Love faces the same problem science does;
a lack of evidence.
Love breaks down when you ask for proof;
"How much do you love me?"
"a lot"
"how much?"
"with all my heart.."
useless words.
How can you describe the feeling?
You can't.
Your language fails you.
It doesn't matter hos intricate your description,
how extensive your vocabulary,
humans have demeaned the word 'love,'
and it's nowhere near representative,
of the series of feelings it represents.
It's not your fault you can't explain it,
language is broken,
it's out-of-sync with life,
language is a series of symbols we use,
so we can sort of understand one another,
occasionally.
It's as exact a science, and as productive,
as fishing with dynamite,
if fish were the staple of your diet.
To use the cliché,
love is still the best game in town,
so we deal with it because,
the alternatives are undesirable.
Living isn't difficult,
Life is though.
It's not the day-to-day activities that wear you down;
the eating,
and sleeping,
walking,
signing,
dancing,
writing,
reading,
drinking.
It's the big things;
purpose,
meaning,
love,
hate,
passion,
failure,
success,
misery,
fulfillment.
Rolling out of bed in the morning isn't the problem.
Pulling your soul out of the gutter,
after repeated failures and heartbreaks,
when your heart is drowning in misery,
and you can't remember your last lucky bounce,
that's the struggle.
Some people do it better than others,
and some are the walking dead.
I get it all the time;
who is that poem about?
Is it about ME,
is it about HER?
It better not be about HER,
that would be so wrong,
and inconsiderate, maybe.
Yes,
the poem is about HER,
and it is about YOU,
and it about EVERYONE.
You can't segment each poem,
because life is not built that way,
it's a giant collective experience,
that makes up everything you are,
and therefore,
everything you write is a reflection of everybody,
who ever had an influence on your life.
Why did I write about that NOW,
why didn't I write about this, or that,
or the death of small animals,
the miserable life of a pop star,
the struggles of the oppressed,
the racism that plagues our society?
I didn't feel like it,
and I don't feel like it now.
Life is about finding your passion,
and when you WANT to do something,
everything about life makes sense.
When your passion leaves you,
find it again,
or there's no point to any of this.
We always recall our past lovers,
with such fond memories and warm hearts,
much more than we did when we were with them.
Maybe the answer is simple;
we never gave them enough credit,
when we were in love with them.
Sadness and bad moments,
pass from memory,
easily enough,
because they are common.
Happy moments linger awhile,
and dance on in your mind,
and memories of love,
well, those last forever.
Today is off,
nothing aligns properly,
and everything feels out-of-sync.
I didn't want to wake up,
it was a sign,
a sign I should have followed.
I'm not sure what brought these feelings,
or when they will go away,
but they feel as though,
they are here to stay.
Sadness always takes over,
the moment it occupies,
and seems so immature,
when it has gone away.
modern humanity:
an existential battle between,
boredom,
fear,
love,
loneliness,
success,
and the inability to find fulfillment,
among a populace incapable of being content,
it seems.
France's first game (a 0-0 tie to Uruguay) in the 2010 World Cup can only be seen as a disappointment. The Uruguay defense played a very solid game, but that does not excuse the lack of French offense. Ribery played one of the worst games I've seen him play in a long time, and Anelka definitely did not play to the level he regularly does for Chelsea. Gignac and Diaby looked to be the most dangerous players, which makes it such a shame that Gignac only had limited minutes today. Hopefully Domenech will give him a starting spot in the line-up. I would have liked to see more of Henry as well, as he looked menacing in his limited time today (though not to the extent of the two mentioned above). Come on France, pick up your game!
This poem is to you,
it’s unmistakable,
you’re my regret, oh,
that’s inappropriate,
your pain is disproportionate,
I tore your heart out,
you were supposed to die then,
but nobody ever cares enough for that,
broken-hearted,
long living,
figure it out.
Maybe you’re the one I never talk to,
down in a major city I chose to walk through,
in an ill-fated attempt to find you,
and have a break-through,
before I break-down,
or break it down,
real simple like,
the way you understand it,
or the only way I know how to speak with,
who gives up first, the chicken of the egg?
Is that where we end, am I a chicken,
because I’d never tell you this,
not on my best day,
when my inhibitions to speak,
are put on lay-away,
and I forfeit my deepest secrets,
deeper than the gulf’s oil plumes,
our love was running on fumes,
in an empty tank we couldn’t fill.
Maybe you’re my friend,
that wants to be more,
but I can’t see through,
your vault-style front door,
you won’t let me in,
even though you want to;
are you saving me, or you?
Maybe I want to see you naked,
I want to see you sweat,
and see what you will do for me,
and that’s inappropriate,
because it’s honesty,
and who are you kidding?
honesty’s forbidden.
Maybe you’re one of the army,
I march onto the pitch with,
and I’ve got your back,
through thick and thin,
count me in,
I’ll save you every time,
or at least take the fall,
all for one, one for all.
Maybe I want to love you,
but I’m afraid,
too used to dancing on a razor-blade,
trying to find someone to hold,
when everyone wants to get laid,
but that;s inappropriate,
because it’s the truth,
don’t let it come out of the booth,
or they’ll come for you,
and shut you down,
you’ll never work in this town,
again.
Maybe your life is a mess,
and I want to pick up your pieces,
or I tried before,
you abandoned me,
but who’s counting?
Maybe I left you for dead,
ripped out that heart and said,
you need to move on,
love somebody else it’s easy,
just like they do on the TV,
at least try,
and that’s how I waved goodbye,
once or twice,
and I’ve got back that pain thrice,
or fifteen times over,
and it’s not easy to handle sober,
so I stayed drunk,
and so stoned I just slept,
until I forgot the reason I wept,
and rolled over to a brand new day,
can you say the same?
Maybe you’re my mentor,
a real role model,
but where are your skeletons dancing?
How big is that closet?
Was there a time you failed,
and truly lost it?
You don’t know where the edge is,
til you’ve gone over it,
and maybe you have,
and it shows in your eyes,
from the scars that reflect out,
and shine back off my own,
that’s communication,
that’s truth.
Maybe I still love you,
and I watched you move on,
or regress back to a useless state,
where you can’t help me, and you’re killing you,
so what good are you,
and who am I to judge?
Your brain’s permanently fucked,
mentally-fed yourself date-rape drugs,
until you’re a zombie,
and I can’t look at you.
And here I am,
it’s one A M,
the game is over,
it’s time for bed,
but there’s always so much,
that remains unsaid,
and I’ll never say,
talking to myself,
a broken soliloquy.
I live like that,
and the words kick holes in my silent demeanour,
like Rakim kicks holes in speakers,
the sound begs to live,
and I try my best,
but you know my best was never good enough,
for me at least,
and maybe for you,
but that was my decision,
and the truth of it is frozen,
dangling in time for you to read,
but you’re hindsight-illiterate,
and your rage blinds you more,
so what was I was there for?
Nothing,
and I vanished like the wind,
the way I came in,
before pulling out,
to applause from the crowd,
for my clever joke,
which leads nowhere,
except the end.
Andy Veilleux 