I saw you and I felt your face
Your curves
Your life,
Just in front of me.
You smiled at me,
A smile I had almost forgotten,
And the past melted.
I forgot the fights,
The hatred
And the ending,
Left only with the good times.
We said we were sorry and
We were playful, composed and in love.
You were never more you than these moments,
And then I woke up.
Your sharp face pierced the age of beauty
and left thorns and barbs throughout my heart,
your tight, little body had fought its way into my life
and you were all I could see or feel or breathe.
It should not have been,
but it was.
Our guards came down early,
and we both got stung for a few shots early,
but we both loved the pain in every way.
There was a something about you,
some tangible, thick quality of having lived,
having been through pain and hatred,
and love,
somehow you opened your heart again.
An armistice smile played on your lips,
both of us afraid to give any more pieces of heart,
but longing to feel wanted, attractive and true.
The tentative smile became real
and was a landmark of a tiny, gorgeous mouth
always revealing your heart,
and it was never more true than at the end.
The smile danced and faded to be replaced,
for the first time,
by a frown that began to smother my heart.
I held you as you bled
and inside that perfect body
a broken heart cried.
It was not the normla sadness of love lost,
but the sadness of someone too young
taken away from life too early,
it never breathed a full life and we were worse off for that.
It should not have been and was
and now may never be again,
leaving unasked questions never to be asked
and a love never to be explored.
We almost lost ourselves in the goodbye,
bodies hurt by a heart beating out poison
in a time where breathing became everything.
I sat in bed, curled up into myself
staring at a white panel wall,
you sat up and held me from behind,
iny arms and hands wrapping around me
with a strength none would imagine,
and one meeting of eyes told everything.
I didn't want you to go then,
I don't want you to be gone.
Forty nights brought no relief
and the same expectation of waiting
for the someone to walk into what was
once
home.
It was home for one,
and too big to be so,
and that added to the drama of it all.
It had been over three months of
unbearable suffering
unrestrained freedom
and the void,
and nothing changed much,
not at its core.
There was a special hatred
reserved for ex-lovers,
and it could be broken down fairly easily
even to the uninitiated whom could not
fully
understand
the feeling of loss.
It was a mixture of trusting someone entirely,
having absolute confidence in the Good,
and dreaming enough to believe in Santa Claus,
and coming home to shattered dreams
trampled on a dirty floor with
muddy work boots,
figuring out the Good is some abstraction
unattainable to humans
and seeing the one you love
unzipped themselves to reveal
a serial killer
poltergeist
or android.
There was the cheapest
and deepest-cutting
feeling of betrayal and emptiness,
but maybe that wasn't down to you
and maybe that's just
life.
The scissors of time have tried to take their toll on you, but you're resilient. That was one thing that should never be forgotten, you never gave up on your life. The slash marks were stories, and the scars brought thoughts of you being your father's daughter.
It was never easy for us after we 'earned' a title. You acting your age and me acting twenty years too old. We knew life, for us, was a matter of time. We had our window. It will never permanently close, but it might never open again.
We were wrong to each other, but not in some deep, methodical way. In the stupid, easy way, where the audience screams out for us to act better, but we wink at them. There was never any audience, and we were less clever than we thought.
The end of the track should have hit before we made a home, but the minecart found different rails laced with the same problems. "Us" is a story in two acts, neither with a happy ending, although the first part is closest – because we leave happy. But, as always with us, tragedy struck early in the next act.
We rarely had heaven on earth, or hell for that matter. We were somewhere of our own devising, not purgatory. We caught the glow of heaven and the wrath of hell, sometimes back-to-back. Love and hatred alternating, hitting us like left and right hooks, until we were so punch drunk from one another we could barely stand. Too swollen to kiss. Somehow, we could always remember.
We thought like pathetic idiots. Blame was thrown around like sugar on ice – someone had replaced the salt. The problems never went anywhere, and we lived historical to the bitter end. We have fallen into familiar issues. The homebody left brooding and contemplating love, the adventurer out meeting the new. Neither leads to happiness, because the wrong questions are asked.
