Look around you,
at the dead faces;
hollowed-out eyes,
empty, open mouth;
broken visage of a human being,
far removed from their soul.
Satellites drifting,
in lifeless space,
occasionally banging,
against something,
occasionally, someone.
No connection,
no meaning,
no passion,
to be kindled.
The lost years,
in full swing.
Look around you,
at the dead faces.
She's going to destroy you,
believe me.
Twice bitten,
never shy;
the words of youth or bravery,
somebody with an invulnerability complex,
or maybe all of the above.
I'm guilty,
to hell with the consequences,
there is no judgement coming,
save for self-judgement,
and the judgement of your peers,
and if you can't handle that yet,
you haven't really been living.
Watch out for the pessimists,
along with their poison words,
and the way they sap life from everything,
and give life to nothing.
Be optimistic,
I know life sucks,
but suck it up and move on,
that's the only way to be happy.
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.
Andy Veilleux 