Dark Poetry Prose Poetry September 9, 2004 Dark Poetic Prose

9:59pm 9-09-04 thursday

i'm trying to decide. am i dead or am i alive. i'm looking at the ground and asking it if it feels my feet there. do they make any marks or am i walking on air.

multiple personality hearts attached to tunnel vision minds. bathe in the upstream of your own contradictions. it's a long swim through it to the object of your happiness. you can choose either direction, but once you have you must stick with it

i thought i left the window open a crack before i went to sleep. all set to see the world eyes cannot see. i thought i had left it ajar a bit to let the outside flow in. only i woke up in a bed stifled and stagnant to find that i hadn't.

i thought you were the sunrise and i the sunset. that we were the sort of opposites that would compliment. i used to think what i make dark you would light up. and in turn what you made too stark i could softens its edges.

but that last horizon i sunk into you never found your way back on high. i waited. i looked for it. but you just didn't rise.

10:59pm 9-09-04 thursday

i can see those voices like a tidal wave. the smell of saltwater and the threat of impact. i can see their voices like others might hear them. like coloring books begging for a child's crayon skin.

move close. to lick the lips of chance. move away and wonder at how near we were to never going back.

you know how it is. how it does. wafers between the cream. and you bite down to feel. to feel that grit curmble against your teeth. to feel that explosion as the sugar admits.

origins. that's all it is. where you came from luring you back again. memory like a polaroid developing in your hands. you shake a bit and suddenly what was blurry comes into focus. it's one dimensional. it's not at all real, but you remember how it was once. the eye lies to the brain and convinces it to trust.

all celluloid lies, but who cares. truth is what we make of it.

i listen too long and then i forget. how to hear them. how to respond if. i listen so much that i forget how to talk. and they lay there on the edge of my response. looking down into its depths.

maybe i'm just over. like a movie that has told its story. the screen is black. nothing left except the credits and the soundtrack.

and they listen. they listen while the tape rewinds. because its the end, but it isn't finished.