In an earlier incarnation, Hayden Veil enjoyed a successful career in software engineering, writing late-night poetry in pursuit of sanity. On 2 February 2020, the world of Hayden Veil changed: Ghosts became real and with its soul laid bare there was no turning back from the perpetual path of poetry.
I never tried to love again, to find a Heart I expected to win. You fought the battles I did not Understand, I passed; without a fail. We were, yet never again, the sum of Many, the broken without hoping, the Wanting yet weary. We were many, too Many; laughing without breaking. We Were, yet I fail to recollect the me; the Half of us, the I between the trees, the Us minus the You. The self in the Cracks in the mirror. The one behind
I was only 15 when I passed away. I stand here today, not expecting Sympathetic smacks, or cordial Cracks; the burning of fire crackers Wasted.
I was only 15 when I passed. Her shine, the claws that held Me never felt real, the Upbringing a slaughterhouse Without hands, without fists Bumping, a life wanting.
I was only 15, She wore fishnet Stockings, Spreading her Legs for pleasure As I tossed myself Off.
I am happy now, as the wolf crosses a Path less trodden; a path less worn. The withering of a cleavage Busted, a flat solid skin screaming for Touch. I touch and I care as I touch Her, the one with a heart. Under or Without matters not, I care but I Tell not. Cannot. Dare not. Share What my heart wants, between the Sheets I dream, of her. You, not Aware of this yet dreaming. Embrace Me, call me the fool, I will comply, I Will accept my roots and the promise โ
I kissed the screen, the window to The world, in appreciation. Your Love, a quick response to a writing Mattered, to a loving Scattered Across the inter-web.
Who you are matter less than The love you shared. My thanks To you I give, thanks I give to You a stranger. The Who and Unwrapped dreams,
The dreams; the dreams of Time, the clock ticks, as my heart beams For the chaos
I relate to your darkness, The folding of the empress Into the moot; the moth & The light gone dark, darkening; Darjeeling sips, Painted lips, The Base Bouncing Beats, The Base, The Face, The Billie Ey Lish, Frowning:
Please put the future on repeat, On retreat, in the shadows of a Day like this day, of a bouncing Merry; by treat and mistreat of A walking stick dubbed Mary; oh those feet I cherised.
I walk, I wobble, I called you out. The sisters and the painted veil; Disengaged. Heathen, indeed on Paved and littered roads, of paths From paradise fallen.
Show yourself, show your features And the rampant rage; the rape Untold, the butter melting between The sheets; between the tweets & The mournings.
Please put the future on repeat, I hate to say I told you otherwise, I hate to play your unwashed Fold. I walk into the future you Foretold: paradise lost &
I received the proof copy of my first book today ๐
I am giggling with excitement as I fend off a torrent of terrifying thoughts ๐
It feels good having created something which turned out exactly how I wanted it. Now all it needs is a few minor tweaks before … I … *scary thought* … publish
ISBN: 978-1-9163643-0-1 Size:5.00 x 8.00 in Pages: 297
Ghosts frequently haunt the places we desire the most in our search for solitude: our memories. Our ghosts are personal, intimate, and often unreasonable foes of days long gone. Over time they become our sparring partners in the eternal ring of unyielding fires, refusing to heed our cries for mercy.
Ghosts is a collection of personal poetry painted in black and white. Poems dealing with past and present ghosts, and with the life and inevitable death of the poet they left behind.
Please be aware: the topics covered herein may be upsetting to some readers. There is explicit content: strong language, references to abuse and scenes of a sexual nature; plus frequent misuse of punctuation, grammar, and the English language.
