Dark Poetry Prose Poetry April 13, 2005 Dark Poetic Prose

04-13-05 wednesday 9:13pm

on your left hand side. peripherally acknowledged. not near enough to touch. yet closely seen.

there's no reason to believe them. the spoken word is a thief. sneaks inside your heart. copies the key.

if there's one moment in my life that's suitable for remembering, it must be the one in which i realized. no accepted, that our lives are parasites from which we cannot detach. and all those beautiful words of poets long dead, are just as dead as the people who penned them.

they were never real.

at least, not in that sense, that they can apply to anything real people think, feel, or experience.

they were wishful thinking. denial perhaps. nothing short of megalomania. nothing less than propaganda.

human nature is not what we can claim. human nautre long pecked away by time's buzzards. because we ran it down. flattened it.

yet still, we stare at the stain upon the highway and see visions in the blood. we convince ourselves we're not like them. simply because we know we are.

we make it a point to look different, becuase we know we are not.

04-13-05 wednesday 9:17pm

she's different all right. that is, if anyone can be. the real beat in an artificial heart. the real images that somehow find their ways to our tv's.

she's too real i think. for me.

too alive still. bloated with all the propensities of youth. the future throwing pebbles at her windows to awaken her as she sleeps.

that future isn't me.

i am just what's passed. what could have, but will never be.

the core of the apple. nothing left, but poisonous seeds.