The scars are a mirror into your heart. They are you in the truest sense, no matter how drop-dead gorgeous you can look in a dress. You're not meant for those nights, but you forget everytime, and there's something here about glory days. There's an old soul, small town girl, being hidden by the glamour somehow. The drinks are hard, company weak and the meaning empty, but it shoots one more night in the head.
What glory days are left for the thinker out of time, out of love? What sweet thoughts could dance long enough to pass the days? How many clean, well-lighted places could ease this old mind? The answer is the same.
There is no such thing as a guilt or remorse, in any meaningful way. Guilt and remorse mean little when the past is fixed and decisions have been made. Choice is a funny thing like that. The freedom to choose, but choices and actions become unfree once taken. The past makes us all unfree, and it sunk us like the hand of poseidon around our necks.
I love you, I'm sorry. Life is hard and my letters dance around the unsaid.
I talked for a few hours with a dear friend of mine last night. He's been having a bit of a rough go of things, and I wanted to discuss them with him. As one would imagine, the pain involves love.
I think many will find it interesting that guys do, in fact, talk about love, hurt, and painful emotions we are experiencing (note: you may close your mouths at any time ladies [and I bet most girls are surprised I made an open mouth joke that was not sexual by nature!]). While writing this post, I had the privilege of stumbling upon a post by my friends over at WTF is up with my lovelife?! that discussed how many guys are actually reading and following along with their site (which was intended for women). They discuss being surprised by the response from guys, who legitimately want to discuss their love lives, and ask for advice. Imagine that, guys seeking advice AND discussing romantic, mushy things?! Bizarro world, right? Wrong.
In fact, there are some guys that often discuss their romantic lives with one another, at least in my friends circle (and no, by "romantic" I don't mean sexual). I'd like to talk a bit about what I learned from my discussion with a friend going through a serious break-up. Read their post first, so you can understand the study they mention which discusses how guys tend to store up emotions, resulting in massive break-downs, and being more hurt than their female counter-parts when things go down the tubes. It will put this in proper context, I think.
There are no words you can say to a friend to make them feel better when they're suffering through the aftermath of love. When love is lost, a part of you is as well. Time is the only thing that will heal you, but time does not pass in moments like these. Instead of the age-old cliché that time heals all wounds, I would like to offer a modification. Experience heals all wounds, at least to a degree where life is livable again. Let's face it, that person you love, is never going to go away 100 per cent. They will always have a special ability to irritate, anger, and even delight you. It's weird, but it's true.
Time passing in and of itself, does nothing. If one sits in solitude and broods over their loss, one does not heal. The scar tissue will also become much greater. I tend to brood when I'm miserable, and it's not healthy. It's a lonely place, losing love, and you can feel very much alone for some time afterwards. The key is to make sure you're trying to experience life again. GET OUT OF THE HOUSE. Go spend time with people. Get out and talk to other people. Sure, you'll get a lot of the same responses: "I know it sucks, but you'll feel better soon," "To be honest, I didn't really like her," "You're better off without her," etc etc etc…. but it's better than nothing. Conversation lets you express what you're feeling (well, try your best to express that which can not truly be expressed – and trust me, we poets have been trying to express it forever, and failing).
It's interesting how friendship is. Last night my friend apologized for being 'selfish' by talking so much about the storm of badness that is currently his life. I laughed, and explained how it's funny the more modest/self-aware guy friends tend to feel like they are doing a disservice to a friend by a discussing their problems. If it were a disservice of friendship, then what is friendship for? (Note: this does not apply to THOSE friends who always have "issues," and always bring them up, who are actually annoying because they're so woe-is-me). Life is meant to be discusses, and shared, with your friends. Communication is great; it brings people together, and makes life that much more enjoyable as a result. Guys, don't be afraid to talk about your problems. It's unhealthy not to, and it will lead to some serious problems for you.
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.
