A starry-night sadness,
drifts through my ears,
escaping in visions,
and flash-memories,
through my window.
A clock disintegrates,
working it's way down,
this out-reached branch,
we call consciousness.
Will it bounce on impact,
when it meets the floor's rug?
Will it splatter carefully;
silver over black, white, yellow,
and
red?
Will the broken-man's dreams,
drift down the sorrowful waters,
of Monet's liquid Palazzo da Mula?
The smile teases,
at the corners of the lips,
because life is fragile.
Exhaustion sets in,
fight this,
exhaustion climbing,
rounding the corner,
fight this,
hatred for the unexplainable,
unknown, and confused idea,
of what exactly happened then,
fight this,
sorrow that destroys the indestructible,
soul at the foundation of human existence,
that fosters and creates all spiritual growth;
now filled with an eroding, poisonous sadness,
fight this,
my brother,
we stand together.
A green fire burns my heart,
it's now or never, clock swings,
an awkward metronome reminder,
we'll be gone soon, your hand on the,
pawn; mine's on a queen, empty and gone.
Hand moves piece,
queen dead by inaction,
rotting and decaying in another,
time, when a queen meant something,
special, but any unique nature died long ago,
hand removes piece from playing board in a flurry,
of traded blows that left both sides weak, pathetic, and vulnerable,
trust me.
Something broken in time;
no Ticktockman willing;
and all the king's men,
failed to put my life,
back together.
That shell broke long ago,
and I slipped out of it,
into someone else.
I came across this old poem I wrote and never published, while searching through an old Facebook group of mine. The group was called The Pentriloquists, and only had three members. Now the number stands at two. It is fascinating to look at one's old poetry and see how you've grown. Here is the poem:
"I bite my lip til it bleeds,
as I stare at a dark and vacant ceiling.
The night-shaded tiles reveal nothing,
and quest is a dream drifting further away.
Sleep has become a problem,
and I've lost the way again somehow.
I drift in and out of dream-like states,
as I drift in and out of rooms.
I'm lying there in your bed,
I'm lying here on the floor,
twenty minutes ago,
three hours ago,
and an hour and a half ago;
place and time do not matter,
now is the only time that can exist.
I taste the blood again,
why have I biten through the skin so many times?
Am I that frustrated and angry with the world?
No.
This frustration has only known one cause,
and I am the hand that pulls along the puppets,
now and forever."
Your feeling washed over me,
a cold reminder of reality,
some poems were meant to fail,
from their beginning.
Late nights,
dirty thoughts;
cyclical sins.
a wheel of pain and pleasure,
crushing boredom and leaving,
aggressive sexual tendencies,
void of any inhibitions without,
the help of vodka on the rocks,
a lighthouse; lonely, desperate souls,
collide and wrap inside of each other.
A raging beast I've become,
crush that rock with my bare palm,
I emerge from a broken landscape,
promises of brighter future dance on,
my blood-soaked, salty, sweat-dripping lips;
too raw,
powerful,
for soft peers,
an outcast thrown out,
of he broken institutions,
of the white towers,
and all their failure.
I crawl,
powerfully,
not pathetically,
slow and steady,
an ascent against odds,
far past improbability,
balancing on the edge of possibility.
You should question where that places you,
fragile-sanity girls, and broken-ego ex-lovers,
and apathetic strangers who watch the tides turn,
while never being the reason.
Tides turn at the will of a tremendous beast,
of power unforeseen since ancient Asgardian myths,
Jotunn, who will not be stopped by the melt of glaciers,
super-nova sun, global warming, be damned for your impotence.
Some things will not end,
human,
some thing will not end,
despite your limited imagination,
highlighting all your ineptitudes and flaws,
culminating in an incredible parade of suck.
To err,
is indeed,
to be human.
You built your present,
on the graveyard of your past,
and didn't flinch.
I hope you enjoy the lonely path,
with the ghosts stuck to your ribs,
tearing at your empty heart.
The past can't hurt you anymore,
it's paid you back the favour,
you're abandoned,
left with emptiness,
a soul-death.
The only thing worse than a broken heart,
is an empty life in an absent world;
you call it home and walk your path,
alone.
Cold, clumsy gusts of air trip into my window,
occasionally brushing over my uncovered skin,
long fingers drained of blood; icicles of flesh,
a blue sky splits dark, troublesome clouds.
I remember a face,
I never saw,
bouncing around,
in my mind.
It bobs and weaves,
ducks and covers,
explodes into my mind's eye,
I can't shake the beautiful face,
of one of my loves,
who I've never met.
She stopped me in the light,
scrapped away insecurities,
and stood me back up on shaking feet;
an infant learning to walk on cold tiles,
desperate for feminine approval.
Georgia.
Andy Veilleux 