Dark Poetry Prose Poetry April 20, 2004 Dark Poetic Prose

8:54pm 04-20-04 tuesday

i'm warm-blooded. can no one feel this heat? this heart is a living muscle. does no one hear how it beats? this skin feels. feels everything. every whisper of wind. and each twinge. it feels, but it's all wasted if nothing ever feels it.

i am warm-blooded. full of a forest of nerves whose sole purpose is to feel. billions of interconnecting highways meant to transmit touch. to join this life to others.

but somewhere inside that design must be flawed. because i always only get so near, but never quite close enough.

just a brief eclipse of the sun crossing the moon and then again it's dark. that funny tickle in my nose just before the dam opens up. and i lay there at the altar of the oh so sappy movie. slow, feminie voices creaking like long, lonely stairways. i lay there in an ocean of despair thinking over and over again the same thing. but nothing hears me. there's no one there except the ghost in my head. i think the same thought a thousand. a million times in a minute. hoping that if i think it long and hard enough it might actually come to pass.

but there's only the black screen and the credits for the movie's making. just the slow aching music and its deperate lyrics scrolling jaggedly across the otherwise blank screen.

i'm warm-blooded, but i wish that i wasn't. that i'd never felt. and couldn't ever. cause all those memories i've gathered are so hard to carry. it's hard to walk around with them on your back. being so certain. being that definite. that they were never really yours. that the memory is the most that you ever can have.

i just want to be dead. and weightless. no memory. no warm-blood to ask. no hungry skin to beckon. i want to have never been born. no guilty attachments. no broken hearts in my absense.

i'm warm-blooded, but how i wish that this blood were cold. that feeling had never happened. that this skin had never known.

4-20-04 tuesday 10pm

darkness smiles a cool humid grin. curls my hair. wets my skin. darkness smiles as only it can. devours my uneven grimace like dark dark chocolate.

how haltingly the seasons change. fluttering on high like flags badly frayed. and that dead clang of the pulleys against the hollow pole which gives it such height. the wind beats it, but still it flies.

i hate feeling bad. hate feeling good even worse. at least feeling badly seems to have an origin. and a purpose. but feeling good always goes wasted. stale bread full of turning meat. you could consume it, but it'd only make you sick. you could swallow it. bite and chew until it was all inside you, but it wouldn't stay. it'd throw itself up. it would tear you apart just to get out again. it would ravage your insides and punish you for ever having thought that you could contain it.

i'm just waiting. only no one believes me. they can't comprehend. i've always been waiting. not for you or he or them. just waiting for this to end.

the darkness snickers as only it can. hollowed out laugh. paper doll of a person caught in an endless clasp. with silhouettes of itself. wanting so much to let go, but still it can't.

just leave me be. with no more promises of friends who can't. and loves that never have. in moments of weakness i'm afraid to let them go. but in these darker hours i know i belong just where i am. alone.

in my weaker moments i want to ask. even beg. say anything so that the end cannot reach a verdict. but in these darker hours. when darkness grins and its fangs do show. i know. i know i am and always have been so much alone.