Youth

I miss tolerance levels and wandering heads,

Peeing outside and empty beds.

Warm beer and pop tarts are Prozac for the youth

And if it were an option,

We wouldn’t hide the truth.

It’s easy to be free when they don’t know who you are…

But a flat tire and empty pockets wouldn’t get me that far.

Then there’s a man with a family, he’s a farmer,

Playing a representative for man made karma.

He pounds his wooden fist, engraving my sins,

While sinners sink slowly, chests to our chins.

And it’s those consequences of honesty that twist my stories,

Because your lack of compassion is too insensitive for me.

Can I ask which one of your opinions did you not consider fact?

You’re starving for sincerity with not a hint of tact.

Christmas

On this particular eve while I anxiously fastened my eyelids and tap my feet simultaneously to the sound of spirited engines outside my window, I find my merry thoughts suddenly begin to disfigure themselves. The time capsule fixed inside my brain begins to bring me back to a feeling I had became familiar with about 4 years ago to this day, or eve. It had been obvious to me for a while that the spirit of Christmas was slowly dieing inside of me as the years passed, and that there was not much I could do about it. I think about cherished companionship that have been plucked from my life like pieces of a complicated puzzle. Disappeared, along with ones I can no longer love, are spirits I no longer believe in and a sense of meaninglessness for holidays. Medicating myself with Egg Nog and sugar cookies, I attempt to disguise my self regret for ever believing in something as silly as a man shoving his gianormous body down a chimney that I didn’t even have. I consider lecturing my mother for lying to me for half of my life, but visualizing a bitter 19 year old whining to her more then likely confused mother seems pointless at the least. So why am I so bitter? I can’t really hold a grudge against my poor mother for doing the only thing that she knew. Well it’s 2:30 in the morning and still I sit pattering my foot against my computer chair, waiting for some kind of feeling of satisfaction to burst inside of me. So again, I will await morning, where my mind will be eased and the beaming faces of my relationships that I still have grasp of, will fill my heart with a different type of spirit that I long for tonight.

Passenger's Seat

Passengers seat,
I confide in only you to hold my cries.
Like the moon sharing secrets with the clouds.
Leaning against your shoulder, we watch the pavement unroll beneath her car.
And a clockwise turn
locks my eyes with two pupils in the grass
on a body resembling mine.
Before my mind can arrange an obliging offer,
the passengers seat lets me go.
I slip out her window,
and shoot for the water below.