Dark Poetry Prose Poetry May 31, 2004 Dark Poetic Prose

7:10am 5-31-04 monday

this lovely suicide.

i'll never know anything of what life is really about.

how it charms eager hearts like cobras in baskets. how it makes living something to be wanted instead of being something you wish had never happened.

this lovely suicide.

my mistress. my siren.

i'll never know anything except longing. curiousity. doubt.

watching it like tv. moving images do promise something real. some distant truth much too far away for me to ever feel.

this lovely suicide.

so less than tragic. so much a life that never happened.

5-31-04 monday 9:05pm

i'm so in touch with what's inside me lately. maybe because i'm so out of touch with the world outside of.

i find myself falling in love with the images i've created. that never used to be. but they feel so much like some lost, muted part of me that i can communicate with by no other means.

all this time spent alone. perhaps i'm becoming a narcissist. but then again. there are no other choices.

maybe there really is something wrong with me, but who else can i be?

i was reading. it didn't scare me, since i don't care. but it occured to me i might be disturbed. that those words were much too dark to come from a "healthy" person.

but then i don't know. i've never written this. and only admitted it once. by accident. but i don't hate myself. haven't since teen angst gave way to adult logic. i just hate life. the "civilizaton" mankind has created. how it feeds on the weak. how close minded it can be. the way there's an outside and an in. and it never changes. the way there's the very poor and the very rich. and no one cares.

how so much steadily becomes less. how love lies. and friends forget. how loud time laughs as it makes all those shallow cuts. it all seems so pointless. to struggle and suffer alone and for what?

9:45pm 5-31-04 monday

hidden cameras in your head cause hands to print images. crude photographs of something unremembered, but not forgotten.

i think there really is something wrong with me, but there's no one else i want to be.

i think maybe something terrible happens to the soul when after first being born, infants don't get their mother's hold. maybe, that's a good excuse. but what do i know.

i think there's also a balance. to everything. not everyone can be happy.

in the brave new worlds of aldus huxley, mood altering drugs made people zombies.

i can't do that. can't give away the one thing that i admire about myself. can't trade this art for supposed mental health. knowing in my gut that it's a lie. no different from any other drug. it's not medicine. it's denial.

maybe there's really something wrong with me. but then again, i could just be seeing things much too clearly. unwilling to avert my stare. unwilling to swallow the lies. i think i'd rather go hungry.

there'll be plenty of time to die. when the moment asks me. there will be nothing missed and no regret. just a lingering curiosity at why they all were so hungry to live.