For a species that
Always has hooks in on another,
We are awful at supporting anyone else.
The falling tear and rip
Ropes and hooks snapping
Bent steel buckling and blowing through the air like shrapnel
The fabric exploding apart like a gunshot.
This leaving means nothing to some
And everything
For me.
Its not a matter of missing or
Loving
Or the sorrow that sits in the pit
Of your guts and waits
To break out.
Life happens while I sit
Still
And obsolete.
No longer the wanted one
And
Haven’t been
For years basically
But that’s what life delivers
In between the cracks of progress.
We mirror our culture:
Bored with everything
Constantly needing the new
Never wanting to sit and wait
Or taking the time to explore the familiar,
And that’s modern love.
Worthless
Broken
And idling at the curb with
no chance of salvation.
Nobody picks up the strays,
They find their way to the
Trash
And we continue moving forward
Even the trash.
Some lives were not meant for glory
And some are
Meant for much less
But we live all the same.
Love will always get back up
And triumph over hatred.
Its never easy or
Straightforward
But love finds a way.
These is no romanticism in this,
No getting back together now,
No kids,
No dogs,
No marriage,
Just love.
Love is enough,
Even when it is not enough
To stay together.
We put each other through hell
In the name of love
And only the truly wretched mean it
There is no sense of The Good
Or Evil
With love,
Events just are.
It took a gorgeous 24 hours to remind me that life is a difficult thing,
But love can pull you through it.
Never under estimate the love of friends and family,
But also of those who have loved you willingly,
There are no greater surprises in life,
No greater defeats
And no greater victories
Than in love.
Thank you for loving me,
The sad, enigmatic wanderer,
And thank you for sharing your life with me.
I love you,
And
Goodbye.
It starts somewhere in your guts, and then it shoots through your frame like 1501 volts. It began as a faint drumming in your heart, a marching band filling in for an army. arrows sticking out of their pelt drums and occasinally, into their torn biceps or calf muscles.The drumming begins without worry for loss of life or the wounded, and everyone drums somehow. A rag-tag band of the dying become something more, and the wrath of love has removed the plagues in their hearts somehow. Occasionally a train needs to slap you at full speed and punch you through reality to force change. There is only healing left to do, as long as there is living to be done, and we all must plnt one foot, one toe at a time, into the ground. We must use the drums as shields in the phalanx, bands together in our soul and march. There is never a goal, but march on. Life is a journey, and the march is all that matters.
We make ghosts of our mistakes, and our guilt is powerful enough to hammer us straight through the ground with one fel swing. There is no escape for those dancing within a nail, and no salvation for the generation of big kids. All the big-ass winners dance in clubs contained in the shaft of a nail, waiting to get their head struck.
The hammer always comes down in retribution, and occasionally, by chance, but it always comes down. It's not the law of gravity, it is the law of the absolute.Love does not play in karma, as god does not roll dice, and love will strike you down like the lone tree on a hill in a hurricane.
The force that hits the hammer does not grip the wrong shaft, it is not human. The inhuman, immaterial power defines the law of humanity. Wo/Man forgets what does not suit him, and sprinkles around the facts that do, until he trips and loses his face from his own webs. What good is a face for the soulless, and what use is thief in a world of NOTHING.
It's dark in the cave, and it's too humid. Sweat mixes with the dew from the depths of some awful place. You never really broke a sweat. Indifference clapped you down like the weight of a galaxy, then and now.
There is no apology big enough
for the injuries and mistakes of love,
nor should there be.
Love is the most destructive force
in the history of mankind,
and in every intimate connection.
We have slaughtered million for love,
torn apart the lives of our closest friend,
and that was barely the opening act.
What memory stings like love lost?
What gap in your life cannot be restored,
except by more of the same?
What would push you to destroy the fabric
of the only person that mattered?
There is an agony in love
and a pain unlike any other
and we are children on the
playground
constantly falling from the top of the
monkey
BARS
occasionally splitting lips
sometimes being knocked out,
on the way down from the top.
We tread up the bottom with caution,
but once balance is gained,
we run like cheetahs on the prowl,
and that's when we end up a mess
in a pile on the floor that was made of sand,
but felt lie concrete,
in stillness.
Defeat is never so swift or total
as in love.
There are not enough tears to express sorrow,
or enough violent acts to express rage.
Not in any true way,
the best we have are words,
because actions seem to fail.
One man,
shaking in his sadness,
body convulsing in fits of tears,
and rolling ever so gently back and forth,
trying to rock himself back to sanity.
and it is not true enough.
