The Darkness I Revive
Posted: Fri May 18, 2007 3:14 pm
sometimes it really doesn't seem right.
that what i want is so bad.
that every day is a fight.
i feel like i make every day a fight.
that i can throw myself into the darkness so easily.
why can't i find some contentment?
why must i draw shadows on every silver lining?
the charcoal crayon i use to slightly mar each page
it's so much a habit
i don't rip out the pages now, sure.
i don't take a black pen to desecrate the lines of every day.
but i can let go of this small destruction.
i just choose not to.
i bring it out from behind a bright demeanor to spoil what i need.
continuous light.
and i cloak the windows in mourning black myself.
it's only late at night, for a little while, but it's still my own hand that pulls them down to cover the twilight.
i don't have to keep pulling my ghosts into the room
to dance with me, spin with me, waltz with me across the floor
until i feel the death i used to feel.
i don't need a graveside reminder
the flowers i save for my burial decorum are dying away
but i keep them barely alive.
i don't have to veil my bowed head in solemn pondering
donning black lace gloves, beautifully silent
but i still attend the wake.
every day i whisper the noxious secrets of the past
breathing deadly sorrows that should be far away.
the try to rise and take their virulence off.
but i keep them down. i keep the sorrow, the dried lillies, the scent of black nothingness.
i hold on to them, just a wisp.
because they hold my wisdom
my art
my spirit
my soul
the brightness makes me only as lovely as the others.
the darkness lets me fall from them and retreat into my mind.
i must separate them.
the darkness may descend, but it is not my love.
my love is only mine regardless.
i needed the darkness to give it to me, but never to keep it.
that what i want is so bad.
that every day is a fight.
i feel like i make every day a fight.
that i can throw myself into the darkness so easily.
why can't i find some contentment?
why must i draw shadows on every silver lining?
the charcoal crayon i use to slightly mar each page
it's so much a habit
i don't rip out the pages now, sure.
i don't take a black pen to desecrate the lines of every day.
but i can let go of this small destruction.
i just choose not to.
i bring it out from behind a bright demeanor to spoil what i need.
continuous light.
and i cloak the windows in mourning black myself.
it's only late at night, for a little while, but it's still my own hand that pulls them down to cover the twilight.
i don't have to keep pulling my ghosts into the room
to dance with me, spin with me, waltz with me across the floor
until i feel the death i used to feel.
i don't need a graveside reminder
the flowers i save for my burial decorum are dying away
but i keep them barely alive.
i don't have to veil my bowed head in solemn pondering
donning black lace gloves, beautifully silent
but i still attend the wake.
every day i whisper the noxious secrets of the past
breathing deadly sorrows that should be far away.
the try to rise and take their virulence off.
but i keep them down. i keep the sorrow, the dried lillies, the scent of black nothingness.
i hold on to them, just a wisp.
because they hold my wisdom
my art
my spirit
my soul
the brightness makes me only as lovely as the others.
the darkness lets me fall from them and retreat into my mind.
i must separate them.
the darkness may descend, but it is not my love.
my love is only mine regardless.
i needed the darkness to give it to me, but never to keep it.