5:30 p.m. - 01/24/02
poihtree.
hey, she finally wrote a real poem again...weird.
*
[mushrooms blossoming]
we set fire to our desires
hoping to rise like pheonixes
from the ash of our own skin
old hope now too illogical to win
we defend ourselves against
our own desperate despair
hence: the self-imposed suffocation
in this world of more than enough air.
yes, I whisper, wincing, that's us
just a few extra evidences
to an already obvious surplus
one unjust undertow washing away
the fundamental elements
of children who were the world's hope
yesterday. now society plays parent
to a younger generation,
not yet warped below the weight
of the elder expectations;
my peers and I, a partnerhood of stains
but below the fresh coat of paint
this rust remains.
in the age of upgrade
we are easily replaced
but repetitive messages:
child you can change the world
are not so easily erased.
misplaced, misunderstood, misguided
society still unwilling to admit
what she's ignited - abandoned
to our conditioned appetite for change,
we grow strange, deranged,
malignant, we grow ugly
we grow.
weeds once considered wildflowers
poking through the cracked cement sidewalks
poking through into elderly political talks
in schools, broken rules serve as weapons
for breaking down walls
and what society still calls chaos
we call revolution; meaning:
some circular leaning back
through the seasons is in store
even as you claim there is no reason
even as you beg no more
the generation you weren't
particularly prepared for
still refuses to compromise, to revise
still refuses to do anything
but rise.
the whys you cling to
surround us like a spray
of toxic lies, surprised
like a gardener discovering
the wrong seeds sprouted overnight
we are mushrooms, blossoming
in your world of light. and right.
your mighty magistrates
are still unable to abate
the inevitable escalation
of this extra generation
and if I speak out against
the one true cause
you'll surround me in
zero tolerance laws
teach my peers to fear me
never hear me, no
not even now
close enough to taste my bitter breath.
so incarcerated, I watch the brainwashing begin
watch my sisters setting fire to their skin
an attempt to smoulder
the sin you've convinced them they are.
sons tried as adults for childhood transgressions
while daughters set fire to the the symptoms,
try to smother the confessions of their
adolescence, not to lose the affection
they crave like - air.
the shots sound again
you throw another brother
behind bars, hide his scars
below an orange jumpsuit
unwilling to acknowledge the
pain you can't refute
but we both know who
his barrel truly pointed at
the gun of this machine
has maimed more than he
in his attempt to find
anyone still listening
the fires of pheonixes whispering
the call crying out in every shotgun shell
we are the generation
who felt the sting
of expectations' separation
and survived.
we're here if not heard
we're chanting our one word
we're screaming with our blood
that we're alive.
*
my fingers are so cold they're about to form a union against typing, so I'm going to leave it at that.
chord
�
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