The stare of betrayed lovers,
digging through years of happiness,
and the built up human coniditoning of love,
to pierce the soul of their former other,
with the hatred of centuries,
fails to explain it.
There are an infinite combination of words,
that act as silhouettes
-at best-
in defining how we feel.
The word love means everything,
but we can't define it in an acceptable way,
and nobody has the same definition
in their mind r their heart.
Love,
hatred,
sadness,
and what else matters?
What have I become,
my sweetest friend?
Everyone ounce of trust,
fell apart back then.
I spend the hours lately,
lost inside my head.
Vultures surround me,
claiming me for dead.
Where will you run to,
when the hammer drops?
Who will take you home,
when the parties stop?
And where has my head gone?
it's dragging on the gound.
I reach out to the world for love,
but there's no one else around.
What have I become,
my sweetest friend?
No apology could stand,
with such a vicious end.
I have felt some of the lowest emotions of my short life in the past two weeks. This will not come as a surprise to my friends or family. Without going into details, few things worse than what have happened over the last two weeks could happen to bomb a person's life.
This is not woe-is-me. In fact, I want to speak wih hope and optimism for the future. Just over a week ago, I lost my mover and yesterday, I lost that friend. Not lost in a sense of detah, but maybe permanently lost all the same. What difference a Christmas makes.
Last Christmas I almost bought a ring, and this Christmas is driven towards a strong hatred. The hatred I have dropped, it has not been easy. I awoke this morning shaking with rage, I sat down and watched both hands shaking uncontrollably. There was only one way life could go from here, and there are less than a handful of moment spent here on the bedrock.
Ths hatred has gone, a steely resolve to move forward has taken over. The love remains, despite the events that have led to this circus. To be clear, the fult does not rest with any one individual. A multitude of failues and mistakes needed to take place for everything to come together as it did. Mistakes on my part, mistakes on her part, and that;s the nature of the beast.
We walk into commitment with our own failings as people, and we hope that we can somehow weather the storm. Sometimes the storm is too much, or it tears the roof off our houses. Sometimes the roof can be repaired, but occasionally it just gets patched up until it breaks again. It never ends.
In the end, there is only love. You can hate, and you can be betrayed. You can suffer and wallow in it. These things never overcome love, no matter how brutal they are.
The scissors of time have tried to take their toll on you, but you're resilient. That was one thing that should never be forgotten, you never gave up on your life. The slash marks were stories, and the scars brought thoughts of you being your father's daughter.
It was never easy for us after we 'earned' a title. You acting your age and me acting twenty years too old. We knew life, for us, was a matter of time. We had our window. It will never permanently close, but it might never open again.
We were wrong to each other, but not in some deep, methodical way. In the stupid, easy way, where the audience screams out for us to act better, but we wink at them. There was never any audience, and we were less clever than we thought.
The end of the track should have hit before we made a home, but the minecart found different rails laced with the same problems. "Us" is a story in two acts, neither with a happy ending, although the first part is closest – because we leave happy. But, as always with us, tragedy struck early in the next act.
We rarely had heaven on earth, or hell for that matter. We were somewhere of our own devising, not purgatory. We caught the glow of heaven and the wrath of hell, sometimes back-to-back. Love and hatred alternating, hitting us like left and right hooks, until we were so punch drunk from one another we could barely stand. Too swollen to kiss. Somehow, we could always remember.
We thought like pathetic idiots. Blame was thrown around like sugar on ice – someone had replaced the salt. The problems never went anywhere, and we lived historical to the bitter end. We have fallen into familiar issues. The homebody left brooding and contemplating love, the adventurer out meeting the new. Neither leads to happiness, because the wrong questions are asked.
The scars are a mirror into your heart. They are you in the truest sense, no matter how drop-dead gorgeous you can look in a dress. You're not meant for those nights, but you forget everytime, and there's something here about glory days. There's an old soul, small town girl, being hidden by the glamour somehow. The drinks are hard, company weak and the meaning empty, but it shoots one more night in the head.
What glory days are left for the thinker out of time, out of love? What sweet thoughts could dance long enough to pass the days? How many clean, well-lighted places could ease this old mind? The answer is the same.
There is no such thing as a guilt or remorse, in any meaningful way. Guilt and remorse mean little when the past is fixed and decisions have been made. Choice is a funny thing like that. The freedom to choose, but choices and actions become unfree once taken. The past makes us all unfree, and it sunk us like the hand of poseidon around our necks.
I love you, I'm sorry. Life is hard and my letters dance around the unsaid.
Andy Veilleux 