PLANET ARET
. . . CONVERSATIONS IN POETRY . . . . CONVERSATIONS IN PROSE . . . .
...a friend is a stranger waiting to be met...
That Hour Of The Night
THERE'S ALWAYS HOPE... (I HOPE...) THERE'S ALWAYS HOPE... (I HOPE...) THERE'S ALWAYS HOPE... (I HOPE...) THERE'S ALWAYS HOPE...
PLANET ARET
. . . CONVERSATIONS IN POETRY . . . . CONVERSATIONS IN PROSE . . . .
...a friend is a stranger waiting to be met...
That Hour Of The Night
September 6, 1998
night has mostly been my friend
I treasure the silence
away from the pace
of the daily rat race
that i most dread. caught between
the darkness and the dawn, i pace,
waiting and watching for the new
day to return the demons to their
crypt to await another nightfall.
I once thought there were monsters under my bed
and they would get me if I turned out the light
I'd keep myself tucked in, farthest from the edge
and sometimes I'd awake shivering with fright
and one night I woke so scared
I just wanted to hide somewhere
confusion led me to do something
that I'd neve ave done if I was aware
I decided to hide, to crawl under my bed
I fell asleep there and woke up alright
and suddenly I was no longer afraid
to unfold myself and welcome the night...
so silent inside and out. no cars
break the stillness, the ghosts
that haunt me are winding down,
energy spent, their voices grow
faint. i weep in silence.
and in the night stillness
my muses appear
like spirits or ghost friends
they are everywhere
maybe it's just my own
imagination
but there's no denying
the sweet sensation
I can express here
as their inspiration
even if it's only
mental masturbation
today is almost here and i'll be
able to sleep, but for now i'm
alert, hypersensitive to every
creak, every tick of the clock,
every beat of my heart.
perhaps it is because I love myself
that the nights quiet is my friend
as senses can open much more at night
than in the days raucous noise and light
and each moment can become so much more
as each beat of my heart tells me I'm sure
I am alive and have so much to give
and in these words I share the life I live
until someone comes to share more in this space
I create my garden of words cuz I care
and when somebody comes along...
I have more than empty time and space to share
slowly the world outside my window
brightens. my tears slow and finally
dry and i am left with an empty feeling
that is worse than the pain. there is
only me here and i am trapped inside
myself with no hope of escape until
the last shadow has been banished by
the sun.
sometimes I see the sadness of the day
as people put on their masks for the play
and sometimes I think people are not real in the light
but only when asleep in the dark of the night...
who shares their true feelings in the light of day?
the business of life always seems in the way
don't get personal is what most people say
it's just a job, something to do each day...
and the when we go home and we're allowed
we find ourselves alone and we forget how
to feel or share our true feelings inside
and somehow we feel the promise of life lied
but maybe the answer is not in days pride
but rather in all the night tears we've cried
oh if we save them somehow they might be
the essense of what makes us so lonely
and if I share them somehow I might see
so many others feeling like me...
what would i give for the sound of another
voice, for another's presence? my soul?
sometimes I need to be alone
to write the words that make sense of me
to figure out all I feel and see
and understand all I want to do and be
it takes a lot of trust in self
to sit alone up on a shelf
and find a solitary peace
that allows true desires release
but it's the only way I know
to let my happiness show
and to find what I'm about
and to let my true self out
without this silent alone time
confusion can come fill my rhyme
and I have less to offer me
so less to offer you really
so please understand why you see
sometimes I must act selfishly
for if I do not love myself
I can not love anyone else
and the more, the better I love myself
the more, better I can love someone else
always striving for the perfect peace
the perfect love, perfect release
oh impossible, elusive dream
never to be or so it would seem
the striving for me is the essense of desire
always reaching for deeper and higher
never to feel there's nothing left to do
always leaving room for the dream to come true
satisfied not with just all I can see
but with knowing I reach for all that can be...
and in this deepest hour of the night
when I sit alone with these words I write
the silence allows sweet clarity
and this is the way I find peace in me
it would be perfect except for desire
to want to share more - and deeper and higher
so here I am again reaching out to you
wondering how much of me's getting through
the words... I write
in this...
that hour of the night
almost,
but not quite yet.
... a friend is a stranger waiting to be met ... a friend is a stranger wanting to be met ... a friend is a stranger willing to be met ...
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