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.
There's a broken joke;
it's only a punch line,
and it keeps punching,
over and over again.
It's called life,
and the joke is old,
today.
It's time to quiet down,
you're getting too loud,
and more importantly,
you're getting too real.
Don't talk about those things,
don't ever mention them again,
they don't want to hear about them;
they're sad things,
real,
but sad things.
And sad things have a way about them,
of highlighting the bad parts of life and the,
way it's starting to fall apart because we can't,
seem to even manage the simple things about,
our daily lives, let alone the issues that haunt us,
as a species that inhabits a doomed planet and,
is unable to love one another as we hurl through a,
rock in the middle of endless space that could crash.
We don't get the big concept,
we haven't started learning about,
the smaller things yet,
and how they were supposed to fit,
together like Lego blocks,
which we played with as a kid,
until they marched over our creativity.
We're missing the point;
Humanity is failure.
Giving something up is easy,
when nobody else wants it.
There's one true sentence about humanity:
You don't want what you have,
until someone else is after it.
This applies to money,
women,
drugs,
cars,
and everything else.
Your arrows don't hurt me,
intentional or otherwise,
they strike my thick hide,
and lose all momentum.
I'm strong enough now,
after all my incredible failures,
and the moments I could have,
died.
I'm rebuilt,
reborn,
reanimated.
I'll read it like a script,
because I know who I am,
as much as anyone can.
I've become something,
changed,
difficult to capture;
a lightning snake,
as thick as the moon,
with the strength of King Kong,
and the audacity of a hungry squirrel.
A moral compass like Dorian Gray's,
slowly changing,
but for the better instead.
You won't understand,
anything I've written,
but it's not about you,
now or ever.
The light shoots out of the bulb,
like fire from a cannon into my skull,
I roll over in agony, defeated,
I cover my face with your pillow,
it smells like you.
"Oh, baby," the kid voice comes out,
I feel a warm body jump onto me,
press me with your light weight.
The soft, wet kisses find my neck,
and I love you then.
Soon I fall back into a dream;
my mind moved on,
the smile stayed;
that ship sailed.
A warm haze is stuck in behind my eyes,
my body begs for sleep that won't be granted.
There are words trying to escape,
and they must be watched at all times,
carefully.
Imagine what they would do,
if I wasn't around to watch them,
organize themselves on the pages?
What secrets would be revealed,
and what mysteries would they tell?
Oh,
how the skeletons would dance,
for all of us,
despite our consciously spun life stories,
where we never feel responsible for the evil.
Sad, sad monster,
keep your head down,
turn back inside of,
yourself.
Sad, sad monster,
keep your voice down,
don't rise up too loud,
again.
You must hide,
and remain hidden,
they don't understand.
There's a big shock coming,
or a dosage of dull candies,
to make you right as rain,
It will destroy all that pain,
and make you normal again.
Trust in me,
my dear monster,
there's a flood coming,
it's pouring through the ceilings,
of all the skyscrapers,
penetrated by broken shards,
of dreams,
that tear apart,
the roof of your mouth,
and scrape your retinas,
grind your scalp,
gut your brain.
Only left,
numb.
Andy Veilleux 