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...