Overwhelmed by my own youth. Exasperated by my own experience. |
When the future is yesterday, And tomorrow is a fading memory, And all that talk of quitting adult things Like we've been living some lavish adult lifestyle, Become wind swept words On the driest of parchment thin deserts, Only then will age begin to matter. Only then will we sit back and truly being to remember. Not the hollow jawing of too few years With friends that meant far too little, But really remembering: What He said, What She felt like, What He meant, How She tasted. That roadtrip. Those tears. His birth. Their death. Like Children Playing Dress Up She cries tears like she lost something more significant than her silly doll, And fourteen days and wholly countable hours meant a lifetime, And trips to this Mecca and that Temple and Such and Such House of Worship Really were meaningful Spiritual Experiences As opposed to masturbatory intellectual exercises that left us sweaty and disheveled In dire need of Mother's wash rag. Like Children Playing Dress Up, We drink too much, And read loudly the words of Giants whose shiny black dress pants are conveniently pissed upon; We smoke our lungs into some sort of glorified oblivion, And call it class. What the hell is class anyway? What is age? What is experience? Why don't these pants fit? Button up that shirt, It's far too big. How can you walk When those shoes are twice the size of your feet? We fill our bodies with holes And fill them with Obscure Music And the Classics And the PoMo And Metal And Each Other. 19 is the new thirty six, And 20 is the new seventeen. Like Children Playing Dress Up, We feverishly rub ourselves red and raw with the Steel Wool of WhatCouldHaveBeen, And gently wash our wounds with the welcomed Cotton of WhatWeSettledFor |