Dark Poetry Prose Poetry April 23, 2003 Dark Poetic Prose

4-23-03 wednesday 10:00pm brick NJ

to write a letter that can't be sent. to write a letter to a non-recipient. and i don't know why you're gone. i don't know why i can't find you anymore.

all i know is that it matters more than i care to admit. all i know is that it hurts me more than i have the strength to uphold.

if it is so. be it then. if it must be, then i can't protest. but i do feel cheated. i do feel as if i was misled.

to write the words that this heart contends as if they meant more than they ever did. to write the paragraphs as if you'd always been listening. now knowing that you haven't now. realizing that they fell on dead air. i can accept. but i don't know why.

i don't understand what provoked the changes that sent us to different dimensions. friend or foe never seemed to matter until. friend or foe always seemed irrelevant. that there was some place inbetween where we could meet. now it's gone. now i just write letters that have no recipient. now i just dial calls that answer generic. without a message to leave. without a call back.

i've been wrong before. i can certainly be wrong again. but why now. why this time. why you out of all of them. why when it seemed so genuine. how could i be so stupid. and how do i even question when the letters i could send no longer haven't any recipient. when the calls i make can't even leave a message. that is even if you'd bother to call back again.

i've been hurt before. much worse than you can. but i still don't know why you would. i still don't understand what happened. or why it did. or if we'll ever remember when we could.

4-23-03 wed 10:30 pm brick NJ

i ask your understanding, but how can you, when i can't. i ask you to listen, but i don't know how you can when speech is my greatest nemesis.

in the shadow of my loneliness. draped in the casket of more bottles than this bdy can stand, i think of your face. your touch. your easy presense and wish that all those opportunities i'd had the courage to say what my heart pled.

but i never could. i never have been able. these words are all i am. a poem trapped in flesh. a page torn from bones and blood. if you can read it, you're more amazing than i ever imagined. i'd never expect. but love has its expectations that logic can't affect. love has its desires that logic can't object.

in the cloak of poetry there's a life i sometimes try to lead. just haven't gotten the hang of it yet. the words will flow, but nothing else does. the rhymes will skate across the darkness, but everything else just falls to black. the pages try, but they'll always be two dimensional no matter how they try to expand. they'll always be black and white no matter the colors that they crave.

on the edge of every night i sit and remember when you loving me was something i almost believed. wrong as it might have been. it felt so good then. on the precipice of my tallest sadness i look down into the chasms of my emptiness and wonder how far the falling would take me. how long it might be until. i can't live for you. or for anyone else. i never would try to. and i can't live for me. because i've never really wanted to. so i don't know what's left then. i don't understand where it begins. or when it's fair to end. or why it's not fair for me.