Dark Poetry Prose Poetry April 20, 2003 Dark Poetic Prose

4-20-03 sunday 9:15pm brick NJ

it's hard to write when every thing has gone stagnant inside. but i always feel like i ought to try. even if it isn't always beautiful that shouldn't keep it from being real.

there are only so many ways to say the same thing when nothing changes. and all you've got left is the empty. there are so many metaphors for tired and lonely. like living the same day over and over again for most of your life. you run out of new things to write. but in your heart the poetry still begs for birth again even though your heart's gone barren.

it's hard now to write to you. to write to anyone. friends i thought seem to scatter when a friend is what i want. more than enough pages already echo the sadness. one more would only make the episode cliche. one more would only be complaining.

it's not alone that i dislike. infact, i adore it. it's without you sometimes that changes the moment. no, not even. it's that you could be, but you choose not. friends have always been what you make of them offset by their own personal limitations. friends have always been to me love without a place to go. love without the admission of. sex without penetration. conception devoid of birth. something sweet you're able to taste, but too big to swallow. and love has always been a friend unwilling. a friend who just had better things to do. friends are what we make of them and also what they make of us. and love is the distance that develops between those choices.