Sometimes things are supposed to hurt,
and they don't,
or they shouldn't and they do,
either way it's all on you;
your mental stability,
your mind-game ability,
emotional, mental artillery.
There's a certain way I move,
when I give you the non-committal slip,
I watch your traps,
make sure not to trip,
up, I have to avoid capture,
leave you waiting for my rapture,
we weren't made for one another,
we just end up hurting each other
I hate rhyming,
don't know why I do it in the first place,
it never lets you fully express yourself,
especially when you're living in the worst place,
possible,
it's plausible,
I just like to suffer,
keep making it rougher,
mental frustration,
extreme pupil dilation,
your mind an empty-souled nation,
blank yet devouring like,
staring into the eyes of Satan.
And that's where I live,
when you try to make me choke back tears,
but the faucets off,
overestimate your own strength again,
you're predictable,
no surprise from you,
you're egotistical,
completely sadistic,
ultimately narcissistic,
you make me go ballistic,
with the shit you peddle for truth,
as if I can't feel the rain,
through your makeshift umbrella-roof.
Now we're both soaking wet,
and that's because I turn you on,
your tear-ducts that I mean,
the wounds you left were unclean,
and not healing properly,
a one-sided game of Monopoly,
where you tried to steal all the property,
and never even spared a thought for me.
Why did we live like that,
and make each other suffer,
used one another as an experience buffer,
we segregated the real world from one another.
You must miss me,
everyday but today,
or maybe today the most,
you won't escape my phantom,
can't get away from my ghost,
It follows you,
trying to choke you with dirty hands,
holding you back just like your new man,
and that's the best thing for you,
imagine letting your ambition,
be free of your inhibition,
and having to face your dream,
and realize you're not the queen,
you're just a lowly servant,
pretending to hand down verdicts,
but the jury's still out on your life,
and what you will become,
how long will you try before you're done,
and you just give up again?
All that potential,
and no motivation to achieve,
you needed a new man,
invented a brand new disease,
an excuse to bring you to your knees,
but he isn't going to bring the chain,
that's all your own self-supplied pain,
how long til he complains about the rain,
and decides to ditch out,
even if only emotionally,
leaving his physical shell,
so you have a home to crawl into,
when you're sick of trying,
and you want to resume dying.
What more could I ask for,
that I didn't already have?
I had the promise of a lifetime,
that fell apart, because you were sad.
And sometimes that's how you'll roll,
when you invest years of your life,
an empty chest, vacant of a soul,
from your ex-lover's twisted little knife.
That's just the heart talking,
not being filtered by my brain,
sometimes the best way to say it,
is to lose focus and spit all the pain.
That's what life's like sometimes,
on the darkest nights,
I got caught up dancing in the dark,
a never-ending fist fight,
and look where that got both of us,
endless blood, broken bones, and pus.
I realized your pool was too shallow,
I needed room to swim,
I needed to spread my wings,
achieve my dreams,
not stick around swimming,
in your lifeless streams.
You had potential,
and you smashed it under your heel,
shrugged the responsibility,
refused to accept dreams were real,
and now you're a ghost dancer,
jumping through your different acts.
Can't you hear the clapping,
the curtain's closing,
and there's nowhere else for your display,
once it shows your act will go away,
and maybe it's for the best,
you can discover your true self,
stop hiding it on a dusty shelf,
if it's even still alive,
i wish you weren't dead inside,
because I remember you,
despite what you think of me,
and I recall when you loved me,
and the way I loved you back,
before you destroyed yourself,
and left your ambitions for dead,
that was the fatal moment for us,
I took a shot to the back of the head,
and bled you out of me.
Sometimes I can still taste the blood,
your toxicity that poisoned my mind,
is still reminiscent in the taste,
your shadows still dance in your place,
but I got over them and their thin frame,
I escaped your madhouse,
rejoined the world of the sane,
just in time,
before your personality feeding frenzy,
your ultimate killing blow, to end me,
there was no hell you could have sent me,
to match us darkness, because we were empty.
Never better,
trust me,
never better.
Andy Veilleux 