Cold, clumsy gusts of air trip into my window,
occasionally brushing over my uncovered skin,
long fingers drained of blood; icicles of flesh,
a blue sky splits dark, troublesome clouds.
poem
I remember a face I never knew
I remember a face,
I never saw,
bouncing around,
in my mind.
It bobs and weaves,
ducks and covers,
explodes into my mind's eye,
I can't shake the beautiful face,
of one of my loves,
who I've never met.
She stopped me in the light,
scrapped away insecurities,
and stood me back up on shaking feet;
an infant learning to walk on cold tiles,
desperate for feminine approval.
Georgia.
stumbling shadow; my dear friend
I watch you,
a stumbling shadow,
a ghost of greatness past,
but not long passed by.
Breathing is required,
thinking will return,
when the time is ready.
Code red;
danger,
massacre,
the blood-bath.
Breathe,
bloodbath,
breathe,
keep breathing,
focus the pain,
achieve balance,
through agile memories,
that dance through pain.
Life continues,
dead friend,
life continues,
pain does too.
Experience,
not time,
the great healer;
go live,
again,
dear friend.
Love demands it;
Once more unto the breach,
dear friend,
once more.
small battles with self
Narcissism battles modesty,
and I wonder who will win tonight,
it's an unfair match, a raw street fight,
between a thug and a gentleman,
who can't communicate on the same level;
one fights with a sword,
that never encountered a pen it liked,
the other theoretically knows the pen is mightier,
but fears the reality of cold steel.
Some things don't work in the real world,
and some things hurt for keeps.
Sometimes wars are lost forever,
one small battle at a time.
sleep well far away
There's a frustration seeping through my skin,
lighting my best nights up in a painful, pretty fire,
I hope you enjoy the view.
To be honest,
I never spared a thought for you,
looking down from glass ceiling,
you were caged by emotional limitations,
you had placed on yourself long ago,
and never let go,
of,
and it was too late even back then;
hasn't it bee a decade yet?
It feels like a century,
and that's the best thing i could say about you,
we're sharing a thought,
doomed to expire after this poem ends,
so savour it;
maybe it hit,
I was never your saviour,
and couldn't be,
but we tried,
and that's more than we could say,
about most people.
At least remember that,
if you share any memory at all,
there was never grace before the fall,
that's only for the movies, books,
and other relationships without you.
Sleep well,
and far away from me.
Thanks Chrome
empty thoughts,
replace a poem,
never published,
that's gone away now,
thanks Chrome.
An old paint job sheds
An anxious energy shoots through my veins,
muscles, tendons, ligaments pulse; lightning,
firing through narrow tunnels filled with water,
propelling these tired, young bones into action.
Fists beat on concrete,
walls,
a scratch; no damage of note,
a chip,
of paint,
falls down,
smashing on the asphalt,
a thousand tiny pieces of,
neon orange,
from a picture of a Phoenix,
flames roaring, consuming;
you can't stop it.
Occasionally,
a new paint job,
is necessary,
and I live on,
shedding old, concrete-skin,
eroded by sunlight and wind,
even some of your rain,
do you remember the weathering affect,
of all your difficulty and indecision?
I don't;
I shed that memory,
with the old paint-job.
Optimism fights reality
Every touch,
a piece of heart,
a lonely pair,
with a new start.
Prophets didn't write it down,
a new beginning, a new town,
a fresh filter for my thoughts,
throw the old ones to the dogs.
I watch the sun rise over hills,
you populated with poison quills,
but will roam around no longer.
My strength returns slowly;
my eye catches a ray of sun,
a ray of hope,
a new dawn.
Infused with energy,
a smile spreads across my face like cancer,
the chances of its survival are the same,
or maybe not this time.
Optimism fights with reality,
a spear tipped with malice and distrust,
swinging like a welterweight in the first,
occasionally biting crimson,
but often slicing air alone;
the battle will end somehow.
Everything ends,
somehow.
b(e)t(w)e(e)n (t)h(e) l(i)n(e)s
I met her somewhere,
when life was happening,
and she was in between the lines,
the only place where I knew how to read.
There's a broken piece of the past,
floating around in your distant future
awkwardly lodged into your present;
it brings with it a series of,
ridiculous notions,
a time for,
rebirth brought on by,
death,
a new chance.
An old life,
breathes again,
stronger,
fiercer than before,
it's hollowed out,
and the holes feed the fire.
of whores and horses
There's paper tigers,
and paper champions,
but I never heard about,
all of the paper ghosts.
Their soft, word-down exteriors,
only matched by empty souls, begging,
for validation and a new existence,
finding only shit and piss,
and settling for the sewers.
Your soul was rotten,
and died long ago;
I remember,
don't you?
Failure,
eighty-two stories high,
and stacking even higher,
nobody will build your Lego failure with you,
I'm bored, he's ill-equipped,
and everyone else got out of town,
when they saw the change happening.
No one waits for a one-sided conversation,
or the broken light pouring out of a dim bulb,
that used to shine as bright as the noon sun.
Fading fast,
but not fast enough,
it would seem.
A pale horse is a better visage,
than the one of pale whores,
you were well-known for;
lack of stamina
diseased
worn-out
left in the
cold
finally lonely
stories always end
there
life never does.
Andy Veilleux 