The
nurse
who
loved me.
Old tears shared,
with open hearts,
and love came,
somewhere in the middle.
Two broken lives,
collapsed relations,
abandoned at dusk,
the night is too cold for loneliness
these
days.
She knows.
poetry
get busy growing
The gates are down,
broken down,
I marched in with
malicious intent
as only humans can.
No survival instinct,
pure aggression unwrapped,
punching at your fragile state of mind,
to err is human,
to kill
maim
break
destroy
decapitate
is GODLY.
there is no quick fix,
no fix at all,
for the broken humanity,
that still dances as a saint,
while proving to be the sinner.
No dawn will break,
there's no storm passing
which would break if weathered
long enough
unless you count on death,
which is always counted out
but never down for the count.
No twilight of peace,
and what a stupid book,
and what a stupid wish.
Life is a torrent of lightning,
fire and destruction,
where a tree shelters you
momentarily,
or you huddle with others
sometimes for a night,
sometimes for fifty years
but nothing lasts
and death is lonely.
Get busy growing,
or keep dying;
but enjoy it.
A dead connection
A dead connection,
struggling to stand on the horizon,
like a dead, hollowed-out metropolis;
once great, strong, and teeming with life
and love,
now thew blood has gone,
the face is pale.
Three years,
two,
what does it matter,
when you dance on the scythe
of a midnight sky
alone.
Your toes drag,
peeling skin leaving crimson,
on powdery white-blue acrylic skies.
The artist's brush paints
and captures a sadness inconceivable
to the human eye
but captured nonetheless.
Wrapped hands stop
red red waters of life
from deserting you
in a fight you've lost
for too many years.
a beast and a gentleman
I haven't even managed,
to hit my full stride,
yet.
I'm already your favourite beast,
and maybe,
favourite gentleman.
The image is broken.
The thoughts of me,
and my best moments,
fell from your ears and shattered;
a mountain ridge of memories,
piled on the cold floor,
passive,
on cracked, dry concrete.
You're broken,
and I know,
because,
I broke you;
you never had a chance,
or a shot in hell.
Don't worry,
dry your comatose eyes,
you're finished but there are,
certainly worse things in life;
not death.
I stole your core,
the package of life,
that represents you,
keeps you breathing,
and I ate it gladly with,
my smiling hero jaw.
I didn't leave a loiterer,
I fought for my territory,
but you were too strong,
too well-armed for my weak,
shameful,
display of force;
I grapple with inner demons,
that have worn me down for years;
NOW IS YOUR TIME.
A train clangs along,
the tracks of your hatred,
a rock on the rails,
shifts the weight,
and the train tips,
ever so slightly,
but not finally.
A rusted train penetrates,
a midnight sky of lost hope,
there is nothing else.
as long as you breathe my ghost
My willpower slaps you,
with all my bad intentions,
tearing down your resistance,
in one fell swoop.
You'll never forget me;
I broke you apart,
to make you whole.
You're better than ever,
better than you ever were,
now that you're without me.
Only one line was true;
my ghost will be your curse,
for as long as you breathe.
love me for this
Don't love me for my character,
my charm,
or my wit;
time will rob me of them,
or distort them so badly,
you won't recognize me.
Love me for this,
these words,
they live forever,
and are as much of me,
as my wit, charm, or character,
and maybe they are even more.
Starving ideas
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.
representation of the Damned
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.
the broken joke
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.
we're missing the point
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.
Andy Veilleux 