Thinkers,
decimated by boredom,
depression,
wonder where the
'something more'
is.
Pearly gates not just out of reach,
but out of sight,
even out of mind,
for many.
A pressure dances across my forehead,
pounces around my numb ears,
and boots me in between the eyes.
There will be no relief for the saints
sinners
or the dead.
There is a pressure to explore,
to learn, become, and make progress,
but also to dive into it,
and get inside.
Time is a fence,
set to keep the wolves away from
the precious sheep,
lovely, exquiste,
so tasty,
and wolves just want to get inside,
sink their teeth, tongue, fingers in,
and feast.
The blood frenzy comes at the first drop
that hits the naked tongue
and sets nature into fluid motion.
The wolf can not restrain,
and nor should it,
survival is for the fit,
and there are none fitter than
the patient, cunning wolf.
The reported sex was never as good
or even as bad
as it was in the real world.
The sex could be broken,
never happen,
or earth-shattering,
but none of that conveys itself
easily into words poems videos pictures images graphics sentences paragraphs papers essays spoke words or anything really,
there was nothing,
nothing that could justify it.
Often it came across neutral.
An act, a thing, an object.
Sex is more of an emotion,
and it isnt performance-based always,
that's no game sheet,
sometimes bad sex is still good,
and good sex is bad and vacant, void, emotionless,
EMPTY,
that's the chaos of sex.
Sometimes sex drives all thoughts,
pushes all things,
is all thigs to everybody,
wants to be begged for and wants someone on their knees
gasping for SOMETHING to break the monotony;
life.
An odd outsider sits
eyes glazed by vacant thoughts
distant memories that feel forced
by the devastation of loneliness.
The concept of love has broken
busted up,
an abandoned van in the middle
of a back-water, forgotten forest
rust bleeds and mixes with oils
gases, and old love once held
for a now desolate object.
A symposium of twisted thoughts
form an orchestra of chaos and pain,
as formidable as good intentions,
and desperate as drowned hope.
The bill is paid,
the laughs are had,
the cold night wraps itself
around my restaurant-warm face,
begging to be embraced just like the rest of us.
Father,
I’ve become so much like you.
Up at 4:20 AM
making bologna sandwiches.
Where did all the time go?
Sitting around in my joggers and wool socks,
wondering where all my sleep goes,
when I am not partaking in it.
Just a few months ago we were together,
and now all I get is your voice
but I can still see your smile
on the other end,
when I hear
pride in your voice.
At the end of the day,
that’s one of the only things that matters to me.
I remember being young and saying
I would never be like you,
the thought of it was appalling.
Now It’s a badge of honour.
I love you dad,
and you always did right by me,
even when you were wrong.
A familiar love claws to the surface
long thought buried
but missed.
My true mistress of old
maybe will become
new again.
I've never loved
as I loved
sadness.
There is something pure
in the blue flame
of sorrow.
My first instinct was to run,
remember the happy,
the smiling cheer,
but it is false.
A big storm approaches,
held off and forgotten
for many years,
but not lost
at sea.
One can not run from who they are,
as hideous as the reality is.
Putting on sheep's clothing
never hides a wolf for long.
You are not a loaded gun.
You are a wet bullet,
useless without some time
an external heat source,
and something to
hammer you from
behind.
And maybe you're a
blank.
I've been a poet since 14,
and they used to laugh,
and chuckle among
themselves.
Talentless,
spineless,
cowards.
Afraid to face their own
emotions.
Terrified of anything,
real.
Running only gets you,
so far,
when,
your problems are faster,
and never tire.
Stand,
fight,
live well.
I can't change
but I
tried.
At least hard enough
for that guilty
piece of my
mind to
run and
hide.
I pretend it vanished,
but I know where it sits.
It sits in the old me,
the dead,
molted,
me,
hiding,
and waiting.
Waiting for nothing.
It's return will be a touch
too late to save me
from myself.
Is that a pity,
or success?
An echo follows you,
not from behind you,
but from within.
Hollow girl,
empty words.
There is no
quick
fix
for your boredom,
or the absent mind
you protect with venom.
Empty girl,
hollow thoughts.
Andy Veilleux 