I could never say it to you,
not yet,
despite how much I've
been thinking about it.
I just don't know how to say it,
how to express it in general.
Time does not exist with these thoughts,
they are so heavy they've pulled time down,
not just a helpful anchor to keep it stable,
rather a rope creating an eye for the storm,
which has now ended stability entirely.
Something is broken,
and we can feel it,
as sure as we can feel
every pin and needle in our
heads that are in and out of
consciousness.
It's there,
trust me,
it's there,
even if there
doesn't really exist,
it's more of a subjective place,
a GPS could never take you to.
Now then,
it's a big place,
with hidden chambers,
and everything is fucked up.
It sounds like the real world,
doesn't it?
Except "there" is where every
failure of moral judgement,
shattered dream and lost hope,
god-awful screw up that made you
wish you were fucking dead
has escaped to.
Those things live "there,"
even when you aren't around,
too bust strolling in the corridors
of life,
where thingss are safe,
and nothing is out to hurt you
in any way that matters.
The physical is nothing,
weak, soft, pathetic,
like a fluffy bunny,
no claws at all,
wait til the hounds of
"there," or hell,
or Baskerville,
or whatever you want to call it,
come calling.
You are weak,
soft,
and pathetic,
stuck here,
while everything
important is happening
there.
So why am I here,
writing these words?
Weak,
soft,
and pathetic.
There is no demon like the night;
inescapable, all-consuming, yet empty.
Not even the mirror will save you,
it's more likely to betray you;
what was that?
Who is that?
Breathe.
Never look it in the eyes,
despite the promies of the,
broken, lost, philosophers,
and their empty, vacant claims.
It will annhilate you,
and keep moving,
because it's the big one,
the unstoppable force;
the war humanity will lose.
We never had a shot in hell,
but we never gave up;
was it worth it?
Motivation for the race is lost on me,
when the finish line is a guillotine.
Another wall,
another dead end.
Confronted with it,
all too familiar,
once again.
This can't be the limit,
there has to be more.
No,
no.
No.
Not now,
at least,
but maybe not ever.
And maybe I'm too late.
There's no breaking out of,
a slump like this,
and there's only one end,
despite all the options.
There's only one end.
It was the night that forced me to write. I had to write, or there would be nothing after.
There is a weight, an entity, an anchor, pulling part of my soul down.
Every night without words causes the tumour to sink deeper, and corrupt more.
Is this an escape, a temporary reprieve or just a useless feel-good exercise.
Is something that makes you feel good a useless exercise?
Insignificant musing.
The wind whistles into, and out of, the decrepit apartment windows, begging for a proper entrance, or for total submission.
Brick, steel, and decades of existence don't bow down so easily.
Strange mechanical noises outside, first thought to be ladders on a parked trailer, and have now become whatever nightmare my sleep-deprived, horror-accustomed mind can imagine.
An all-consuming, fluorescent, white glow blocks everything in the room behind the screen.
The room is 81 per cent darkness.
What skeletons can dance in so much darkness?
There are also ghosts, and they whisper memories best left forgotten. I feel them crawling up my legs in the dark, edging up to the white light, but never entering into view.
They wait to scream out, and startle me. I could only be so lucky.
Forever they remain nameless. Forever they smile outside my vision.
Forever they know everything I do not.
You didn't notice. Sleep is your natural state. Envy fills me, as dreams are my favourite place. The only place that makes sense to me. The only place where existence is fair.
Fairness is subjective, like justice, but I trust my shadow's judgement enough to lose myself there.
Those are the lucky moments. It is more common to not remember my journeys there, and maybe that is for the best.
Imagine waking up from paradise every day, and coming back here.
Perpetual disappointment.
The radiator clicks.
I couldn't buy sleep tonight, not in a bottle of pills, a bottle of whiskey, or a bottle of self-loathing.
I guess that's why they call it the blues.
Written February 21
there's a hand
wrapping around
my stomach,
it pulls
endlessly.
It wrenches my insides,
my face spreading vomit
across razor-sharp rugs
busy chewing on it.
a sinking feeling
dominates
my submissive mind
begging for distractions,
wet with it's legs spread
wide
open,
it never sleeps
alone.
there's a broken
moment
stuck on repeat,
drowning in the now
unable to spew enough
to breathe well or often.
shallow breaths,
interrupted,
sustain me.
No oxygen licks
my charcoal wings,
a grounded bird of
LEGEND
looking ordinary.
It was never about,
not wanting to have
to
change
my plans
or your hopes
and dreams.
I always knew I’d fail,
and you are
a mistake
I never wanted to make.
fingers
triggers
dancing
together.
end of all
somethings,
that started from
nothings.
A sick,
pathetic,
dance of naked
bodies strewn across
a dreamscape reality.
memories shimmer
in the distance
too far for me
to see clearly,
but close enough
to remind me what
I have missed out on
all of these broken years.
My fingers break the intangible air,
I imagine
victory,
or some sweet defeat,
breaking point,
the blood of the sky
pouring down my
assailant hands
sweet liquid
invisible
but I feel
it.
I imagine your
loving but cold
hands
rubbing
all the sore spots
on my broken back
from too many nights
up screaming at life
trying to manipulate it
like i did all those poor
sad broken
left-behind
people I used to
feel so close to but now
we all float apart
drifting satellites
each shaking away
violently,
with lovers on our backs,
and fake lovers grasping
at flailing legs
growing more distant.
A humble comet,
burning up slowly,
no longer alone.
Andy Veilleux 