Dark Poetry Prose Poetry April 26, 2003 Dark Poetic Prose

4-26-03 saturday 9:55pm brick NJ

whatever i write it'll be wrong. whatever i try to sayit won't read out that way - to anyone, but me. and i already know. and they still don't and it seems simple from the outside. just sit and brood and write. the easy, uneasy artist's life. it may seem i'm cold. i might sometimes seem i don't see out my own windows. that the people i keep are kept at quite a distance. and that this heart is too deeply buried to ever touch. that it's all just words and rhymes without anything real to back it up. and hey, maybe it's true. maybe it is just self-pity and poetry. maybe that's all i understand about this thing they call living. maybe i try, but i just can't be a friend or a lover or anything else people ought to be.

whatever i write i already know won't come out right. if i send or if i keep it here, somehow, something wrong will find it's way from my head to them. it always does. i think that i think that i love. i think that i wish that i could be a friend. but i can't be either of them. that i'm just words hidden flesh. that i'm just a bunch of verses meant to be read and nothing more. no back and forth. you just read it and it has its effect. but you can't care for it. and it can't offer anything more than a thought in your head. you can't hold it. you can't love it. and it can't give you anything except what it is. just words. just emotions trapped in language without anywhere else to go. just phrases that go on forever. the flesh is weak. and the heart weaker yet. but the words, they seem to go on forever. maybe that's all i've ever been. pages for people to read. you can see me. you can touch me. you can know just what i am. but i can't hold you. i can't be anything that anyone could ever need.