Dear Dark Diary



i don't even know what day this is

pain & darkness prepare to bleed their oozing etchings onto paper through this loser's agonized analysis, seething and breathing with unholy vitality...


embraced within my dreams
  enriched by my words
    (or were those screams i heard?)

it's funny,
  with all of the times i've known everything,
    how often i know nothing,
i know the cracks show
  and the lacks i Noe
but where and how to go?
  where and how to grow?

have you ever been scared of a scar
  & discovered it was really a scab?
    with true healing never happening
      & it's torn off to the same old bleeding?

not quite drowning i guess,
  but floundering none-the-less.


is this tomorrow yet?  or perhaps it's yesterday forever

what if my words don't work anymore
  and i'm the pathetic failure from before?
maybe amazing isn't meant to be mine
  and i'll remember all of the impotent lines.

what if revisited are my youthful ways
  and unrequited once more rules my days?
what if my interest
  is only cloying eagerness?

remember when intensity and intelligence were irrelevant,
  emotional emoting mattered only to clint,
    & sweet silly sensitivity
      meant merely lonely eccentricity?


ugly inside
  or outside
    or maybe both.
unamazing inside
  or outside
       or probably both.
here we go Cyranoe...

my existence
  bears little relevance.
just a speck of dust,
  mostly just a mote.

it's been a long lovely while
  since empty was my smile.
but now my bright blue eyes are dull,
    as is my soul.


can someone please enlighten me as to which ******* day this might be?

re-destined for the old & alone zone,
  reseated upon this pitiful throne.
And darkness descends,
  doubt deepens,
    destroys all upon which i depend.

Hope escapes & takes passion's throes,
  my crescendo merely an ancient echo.
i never knew i'd be nothing again,
  praying for a new somewhen.

a powerless poet's worthless words
  will try to fly into her wonderful world.
but their wings will be insufficient
  because they were created by clint.

imagined is his cool,
  this jester's just a fool.
he was always only for fun,
  never actually touched anyone.

unable to matter to another,
  my tender heart is torn asunder,
    the silken tatters shattered,
      the silver shards shredded.
        (is the emerald dead?)


****** boiling tears make my eyes shriek,
  stream sizzling scars down my cheek,
    drip into puddle pools of pain,
      and soak into the spreading stain...

seven years young, always sharing a still smile.
You find him decked out and drowning in choir robes, with
Golden curls placed gently on a hammered head.


This boy plays piano in a dead sanctuary
Following familial rule,
until he let it all go.

the boy began playing music unwritten,
off hymnal sheets
Harmonious melodies stream from dancing fingertips,
Intrinsically clearing the once-cloudy air with vivacious voodoo.

The boy’s fingers groove up and down the piano,
His touch graces ivory keys and
His foot performs a rhythmic pedal-pressing tango.
He calls the audience: everywhere, eyes ignite like flame:
A communal headturn towards the piano.

They need more.
They crave it.

All the sanctuary people rise from the seats,
Abandon their pews, they enclose this boy.
No means to scare him, they want to experience.
The audience turns their ears towards the piano’s emissions,  

Emanating from within

Inhaling soundwaves—
Intoxicatingly sweet.
They absorb his notes into every pore of their skin,
Fueling their bodies with musical nutrients.
Electric jolts flow right into the room’s extremities.
They let down their hair and begin to dance.

Until a brief noise, distinctive throat-clearing, came through the speakers;
Heads shifted to the podium, only to see their ticked-off pastor,
Smirking and waving sarcastically.

Discipline.

The congregation stumbled back to their seats.
The boy stopped playing.
Ending the enchantment, killing the sanctuary.

Air again filled with ‘God’s voice’
through the mouth of the speaker.

A speaker who just wanted attention.
The boy slipped out of the piano seat, out the church’s doors.

You want to chase after him, give him a ride
Where could the boy be going in the middle of the storm?



The pastor’s prodigal son.

Another night set to be stuck in your head
Where your heart stabs at your consciousness
begging for you to listen
and your mind whispers just hold
on a little longer
Until this storm passes
You've always had a hard time standing still when someone looks at you with soft eyes and open arms
It's best to run
until your chest feels tight
and your lungs fill with lost love letters
Touches can be void of affection
and feel so much better
than if they were laced
with expectations and promises
and fear
So turn over your pillow
so it's cool side presses against your skin
and pretend you're not alone tonight

So this is basically a rant and things I can't really tell people.

To all the friends,
who I thought I needed-
I just realized that I don't.
Because I am done with worrying
about what to think
and what to say to you.  
Done with debating
what it is.
And done with **** people.

