Dark Poetry Prose Poetry October 12, 2004 Dark Poetic Prose

10-12-04 tuesday 10:02pm

feeling is a stranger. someone i don't know.

no smiles. no tears. no laughter. no crying.

just pages. pages with words on them.

everything i feel caged. like a mouse in an experiment.

all my feelings are just strangers that i'm overhearing at a party i wasn't even invited to attend.

i'm eavesdropping on my heart's conversations. am i less than human?

that all these feelings inside feel like aliens. an invasion. all these things i feel are strangers. and i don't even want to try to get to know them.

is that what other people see? less than human? a stranger to myself. disconnected from feeling. incapable of emotion genuine?

only words. is that all i am. to myself. to them. only words scribbled when no one's looking. dead fetus of a heart long aborted.

is that all i am. just words. is that all i know. all i can love. words. dark linear shadows cast by all the feelings i cannot approach.

less than human. more than alone. words. feeble footbridges to cross such deep oceans. words. not enough to reach them. not even close.

10-12-04 tuesday 10:54pm

i couldn't give myself to anyone. not myself. not any single person. so i gave myself away to the world instead. faceless strangers. knowing i'd never have to look at them. knowing even if they knew my secrets, i'd never have to know them.

i turned my life into a sonnet. my heart into a verse. because the only kind of feeling i could deal with was in written words.

i had to release it somehow. so rather than giving it to any one person, i gave it to the world. knowing that anything they would read, woulnd't be any different from reading any other dead poet.

i thought that the sun could rise, but i could somehow not have to see. that in my world it could stay dark. because dark was where i was meant to be.

i thought i would've found an end by now. some way out. i always wanted people to be kinder, but then i could never show them why they should be.

all i ever had for them were metaphors they didn't understand. black pages with white type that would make references to frailties they couldn't grasp.

all the years i've been writing are because i've been trying to say the things i can't. but it wasn't until recently that i realized instead of giving me my voice, it's been taking it away.