passion

new pavement

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

There are the heroes of passion,

thrown from failures or successes

with an indiscriminate valour

unaffected by the shallow hearts that plague us all.

Life,

for them,

is lived with the bullets of hate

grazing hearts on sleeves

no armour could defend.

Death,

for them,

an indifferent act suceeding

every other event that came before

without special cause for distinction.

The truly great come through bearing

no gift particularly

but in making no demands

brings gifts greater than any else offered.

A friend is not a friend solely because of geography

a connection made through similar hobbies

or one night of great intimacy or affection conversation.

Pause.

Examine your connections in the world

and then despair,

because only despair is applicable

when life is compared to this ideal of great friendship.

Who are you,

and when did you stop caring,

or calling?

The two-way street analogy is out-of-season,

not out-of-touch,

and while South-bound is a traffic jam,

the North,

a lane to nowhere,

fast,

appears as new pavement.

to err is human

/ andyveilleux / Leave a comment

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.

must, find, soul

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

I'm choking for life,

in a white, plaster box;

poem won't save me.

 

Inhuman transformation;

man and machine to monster.

 

Ugly, broken, worn-out hybrid,

new technology won't save me.

 

Must,

find,

soul.

The dead faces

/ andyveilleux / 4 Comments

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.

your lust isn't lost

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

 

you whisper to me sinfully,
but I'm not much of a saint either,
your lust isn't lost on me,
my troublesome angel down from aether.
 
We'd fly to such great heights,
if only we had the time together,
to take in the bright star lights,
under the night bare of cloudy weather.
 
I know I'm not always happy,
but love me and you can have me,
and that's the best offer I've made all night,
suffering from a case of post-mortem stage fright,
that stops me when I try to act right,
but what's wrong?
 
Is there a problem if I stand here singing the same song,
I don't care what the audience thinks they'll be gone,
soon enough.

Love and science

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

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.

the walking dead

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

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.

Is that poem about me?

/ andyveilleux / Leave a comment

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.

Everyone remembers the martyr

/ andyveilleux / Leave a comment

 

 
I don't have enough time Mel,
and it worries me.
 
There are too many things to do,
and no enough time.
 
I wan t to be everything,
for everyone,
I want to breathe passion into the dead,
and light up the burnt out wicks,
in the hearts of the damned.
 
I need to lift them on my back,
before they fade away,
and are lost forever.
 
I need to do it for them,
I need to do it for me,
I need to do it for you.
 
Everyone remembers the martyr,
no one remembers the ones,
who didn't quite try hard enough.
 
Everyone remembers the martyr.