I cut pages,
to watch them bleed,
hipster, broken symbolism,
and what a worn-out image.
used, worn-out,
broken,
like all of us,
but is that all we can say?
Where is the lyricism,
not of Milton, Donne,
but of harsh reality,
Bukowski, Hemingway?
Where have we scurried,
and how far removed,
are we from greatness?
We are nowhere.
We float in endless space,
choking on too much time,
ideas dying every second,
like all of the starving poor.
Ideas are starving,
and I'm only one writer.
Stability is a relative term,
when speaking of madness.
Those days left me long ago,
I remember it feeling like home,
and it's still such a tempting offer.
A history of my madness,
can be traced on onion-skin,
paper,
even by the poorest artists.
You'll find father figures,
lovers,
friends,
and those of greatness.
We all end up face down,
sucking on the dirt with our,
dead faces, flesh rots to bone,
we massage the dirt with cheek bones,
protruding from our skulls with their worn,
enamel.
There is no shell for the hearts,
and each abandonment kills a,
piece of heart,
that will never return,
but will never leave either;
a representation of the Damned.
Be certain,
we are all the Damned.
Something broken,
nothing fixed,
there's a tear,
in everything.
Stagnant air lingers,
suffocating your mind;
you beg for something new.
The trap is sprung;
you are now the working dead;
deceased thoughts from a corpse,
are all that remain.
Andy Veilleux 