Exhaustion sets in,
fight this,
exhaustion climbing,
rounding the corner,
fight this,
hatred for the unexplainable,
unknown, and confused idea,
of what exactly happened then,
fight this,
sorrow that destroys the indestructible,
soul at the foundation of human existence,
that fosters and creates all spiritual growth;
now filled with an eroding, poisonous sadness,
fight this,
my brother,
we stand together.
A green fire burns my heart,
it's now or never, clock swings,
an awkward metronome reminder,
we'll be gone soon, your hand on the,
pawn; mine's on a queen, empty and gone.
Hand moves piece,
queen dead by inaction,
rotting and decaying in another,
time, when a queen meant something,
special, but any unique nature died long ago,
hand removes piece from playing board in a flurry,
of traded blows that left both sides weak, pathetic, and vulnerable,
trust me.
Something broken in time;
no Ticktockman willing;
and all the king's men,
failed to put my life,
back together.
That shell broke long ago,
and I slipped out of it,
into someone else.
I came across this old poem I wrote and never published, while searching through an old Facebook group of mine. The group was called The Pentriloquists, and only had three members. Now the number stands at two. It is fascinating to look at one's old poetry and see how you've grown. Here is the poem:
"I bite my lip til it bleeds,
as I stare at a dark and vacant ceiling.
The night-shaded tiles reveal nothing,
and quest is a dream drifting further away.
Sleep has become a problem,
and I've lost the way again somehow.
I drift in and out of dream-like states,
as I drift in and out of rooms.
I'm lying there in your bed,
I'm lying here on the floor,
twenty minutes ago,
three hours ago,
and an hour and a half ago;
place and time do not matter,
now is the only time that can exist.
I taste the blood again,
why have I biten through the skin so many times?
Am I that frustrated and angry with the world?
No.
This frustration has only known one cause,
and I am the hand that pulls along the puppets,
now and forever."
Late nights,
dirty thoughts;
cyclical sins.
a wheel of pain and pleasure,
crushing boredom and leaving,
aggressive sexual tendencies,
void of any inhibitions without,
the help of vodka on the rocks,
a lighthouse; lonely, desperate souls,
collide and wrap inside of each other.
You built your present,
on the graveyard of your past,
and didn't flinch.
I hope you enjoy the lonely path,
with the ghosts stuck to your ribs,
tearing at your empty heart.
The past can't hurt you anymore,
it's paid you back the favour,
you're abandoned,
left with emptiness,
a soul-death.
The only thing worse than a broken heart,
is an empty life in an absent world;
you call it home and walk your path,
alone.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Andy Veilleux 