Dark Poetry Prose Poetry May 25, 2004 Dark Poetic Prose

05-25-04 tuesday 8:15am

my suicide has been occuring all my life. every night is a death. every morning rebirth. each love is life. and when they end i too die.

my suicide is all the time. just breathing is it. touching. speaking. writing. kissing. him inside. then leaving.

killing yourself. we all are. by the act of living. by virtue that we exist. except when we are dreaming. or making love. or getting high. for life and death forget us then. freedom comes. but at what price.

waking again. loneliness. sobriety. all just like death.

my suicide is constant. every clock tick. every love to friend. life is a suicide. for everyone. every goodbye stops my heart. every hello makes it run again.

05-25-04 tuesday 9:21pm

you have to want to keep it. it doesn't stay without your permission. friends. love. hate. any kind of feeling. any sort of connection.

such unusual ideas caught in dead eyes. suicide.

that tomorrow that never realized it had been erased. that love that believed its own lies. that last kiss that never knew it was the final taste.

such unusual ideas that get caught in dead eyes.

when the night is sparse. and darkness hard. when the ache is strong. but the reason for it stronger yet. suicide. it happens all the time. to every life that's ever lived. it happens over and over again.

lives constantly attending their own funerals and never acknowledging it. tears are replaced with denial. tomorrow lies. yesterday weeps. but neither of them matter. only this moment is all that we have to keep.

only this moment and then it's over. quickly eclipsed by the next. like so many loves that promised. like all those reasons to live that reality intercepts.

05-25-04 tuesday 9:50pm

it's an open ended climax. every night is. so sure it has proved. and yet so void of any evidence. it's how someone missed inspidly become something forgotten. hearts can be tumbled dry or drip. but either way, eventually they let go of all that excess. the only difference is how much time.

those wrinkles that you wear, won't matter. those wrinkles that were left are just a part of the process. they are the remnants of that truth hidden now in the thickest pages of your life. the ones you can never read. but always feel the urge to write. the ones that needn't ever be read. since they are always there at the root of every word you've ever said.

voices you wonder from where they came. like bright super novas that consume all other stars in their wake. lives you once thought separate now tangled up in your own. balls of yarn that rolled away from you and came back with so many knots. those small ones that there's no hope of ever taking apart.

would i love to. of course. would i ask. never. just as the flesh of dreams is meant to be felt only by the mind. some of the best things in life as not to be held. just graized. a brief sensation of the spectacular and then let it go. to own it would only dminish. to actually hold it would undermine the illusion. to try to make it real, would only prove it isn't.

maybe time isn't to blame. for all this life that's collected in vain. maybe i'm not the victim, but rather the villain. another one of those great ironies that always show itself if you only bother to look.

maybe bad or good are just empty boxes after the gifts have been given. like christmas morning. all that torn up wrapping paper in the garbage. all those cardboard cubes missing what they once contained.

maybe love is like that. a gift box with something special inside it. but once you open it up and take out your present. it's blank again. just another empty container. wishing that it had never been opened up in the first place.

05-25-04 tuesday 10pm

so you speak, but don't bother to listen. so like a life that treats itself as the victim.

so i ask and give into the reply. so like a heart that doesn't know when to quit.

giving in isn't easy to do. it's the hardest thing i've ever been asked to. like trying to hold your breath too long. it just won't let you. it's a long learning process teaching yourself to let go of what you instinctively want.

and this is what we are now. this dark cliff on the edge of dismissal. a handkerchief you clutch when the loneliness decides it's real again. a sneeze in your heart when it feels sick.

i'd rather not. rather not have to think about how obvious. how much has been taken and never given back.

i wonder will your tomorrows ever know that feeling again. anything outside of repetition. i wonder at that hole you've dug. how you'll ever dig your way out of it.

ask me not. since you never asked until. desperation is not my name. crutch is not my condition. ask me not. tell me nothing. leave me now since. since we are nothing. you chose it.

05-25-04 tuesday 10:19pm

why gather your hours in such tired repetition when life does devour all that you've been. why coax the breathing that sustains it when expiration is only moments away. dreams beguile with outrageous promises. love lies to eager hearts. the night does tremble with wishes untold. sweaters knit of sorrow steadily unravel as the bodies which once wore them grow cold.

if i could die right now, i wouldn't mind at all. would welcome it. like the embrace of a lover who turned into a friend. as they so often do. as i tend to let. is something really better than nothing. i haven't decided yet. are friends better than enemies. i still haven't enogh proof. but it's obvious that, the transition is something worth going through.

is life more or less because. i still am not sure. is happiness an ammendment or a clause. that contract is too long for me to ever read the whole thing through. but i signed my name at the bottom anyway. just went with my instincts. have i lost. have i won. hell, if i know the difference. i only know that love is not happiness. happiness is not love. just as water doesn't boil until you stop watching it. truth never show itself until you first embrace all that it isn't.

just like stars shoot. and nights invade. tomorrrow never happens. and to hell with yesterday.

just as sad people try to be poets. poets long to be them. brief tragedies that wrap themselves up in moments. a few cliche verses and then life lives itself again.

they'll never know. they'll think they've been. but those are only the first few pages to a story that never ends.

05-25-04 tuesday 11pm

i write. like writing has some meaning. as if dying is willing. i write. of suicide and similar things. the conundrums of feeling, but unselfishly. the paradox of loving that which isn't loving me. or not enough at least.

i write. like a pen on fire. wishing that those reasons would subside.

blowing out candles only to have them light again. making wishes over swet buttercream frostings only to find that they can't hear them. and that there are no gods. no gods who care. or no gods at all. what's the difference in the end. when life tells you it's got to be that much harder yet. and it's always been hard. and it just doesn't care. it just makes you sicker yet. wanting to make it better, but impotent. knowing you desertve better and wishing that i oould provide it.

i write because life is always happening and should be recorded. because what we feel now is so volatilel. it deserves a better stage. some kind of permanence amongst all that change. some sort of reason to subsist when nothing else can offer such.

it's just a song that tried but couldn't rhyme. it mght've been beautiful but it never had the chance to try. it's just your life. and what clings to it. that's the scary part. it really doesn't matter what you feel. it only matteres how it might effect someone else's.

life is a connection. a high satellite begging commuciataion form any kind of source. there's never been any reason to live except that you want to. except that there are people who want you to. what else could any life request. other than the knowledge that another life needs them.

maybe a saviour. maybe a promise. but those are just to be broken. even in sickness you are well. because happiness has taken you. becasue all those reasons are immutable. because god help us, life is procreation. in death you stil live. in them you are ever present.

to friends you might confess. but to your family you submit. to friends you may give. but to your family you are always in debt. love might make you feel alive, but it's transient. love is a whisper. family is a constant. live on. foroever in them. but live now knowing that you are needed. the one burden that is a blessing. the only love that ever meant anything.