blood

a description of love

/ andyveilleux / 4 Comments

My fingers break the intangible air,

I imagine

victory,

or some sweet defeat,

breaking point,

the blood of the sky

pouring down my

assailant hands

sweet liquid

invisible

but I feel

it.

 

I imagine your

loving but cold

hands

rubbing

all the sore spots

on my broken back

from too many nights

up screaming at life

trying to manipulate it

like i did all those poor

sad broken

left-behind

people I used to

feel so close to but now

we all float apart

drifting satellites

each shaking away

violently,

with lovers on our backs,

and fake lovers grasping

at flailing legs

growing more distant.

 

A humble comet,

burning up slowly,

no longer alone.

Shadow dance

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

Poets are,

photographers,

on partially-built,

grey skyscrapers.

 

We perch on top,

balancing our desire,

with our fear of heights.

 

We can never show you,

the beauty of the city,

we find ourselves on top of,

despite our best efforts.

 

The concrete city,

is not so dull to us,

the pink underbelly,

teases us playfully,

but won't tease you.

 

I would slash my wrists,

to bleed all over this page,

if it meant something to you;

to hell with the consequences.

 

My crimson essence,

dances into your mind,

awakening forgotten life,

pushing a new passion out,

regenerating hope in hopeless,

people, who don't see beauty for,

what it's worth,

i never stopped,

and I couldn't try,

hard enough to ever,

keep you happy or near,

me in the best or worst of,

times when things broke down,

and there was no solace for the,

wicked and the cruel intentions we,

bounced off of one another's innocence,

on our way to a broken dawn with a shattered,

dusk that always served to remind us of how bad,

our failure was with everything we sincerely tried for.

 

Some things that are broken,

aren't looking for anyone to fix them,

and some shadows dance a lot more,

beautifully than some of the brightest flames.

Sleepless night (an old poem)

/ andyveilleux / Leave a comment

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."

the first picture

/ andyveilleux / 1 Comment

The first picture is the dagger,

not meant for killing blows,

meant for suffering and pain.

 

Suffering and pain is fine,

that's what fuels the fire,

or passion and growth;

nothing builds like the bad,

times and all the bones I stomped,

on my path to the top of the ant hill.

 

What love comes for the king ant,

can not be described simply,

in your kiss of death;

it's in the past.

 

Hearts have moved on,

but some feelings remain strong,

like those of hatred and volatile reaction,

and he way my body convulses at the thought of it.

 

These kid gloves refuse to come up,

permanently sewn onto my weak flesh hands,

with barbed wire soaked in sulphuric acid and vomit,

a mirror of my corrupted soul;

still trying to get better,

better times happened,

in a past life,

or forgotten memory.

 

Your ghost is weak,

and my resolve is weaker.

 

There was a time I was built for this;

mucking my way through some resemblance of hell,

fueled by a passion fallen out of favour,

long ago.

 

Do you remember it?

It doesn't remember you,

passion forgets quicker than sunsets,

on the boulevard where innocence was lost some time ago,

in its place resounds a soft, unsure echo,

fighting for its own space,

in this timid rat race,

where corpses wed,

the good are dead,

and my soul pukes up daisies,

symbolic of the lies it was fed,

it must have been something that was said,

or the mindless blood that was shed,

ridiculous,

blood doesn't have a mind,

and maybe you're over-exuberant rush of it,

explains something.

 

maybe the mirror's judging you,

again.