your words were backbones,
binding me to a straight existence
you sought to define me
vowels and consenence slur in a delicate mess of boxes I was expected to fit in
pigeonholed into a peghole I was too square for
you pushed to make it work
while I begged for room to breathe
to spell out in harsh diction
I am not here for you.
I just need to be me.
whoever that is.
inarticulate.
undefined.
spilling over colored boundaries
to keep my sanity.
messy, unkept, and with a backbone of my own
that is telling you to step off.
Pipedream Generation
We left oceans of drywalled mediocrity
And fled to a more poetic existence
We hoped the ink on our skin would keep the masses from reading deeper
From seeing deeper.
From finding an insubstantial shell
We could fake it.
Mimesis.
Imitation.
Desperation.
Flattering ourselves with our ability to allude definition
We forfeited our distinction
And lost ourselves in contradiction
Enamored with the art of poverty,
We traded warm shoes for the freedom of bare feet
As long as the wealth of our fathers sustained the heat
Bills flooding our apartments,
Forming rivers of irresponsibility
Splitting into tributaries between empty cans of PBR and hallowed cartons of cigarettes.
Our own forestation, where we lived wild
Manifesting in the streets of cultural havens
Flocking like vultures to the city
To feed off creativity
And siphon the lifeblood
We might have done something,
But for the lack of motivation searing our bones.
Apathy coursing through veins of lazy hands
We tried to reap a harvest sown by our grandfathers.
Their sweat
Their passion,
Their weathered hands laid a foundation we shunned for overexposure
We thought exclusivity begat survival
But our arrogance birthed a lonely existence
Who can befriend the indefinite?
Who can love a secret?
Art has no life if there is no one to interpret it.
So we rejected reality
Burrowed into our vinyl records and smoking jackets
And lived in pipedreams
We smoked the nostalgia of the future
Got high off plans we’d never make
The biggest rush,
The end goal: don’t wake up.
Surreal life to Real life
Would be too much.
No one wants to wake up naked, next to a rotting apple.
Half-eaten by the real world
Maybe if we grew our beards long enough, we could cover our shame
i am your skin. the thin layer dividing in and out. mediating between heart and doubt. i keep you from spilling out. and you’re fragile, but i’ll seal you in. and i love you, but i’m filling in. i wish you’d wear me tenderly. but i’m this casual thing. and it’s rough outside; i keep you from feeling it, you keep me alive. they scratch and i break, but you recreate. i am your skin. i keep you in. you push me out. i feel your doubt. i am your skin. i keep you in.
