Dark Poetry Prose Poetry May 5, 2004 Dark Poetic Prose

8am 05-05-04 wednesday

it's mornings such as this. that fog you can't filter out. no memorries to attest on your behalf. just dirty lenses and hairy chins. it's the way i write when i'm thinking no one can ever see this. before there were readers, and friends and useless webpages. before there were theives and slights and victims.

it's knowing all those hours lay ahead. like sharp rocks upon which i must tread. the ocean in my breath. the horizon holding my hand. and nothing to look forward to except.

it's these gaunt hours between waking and working that conspire to remnd me of just who i used to be. before there were friends. and love. and other such primal needs. when all the world was a cage and i was the only one who walked free.

and all the poets that came before me. how not a single one of them was ever really read. not until. never until after they were dead.

the so many cigarettes that make their wispy nooses, but then melt away. useless.

like a blank canvas. every morning. every night absorbs all that i expectorate. such an ancient algorithm that turns sadness into rhyme. such a hopeless person that tries to make. to make nothing into something. to make light from darkness. it's mornings. just like this one. when myself is so evident. their fault lines shifting under my skin. drowning continents until there's nothing left but ocean.