You are not a loaded gun.
You are a wet bullet,
useless without some time
an external heat source,
and something to
hammer you from
behind.
And maybe you're a
blank.
Author: andyveilleux
stand and fight
I've been a poet since 14,
and they used to laugh,
and chuckle among
themselves.
Talentless,
spineless,
cowards.
Afraid to face their own
emotions.
Terrified of anything,
real.
Running only gets you,
so far,
when,
your problems are faster,
and never tire.
Stand,
fight,
live well.
a wretched success
I can't change
but I
tried.
At least hard enough
for that guilty
piece of my
mind to
run and
hide.
I pretend it vanished,
but I know where it sits.
It sits in the old me,
the dead,
molted,
me,
hiding,
and waiting.
Waiting for nothing.
It's return will be a touch
too late to save me
from myself.
Is that a pity,
or success?
empty girl
An echo follows you,
not from behind you,
but from within.
Hollow girl,
empty words.
There is no
quick
fix
for your boredom,
or the absent mind
you protect with venom.
Empty girl,
hollow thoughts.
the value of a man with a gun
Thoughts beat as sledgehammers,
sieging my fragile, near-dawn mind,
The answer to the question is easy,
and therefore too hard to accept.
Wordsmiths are not what they were,
in the gun-slinging days,
when words oft failed.
No one values a man with a gun,
like they value one who can still
cheat
lie
beg
and generally be a scum-sucking
waste
of
flesh.
First-hand experience is trump,
and I can throw around bowers
with the kings of the underworld.
What happened to the sweet genius?
Where lay the inoocent, golden locks
of my youth?
When does a broken man,
oft mistaken for a saint,
and too hard on himself,
qualify for ascension?
The devil is in the details,
and she is dancing so lovely,
tonight.
The battle is between loneliness,
a long-neglected sense of destiny,
and the warm feeling of security;
nothing else matters.
Life doesn't go around handing out lemons,
it squirts them in your eye
while it kicks the piss out of
the useless, slowly-dying gas-bag
we all seem to refer to as the human body.
That's life,
and we deserve it.
the tender ego
It's a burden,
assumed omniscience,
which inflates the tender ego.
Watch as the personality,
breaks down on the side,
of the common road,
under its weight.
The solution doesn't surface,
a submarine long since torpedoed;
the death rattle of your love life.
Maybe there wasn't a solution.
Imagine years spent
three steps ahead
only to realize that
the race is a lie.
Three steps ahead became
three steps above or away,
but it didn't matter in the end,
it was only relative to zero.
And now who is laughing?
I can't see them but I hear
strange, strange echoes
of love and ignorance
not so blissful
or needed.
There was a point to the story,
I told myself,
as I lay down under the siege
of an enigmatic stream of consciousness,
that somewhere is broken,
and all too complete.
It's bent on destruction,
it's own, yours, or the delicate
break-down of my loved ones.
A battle tonight became a victory,
and the wolves danced as sheeps
following a failure too obvious and unsung.
Silence is golden,
even when shrouded by
bronze defeat.
swirling down the drain
weeks pass
without a word
and
I find myself
swirling the drain
death rattle in throat
wondering what happened
to my deceny or sense of purpose.
Abandoned,
cold,
lonely,
and that's not a new
collection of
feelings
or
just a broken-down
cliche
like a junkyard Confederate Charger
rotting in rust
or seling for ten mil;
there is no difference.
A writer
a saint
or the whore on the streets
begging for your plastic afffection;
more of the same.
soft surrender
The soft surrender
of indifference
greets me at
the door.
Love is a bear whose jaws
I did not taunt,
Guranteed to out-run
my competition;
safety.
The old joke is broken,
who runs from a warm embrace,
and who dares turns their back on
a person with enough of their heart
to kill them where they stand?
So strange I remember you,
my lovely, failing ghost,
it was never personal,
or permanent;
nothing is.
The cause
I've watched as the sluts become
saints
on a stage serving as filthy, holy, pedastal
held up by the dirty
thoughts
corrupts twenties
stuffed into tight
revealing
g-strings,
falling off without
a moment's notice.
No one questions the moral judgement
of anybody with the body
of a goddess
when it is
revealed
for
your
viewing
pleasure.
Leave that conversation for the uninspired
peasents at a social gathering
who put forth the image of social
deceny
as if society was decent,
or for your partner
and their friends
when you are
put on the spot.
At least you can save
by speaking out of your
second mouth,
two face.
I noticed a mentor become a maniac,
and he will revert back to the hero,
when cocaine makes him a martyr.
A martyr for what cause?
Well, who cares,
the cause never mattered,
society is full of the coldest wars,
stand-offs with no rhyme or reason.
Time in the eye of the storm
I could never say it to you,
not yet,
despite how much I've
been thinking about it.
I just don't know how to say it,
how to express it in general.
Time does not exist with these thoughts,
they are so heavy they've pulled time down,
not just a helpful anchor to keep it stable,
rather a rope creating an eye for the storm,
which has now ended stability entirely.
Andy Veilleux 