scraped knees from your mouth's actions,
scraped soul from your mental failures,
you're a walking band-aid,
all damaged goods and pain,
no good for anything real,
only as a chew-toy,
for a disobedient dog,
or one whose mess you watch being made,
with a reserved hand.
leash your failure,
and hide it away again;
dogs will be dogs,
and bitches will be bitches.
how far the mighty,
fall; they settle for failure,
just to get fucked.
A shadow is spreading in my heart,
viral by nature,
an infection feeding off my memories,
swelling my chest.
Blood leaks out with love,
while hope struggles to hold on,
a seemingly endless battle
I no longer own my heart,
and truth be told,
I haven't owned it in years.
It's been sold to the highest bidder,
time and time again;
the person too intoxicated to understand,
and willing to show me the most affection,
a double entendre of failure.
The auction's up,
and the bets are being placed;
an over-anxious auctioneer,
a lonely prize.
The neon life;
tweets, posts, blogs, status updates,
friends, music, movies and video games,
sports, jogging, working out, dancing,
poetry,
nothing works for long,
and it shouldn't.
Life is meant to be tackled had on,
hit your bruised forehead again,
on the same dull, white brick wall,
from school of old and the office of new,
until you need a release.
What release?
none.
Create as you will,
nothing will avoid the end,
not even your art can buy time.
A shadow is spreading in my heart,
viral by nature,
an infection feeding off my memories,
swelling my chest.
Blood leaks out with love,
while hope struggles to hold on,
a seemingly endless battle
I no longer own my heart,
and truth be told,
I haven't owned it in years.
It's been sold to the highest bidder,
time and time again;
the person too intoxicated to understand,
and willing to show me the most affection,
a double entendre of failure.
The auction's up,
and the bets are being placed;
an over-anxious auctioneer,
a lonely prize.
The neon life;
tweets, posts, blogs, status updates,
friends, music, movies and video games,
sports, jogging, working out, dancing,
poetry,
nothing works for long,
and it shouldn't.
Life is meant to be tackled had on,
hit your bruised forehead again,
on the same dull, white brick wall,
from school of old and the office of new,
until you need a release.
What release?
none.
Create as you will,
nothing will avoid the end,
not even your art can buy time.
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.
If I asked you,
would you make the same mistake,
or burn it all down?
A lonely phoenix;
fire in the cold midnight sky,
a change of seasons.
Defeat and victory are temporary;
slight failures or successes,
in a doomed timeline called life.
Nothing is permanent,
attempts at legacy;
futile at best.
What does that leave for us?
Enjoyment of the 'now.'
So don't stress,
don't worry,
life's not meant,
to be taken seriously,
or to be at all permanent.
I saw you yesterday,
over my shoulder,
in a vivid dream,
you were dead;
symbolism,
surely.
The soul sickness,
strikes at me again,
with it's weary eyes,
drained, dead face,
gangly, toxic hands.
Deadly,
overwhelming,
it eats me like fire,
my thoughts are ashes,
floating freely on the winds,
thick with change and new life.
Andy Veilleux 