sadness

Who is that poem about

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

The postcard sits on my fridge,
that was our fridge,
Not as a sad reminder of
Better
Times
But as a reminder to miss you.

I don’t miss you anymore
And there’s something cold
And seemingly empty about that,
As if you had meant nothing.

Its from Switzerland’s Chateau De Chillon,
And you said you missed me
Although we had only hung out once
And you disguised your love by saying
‘Much love’
When you signed off,
But we both knew it was a quiet misdirection.

Happiness washes over me reading this
Postcard from a mystery woman in my past
Because that is not who you are now
That was another you
And another me.

I wouldn’t bet the farm that those will be
The happiest moments of our young lives
but anyone hedging bets would not
Handicap that bet too much,
it might be a favourite.

And the beautiful Irish had said
I reminded her of Hemingway because
I was handsome
Honest
And a hell of a writer.

Maybe it didn’t matter what anyone else said,
Besides a handful of lovers,
Because I was handsome and honest,
Worthy of hatred for my vileness,
And I could write.

More importantly,
I was worthy of great love
the deepest sadness
And was hellbent on passing away talent.

love hatred and sadness

/ andyveilleux / Leave a comment

There are not enough tears to express sorrow,

or enough violent acts to express rage.

Not in any true way,

the best we have are words,

because actions seem to fail.

 

One man,

shaking in his sadness,

body convulsing in fits of tears,

and rolling ever so gently back and forth,

trying to rock himself back to sanity.

and it is not true enough. 

 

The stare of betrayed lovers,

digging through years of happiness,

and the built up human coniditoning of love,

to pierce the soul of their former other,

with the hatred of centuries,

fails to explain it.

 

There are an infinite combination of words,

that act as silhouettes

-at best-

in defining how we feel.

 

The word love means everything,

but we can't define it in an acceptable way,

and nobody has the same definition

in their mind r their heart.

 

Love,

hatred,

sadness,

and what else matters?

a sad blanket

/ andyveilleux / Leave a comment

A waste as it were,

potential turned to shit;

the saddest loss.

Whether one is passing by the woods on a snowy evening

or admiring the tragedy of the leaves,

sadness blankets the word

in fragments all-consuming.

Sorrow and loneliness are

beautiful,

and do not care for justification.

representation of the Damned

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

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.

Good conversations and the eternal sadness of being human

/ andyveilleux / Leave a comment

I've been having a lot of conversations lately, with a bunch of people with differing opinions. I've talked about purpose in life, Hemingway, Jung, Bukowski, the ADHD generation I am coming up in, intellectual boredom and stagnation, the difference between academic and public writing, and most important, the overall sadness that invades daily life.

There's a certain sadness to the daily events of life. Not specifically, because it's nothing you can put you finger on, but generally. It's not an overwhelming sadness.

It doesn't team up with the other negative emotions to push you down. It waits in the background most of the time. Occasionally, you can let it out of its cage, and play with it until you're both satisfied. It then will return to its cage and wait your next moment of weakness. In this way, it is like that ex-girlfriend, or friend-you-slept-with-and-sort-of-regretted-who-won't-go-away.

A lot of conversation has centred around what causes this sadness, and whether it will ever go away. I don't think it ever really goes away. The dull pain is probably always going to be there behind my ears. Maybe that's what got to Hemingway and Hunter S. Thomson.

Maybe it comes down to knowing that eventually we're all going to die. Our bodies can only continue for so long, and then the show's over. Good-bye Andy consciousness, you'll be gone for good one day. Hell, the whole species is doomed for that matter.

That's the eternal sadness of being human. It may be the only part of us that survives.

There is an emotion that teams up with that overall sadness well; loneliness. The feeling, or even thought, of being alone. To quote Bukowski, "there is a loneliness in this world so great that you can see it in the slow movement of the hands of a clock." The clocks have gone digital, the loneliness has to.

Now we sit around on MSN, Facebook, Twitter, just waiting for that message to lead us to salvation, away from loneliness. Sometimes it comes, sometimes it doesn't; but it never lasts. 

It's quicker than ever to get in touch with someone, but it's harder than ever to hold their attention and time. How much spectacle is acceptable in one's life to keep on entertaining, without becoming the jester?

Some nights are harder than others.

A lost relation-friend-ship, from long ago

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There was sex, sleep, conversation, and art. There was no love. We did not even love one another improperly.

The art was tired, and made in the spirit of fun. Art is only art when it is expressing an emotion. We expressed our humourous side, with a slice of our inner happiness.Happiness took its foot of the gas occasionally, and the remnants of past glittered with pain in the pupils of our eyes.

The sex was never tired, even when we were. The conversation never struggled, but never went much below the surface. Sleep didn't matter.

We existed this way for months, in between relationships, ex-lovers, and competing friendships. One day it broke, and we may have spoken a total of three sentences each since.

Even broken friendships are worth remembering. Some things that glitter lose their appeal too soon.There is an abyss of lost friendship, and conversations that should have happened. 

Sometimes we dance on the edge of both love and friendship. Sometimes we are too broken to dance.

Numb floating

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Numb,

floating,

helpless,

splitting the water,

as I drift,

towards nothing,

significant.

 

What matters?

 

The tears,

touch down,

on paved street,

reeking of asphalt,

and blurry memories.

 

It was never enough.

 

Heels echo,

in crowded corridors,

where the rug tries to muffle it,

and fails miserably.

 

Pressed shirts,

dark pants and ties,

a gathering for a fallen,

cherished and loved one.

 

Pain spikes through,

the numb feelings that,

reside in fractured hearts,

pouring blood into your soul,

swelling it with pain and bruising.

 

Life's not easy,

and every loved one,

eventually leaves,

until you leave them.

 

Cold reality,

and I love you,

don't ever forget that.

 

I hope I don't,

leave you first,

I couldn't bear,

the thought of you sad,

on my unworthy account,

my dearest of friends and loved ones.

 

Times are tough,

and they'll get tougher still,

but we hold hands and heart,

and rebel against death the best we can.

 

That's the only way.

Fight this

/ andyveilleux / 2 Comments

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.

Sleepless night (an old poem)

/ andyveilleux / Leave a comment

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."

Memories

/ andyveilleux / 1 Comment

 

We always recall our past lovers,

with such fond memories and warm hearts,

much more than we did when we were with them.

 

Maybe the answer is simple;

we never gave them enough credit,

when we were in love with them.

 

Sadness and bad moments,

pass from memory,

easily enough,

because they are common.

 

Happy moments linger awhile,

and dance on in your mind,

and memories of love,

well, those last forever.