Dark Poetry Prose Poetry June 17, 2004 Dark Poetic Prose

6:51am 6-17-04 thursday

in daylight's darkness there's a different kind of peace. one that listens silent. an emissary of forgiveness that in my head does speak.

not to them. only myself. this sometimes human and often drone. i've long since forgiven all of them. but myself. myself is still sometimes so hard to reconcile with.

in the shadow of the leaves. while the sun still hugs the thicker clouds. this portion of the world i'm in still sleeping; not woken yet from most its dreams. the keys do tap out an all together different sound.

not that i could change, but that change will come without. not that i am hopeful, but that hopelessness still has its doubts.

7am 6-17-04 thursday

i don't remember last night well. only that it made a lot of speeches. that it spoke like a politician praising both sides equally. and that now this morning i must decide which of those lies i will believe.

i don't remember exactly what it felt like when you'd make me whole again. only that it was a precarious happiness that always skirted so close to the edge. and that now after all this while of missing it i must decide what i'll love next.

i only know that the words come more often now. if they have more reasons they don't share them. they always only paint partial pictures. and sentences half finished. i've always known they were the captain and i just the ship. but until now, they always seemed to have a course. until now, land never seemed so very distant.

6-17-04 thursday 9:55pm

it's dark, but it almost looks light to me. since this is not nearly the darkest it's ever been.

this is home. at least for now. this is all right in a bell curve sense.

i guess i'm tired. from all that writing that i've done. cause i don't know how i feel right now. or if i feel anything.

perhaps those vulturous verses finally picked this carcass clean. and only decaying bones remain. no meat.

it seems the storm has passed. and my skin is drying up. funny thing is, i find myself waiting on the next to come.

i feel myself blinking and yet it seems like my eyes are closed. that there's nothing i can see beyond the boundaries of this narrow scope.

all shells peeled. hard-boiled unborn ready for consumption. tear away the skin. to find that liquid's turned to solid within.

it was only a clever paint job. it never really was a thick as you saw it.

it began with just one tiny fracture. one small flaw in the outside armor. and suddenly everything the was supposed to be inside was out.

06-17-04 thursday 10:10pm

where reality intersects truth. that is where regret does collect. like warm dew drops on talk stalks of grass. morning greets them hesitant. tiny teardrops the night before has left.

what i can't have i tell myself i never wanted. what isn't to be, i tell myself shouldn't have been.

i never lie to anyone except myself. because being honest with myself lately is much too heavy of a weight.

the flaw in these verses. the fundamental weakness they have. is that they see too clearly. that they tell me truths i'd be better off not knowing.

and the deviation in my heart is that it takes so long after they've let go of for it to come to the same conclusion. it's crippled bcause it doesn't love for the return of it. only because it's chosen them.

06-17-04 thursday 10:32pm

i could've written all i can. like a pen out of ink. scribbling. making indentations in the paper that no one else can see.

maybe that's how it's always been. that i see the impression so clearly, but all other eyes skate over their ridges. that the colors i perceive in them belong to prisms only i can see.

i'm really just tired of writing like this. coloring in pages with the pigments of my loneliness.

i'm so tired of pretending that better is still something i believe in. just like all other saviors, i don't believe in them.

i guess i wanted you to believe in me if only for a moment. that i could be the someone i knew you'd envisioned. taut purple orchids sucking in the sunlight. long slender green stems with liliting leaves that would beckon.

i just wanted to believe in my life as much as you had. as if water could actually turn to wine. and flesh could be bread.

but i'm not your jesus and you're not mine. and he was just a carpenter with schytzophrenia. he never saved anyone. he just killed himself. just like all poets do in time.

i might do well to find a god. some sort of salvation. a beautiful lie to cling to as heaven grows ever more distant.

but those methods are for the weaker among us. those who can't face reality without a crutch. and thougth i'm not strong, i'm still not willing to be that powerless.

06-17-04 thursday 10:50pm

"every tear betrayed" - that's what they sang. as i listened . perfect music accompanying it. so true it is. in the story they told and every story that's ever been.

just wonder should i be trying to find my way back to that former person. isn't that past now. not meant to be ressurected.

and if i should progress. towward what ends. wht goals have i set. what fantasies of happiness am i to covet.

cause what has been is more than enough. i want noothing more. just sleep. long and sublime. eternal and patient.

waters do rise and ebb. days and nights do exchange. flesh promises, but cannot deliver. it gives good memories, but no future prospects.

and there's nothing for me anyway. in this condition that i am. only the hope tthat those whom will know how much they meant. only the wish that they're lives will only get better yet.