Dark Poetry Prose Poetry April 11, 2004 Dark Poetic Prose

7:56am 04-11-04 sunday

it's morning again and i'm not ready yet. in my heart i'm still sleeping. still dreaming of when.

it's more sunday than ever. the living world quiet as a crib death. i still remember what alive feels like. just not sure i want to feel it again.

those moments so crisp like paper cuts. making wounds that never bleed, but always hurt so much.

it's so untrue that i've befriended this melancholy. i've merely adapted. surrendered. joined my enemy.

and i wonder is there a difference between. adapatation and surrender. they are so alike. just different mtehods of describing the weak.

4-11-04 sunday 8:30am

i've never considered myself a writer, though sometimes a poet. because writers write for profit. poets because they must.

and even if my thoughts are seldom written in verse, i see that as of little consequence. the difference between a writer and a poet lies not in a dictionary, but rather in their motives.

because writers rewrite and edit and rewrite again. but i can't edit those feelings from the night before. they're gone now. it's the next batch that i must prepare myself for.

i've felt self-conscious lately about publishing these pages, knowing there are people reading. seeing the paths they click through me. most of them strangers. that's not such a threat, but the ones that know me. it's not easy to let them. cuz they don't really know, but they just might. if they read these admonitions. if they perchance happen to understand them.

and that's what i fear and also what i crave. to be known and understood is what every poet seeks. still all the while i worry that if they do come to know. to genuine understanding. they'll also come to find out that they cannot love me.

9:14pm 04-11-04 sunday

it's like the two halves of my brain colliding. all the time. the music in my head sounds just like what they play. just like i would if i knew how.

i know that the night is not my nemesis. only what i release into it. i know that these words can create a resemblance, but cannot paint an accurate portrait. how they tend to emphasize what is darkest. how they draw with my blood and leave the sweet things for memory to claim.

i don't know what you see. but i know that it's not all of me. because you can't. that is not for anyone to know. i don't know what you see. only that it's very dark with a tiny light at the center. like the revived have described dying as.

i don't know exactly what you see. but i do know that you've seen more than any other. not because i've offered, but because you set out to discover.

and that means more than what you know or how much. it not how much you've gathered, but how much effort you put into the harvest.

of course i write selfishly. these poetics are a selfish quest. to name the demons within. to find their weaknesses and overcome. or even if not triumph, at the very least, knowledge. of the self. since that is the only person whom i know i'll always be with. since i am the only person whom i can never be without. from birth to death, i'll never be alone so long as i know myself. from cradle to grave, it's a romance that every life debates.

i wonder where those old friends are now that i no longer wish to make the effort. i'll learn to love them again when, if ever they should feel the need to reconnect. because you can love and love and love, but you're really only loving the concept. reality is altogether different. they can say i love you, i love you, i love you, but they're usually talking to themselves, not you. they often love how it makes them feel. not who.