Sad Cynical Youth
Cynicism soaks in pools of genes
In the swamps of woken hearts unclean.
It festers as smoke in the generation’s lungs
and blossoms ugly as truth tears that rose screen.
They expected to sell us a smile.
and neglected to tell us stories so vile.
By the way,
we atomically bombed our own chemical composition.
Until we were old enough to understand rationale,
and not yet old enough to fathom that sometimes it’s just a conscience cleared.
Those better blinds were just bitter minds backtracking
to a place they could face but it’s safe to say our species is slacking.
Egos never quenched became tanks, became trenches.
While we’re here on park benches or crouched behind white picket fences
we make opaque defences so we can conceal tensions.
In the same day they go on with their day jobs.
They’re all recycling the same jokes from yesterday
and monotony sets in their flesh and their movements.
And they complain about the lives they’re “detained” in
they claim big disdain in somebody’s campaign
’cause they want a big voice but they want it in vain.
They’re not saying anything.
when they’re hollering about police and politicians
when they’re typing out their disappointments based on blind suspicions
to a couple thousand pixels that will tell them congratulations on the opinions.
They offer no proposals.
They’ll sell you single-use truths along with the blues
Patience languished, compassion in the trash and
for the people they complacently ignore they share a habitat with.
they’ve been mean and they’ve earned reprimand.
except you ignore the brilliance they’ve collectively summoned
I can’t call you a liar, you just miscalculate their worth.
they buy rounds for each other in smokey old bars
they pick up hitchhikers in their headed-west cars
and mend each other’s scars with their six string guitars
they’ve looked at their own chemical composition and developed vaccines,
they’ve broken menacing walls and they’ve rebuilt houses
they love one another, their strangers, their spouses.
They are us.
Don’t deny them their worth, when they’ve delivered before
don’t forget that they’re precious, don’t nullify your initial adoration
they’re not just defaulting to war or settling scores
they’ve come a long way from amino to man
and if you think they’re more plague than plan
or they’re anything less than brilliant
recalculate the masses.
Time at the End of the Day
In case anyone out there finds this, there are some things that ought to be known. You’re at the residence of Angelina and Jasper Carnot. There is a cellar on the west side of the house, containing hardware tools and a few bottles of wine, enjoy. There is a first aid kit above the fridge. Jas bought the soft band aids. I loved him more than one lifetime’s worth. There is a box labelled "Ireland" in the closet under the stairs. This is all the cash and change in the house. If we have turned, burn us. If we are dead, forget us. Keep going. To any survivors: be vigilant, be strong, and take care.
-Lina
I know it looks like some people are forged with iron and others are delicately sculpted porcelain. I know some have sturdy American steel shoulders either holding up the sky or curled around a lover and others have glass hands either clenched in objection or outstretched in warm welcome. But no one is pure in composition. Those that were born fragile have been so chipped and fractured and sometimes shattered that they wrap themselves in something less susceptible to contact, some ferrous carapace to ward the core. And sometimes it requires more, a concrete cloak or a titanium suit all layered up on that not-up-to-code scaffold. Those that were born titanic were still prone to damage, their unwavering, detached characters could not properly fathom tenderness and vulnerability. Their metal cores were dented and dinged by trying to carry too much without something soft to fall on at the end of the day. So they wrap themselves in something more supple, more graceful and breakable so they can learn the lovelier feelings available. They're all layered up with china and marble and bound with canvas so yes, they can be torn but yes, they are permeable. Either one is dressing their cracks and splinters, either is broken too.
I Am Not Like Them
You there. Excuse me. You sitting there, don't make a sound. Don't move a muscle. They're watching you. Can you feel their eyes on you? They won't blink; they're waiting. They can see inside the deepest chasms of your mind. Oh, yes, they can see everything; your worst mistakes, your excruciating regrets, your most sincere fears. They are hungry for your chaos. Look them in the eyes and they will devour every pleasant memory you ever got nostalgic about, regurgitate your insecurities and promote agony wherever there is space within you. They want to feast on your panic. If you let them know your terror they will crash into your skin with claws like brandished barbed wire. They will gnaw on your spine with canines made of torn sheet metal and craving malevolence. But me? I am safe. You can let me in. I'm not like them. Just open the door. I will protect you from them. Just let me in. I am not like them. I promise. I could never watch you writhe in torment of this hellish night. Not I. Just let me in, or I can unlock the door for you. I would never allow them to treat your flesh like a fecund field sewing lines of red across your stomach, watching your tears drip down to quench my thirst. Just let me in. They wouldn't dare hurt you while I am close. After all, I am their queen. I'm coming in.