To all of my friends
who I think I still need-
I don't.
Restraining myself from telling you about my every day
Isn't easy
But now sending myself emails
has become too habitual
I found a substitute for you.                                                             ­                                                                 ­              

To both of my parents,
thank you.
I don't agree with anything you say
But up till now you were always right
(usually)
So I don't know who is wrong this time
Sorry for all the problems I have caused

To my little brother-
you did get meaner.
And I wish that you could be
one of the people who don't mock me
It's okay though
But know that I will never be
"fun" again.
sorry

To the girl who thinks this is for her:
It's not.
To the girl who thinks it isn't for her:
It is.
I'll still always be there for you
Because it is you that I do need

How many minutes does it take for the light from the Sun to travel to Earth?
Easy, 8 minutes and 20 seconds.
What is the distance from the Earth to the Moon?
Easy, 238,900 miles exactly.
What color are her eyes?
... Something gold. A bright golden brown. The flecks show up mostly when she is in the light. Her skin glows florescent, but her eyes deepen with curiosity and an unimaginable spark illuminates within her.
...So, Brown?
I guess you could say that.
How fast does light travel?
Easy, 186,282 miles per second. Hit me with something harder.
Okay, What is her best feature?
Some would say her body and some would say her mind. But I love the thing that will never deteriorate, Her soul. Her soul is the most beautiful part about her. It is what is within her as well as what shows outside on a sunny day. It is what picks the flowers outside of her house and kisses me gently. It is who recommends music and tells me that she loves me more than I love her (even though that is false, I love her so much more) and that gives me hope in the midst of fear.
Her soul is what touches me, not her fingers. Her soul is living and breathing, not only inside of her, but inside of me as well.
...Do you really love her?
Guess you could say she's a part of me now.
Yes?
*Yes

On a Tuesday afternoon
we are all in one place so
an outing is long over-due.
Let’s go out for drinks, I suggest
and we agree—as long as we can wear whatever.

On a Tuesday night
I pick the girls up, avidly
avoiding the gaze of your window
in a building forced to live above you.

In Geronimo’s on a Tuesday night
I order ‘Red Sun’, she orders ‘Spicy Blood Orange’
& the other orders wine.
Mine is pink—it’s too strong, no more please.
Well you said ‘for drinks’! they complain
as if I’ve betrayed a pact.

She orders another, ‘Appaloosa Sangria’
and she’s so tiny when the waitress looks at my full glass
—Embarrassing.
I hate the sliding bathroom door where I am
alone with my thoughts for 2.7 minutes but
I’m antsy—time to go

In my Audi on a Tuesday night
I want dessert; I want a donut.
Dunkin it is.

In Dunkin Donuts on a Tuesday night
Tiny tells me she wants to cuddle
sometimes. She’s drunk.
I order a chocolate glazed donut to a poor man with Hispanic features
who is working alone
The homeless lady won’t stop talking and we wont stop laughing
in the Dunkin bathroom.
I heard everything, she says as we leave and giggle in terror.

In my Audi on a late Tuesday night
I don’t want to go back to school yet—I have an idea.
Post Road is empty; I’m hyper-aware
of the black Dodge pick-up driving past.
I don’t question if it’s you.
Did you see me?
Of course you saw me, my car is
unavoidable; it’s **** & white.

In The Grape on a late Tuesday night
there is no one I know so I trail
Wine and Tiny trails me.
I know friends of friends, say Hi, hi, hi
You look cute, so do you! Yay! hug Okay bye, bye, bye
Tiny drinks another with Wine and I’m still
sober where I want to be,
making memories without you, ha.
But it’s time to go back to hellhole and these people kinda ****.

In my Audi for the last time on a late Tuesday night
Mahan lot full, duh.
Quick Center lot full, duh.
Bellarmine lot full, ****!
Regis lot—Where’s your car? It’s got to be here . . .
black Dodge pick-up backed in nicely, I wish I could park beside.
What did you do on a Tuesday night?
Regis lot full, are you kidding?
Tiny has motion sickness, she’s quite a drag
I wonder if my friend nearby, with the golf cart, can drive us back
But **** it, we can walk ten minutes in the cold ‘cuz
I’ve got my jacket and gloves.

In McInnes on a late Tuesday night
Wine goes to bed, Tiny calls for a reinforcement
who is waiting at our door.
Questions with an upward inflection fill my bedroom as if she can’t
take care of herself—her support can barely support himself.
I write a long note to you on my computer on my bed because you ****.
I get a Do you mind if Support sleeps over just this once to make sure I’m okay? text
Which means I won’t get sleep due to overweight heavy breathing
Fine, I’m backed into a corner.
& I know that after my third attempt of slumber, I will end up crying
on the couch in the living room. I should have stayed home.

On an early Wednesday morning
I stuff a bag of clothes, my retainer case, and Berner & Holes and
I power-walk to my car in Jogues—7 minutes, probably or less
& drive the 5 minutes home before the tears fall.
There’s a cop parked beside Pine Creek Deli,
I wonder if he wonders why an Audi is up so late.

In [address] on an early Wednesday morning
my dad is in his boxers in the middle of the stairs.
What are you doing? he asks and I snap back because
Isn’t it obvious what someone would be doing at 2:43 am?
My bed is quiet and my mind is loud wondering—
Did you have fun tonight? for the both of us.

It's not the rain
that makes my eyes wet.
It hasn't rained in forty days.
Nights are long and quiet.
The silence cuts to bone.

It wasn't rain that quenched the fire.
It hasn't rained in forty nights.
The well is dry... so am I.
Nights I sit in silence
while it rains.

r ~ 4/19/14