just weak.

they know parts of you. collecting pieces of the puzzle as they speak and listen with you. but it can never be assembled because not all the pieces do you own.

you can give them everything you have inside and still they won't be able to make you whole.

2:08pm 4-04-04 sunday

i went back. back to find that feeling again. but now i miss it so much. guess i shouldn't have. i went back. the metaphors my time machine. i relived those friday nights. all the pleasure. all the grief. i wanted to. to feel it again. because i felt myself missing it, but needed to actually feel those feelings again. to be certain i actually felt them. to know if i still did.

i went back. relived the first touch. and all those that followed. the comfort of sex. the threat of love.

i went back because i wanted to. it's wrong, but i still want to be with you. i went back because seeing you again made me realize just how much i miss that. because i wonder still how much you want. all of me or just a little. to only relive it or to live it further still.

4:28pm sunday 4-4-04

brewing sorrow like pots of coffee. dark and rich. the aroma flood your senses. the drug makes your blood thick.

going back in time to nights when darkness was a soft blanket instead of the hard bed it's become. crawling one page at a time through the one part of your life that made it worth all the rest. remembering how you agreed to love. how you let yourself believe him. doesn't matter if it was real. only that i believed it then.

wondering still if he really did. afraid to ask. it hurts to remember, but i never want to forget.

sipping sundays like mugs of coffee. a kind of bitterness you enjoy. no cream. no sugar. just warm black liquid. just like love is. a bitterness that's sweeter than any confection. just like love was. dark and addictive. for as long as you've been without it, still the cravings come.

8:40pm 04-04-04 sunday

whole weekends gone to poetry and art and staring at the walls. listening to the same song as it plays just like a goodbye that never ends.

tumbling in and out of myself. watching my arm moving while i'm caught up in the music in the background.

remembering. rereading the fairy tale. or that's what it seems now. he said he was no prince, but he made me feel like a princess. so to me he must have been.

it seems just like a fairy tale now. a story i read and imagined myself in. not real. just a fairy tale. only without the happy end.

exit music that couldn't leave. striking the same chords that i'm writing. harmonizing in time with my grief. a long kiss goodbye that constantly repeats. letting you go, but unable to watch you leave.

writing too much. unable to stop. wrapping myself up in the skin you left behind. feeling it all over again.

but the worst part isn't how i feel. how much i want. the worst part is that we had it for a while and had to give it up.

time had cast her spell, but you came and broke it. i wanted you to. wanted that intensity again. needed to be able to believe, even if just for a moment that it could feel that good again. to know that it was real once. that it had actually happened.

day by day i add a few more verses to my ultimate poem. my final words. my long drawn out suicide ambles onward like a vagabond without a home. paper sack in one hand. knife in the other. one to ease the darkness. the other to make it last.

month by month i'm getting over. while year by year i'm learning. losing and getting over are not the villains. it's after that. what you're left with. that's the deciding fact.

that last line still has yet to come. but i can feel myself nearing it. with every bottle and every song. the last line is all that's ever really mattered. moments that once made me forget it now fertilize its crops. i've tried so hard to grow something better. tried harder than any of them will ever know. they might read. they might listen and try to understand. i love them for it. but i've nowhere else to go.

04-04-04 - those kinds of dates don't come often. i wonder does anyone else notice them. everything rare in life seems so feeble. so helpless. like tonight does. like everything except the end.

every angle so sharp. so fucking sharp. it cuts at the slightest touch. but i don't care. i want to bleed if it still means you'll drink my blood.