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We are the lost generation
One would say we strayed
If there was a path to stray from
To be lost, to not know one's whereabouts is tough
When one doesn't know themselves.
A gap year will solve that problem
Or two
Or eight
Perhaps a gap life might be more appropriate
More appropriate than 3 years of falsities we label as education
Three years of losing oneself
-the self one never owned-
For instant gratification, excessive debauchery
Live now, pay later
In full, with interest
They never warn you of the interest
At some point undergo transformation,
Don't so much follow as pursue your passion as a detective seeks his criminal
Craft your philosophy and prepare for war where
Freedom fighters clash with crashes of the sharpest steel
Shame really,
To be fighting when one does not know what they are fighting for
The world burns and we feed the fire without thinking
The lights are on
Yet we are shrouded in darkness
Cast over by the shadows of our possessions
Acquired as one collects stamps or stones
Stones more like, for they will be too heavy to take with us
As will the paper our degrees are published on
As will the words I scribble furiously, daily
All because my work is by extension, me,
And so with it comes purpose
A bumpy, undefined path for me to trek on
For me to struggle and strive for an invisible finish line
Sans friends and family
Without anyone to shield me from my own monstrous thoughts
Is it fear or control which prevents me from action?
Perhaps a more suitable question for those who do
Take action
Seeing evil, hearing evil, contributing to it
Ignoring it
Ignoring the little boys and girls plucked from their homes
Or forced into silence by the ones they trust
Or watching countries storm their neighbours for no reason
Or even the most ordinary,
Where families are ripped apart and vows are broken
Where we cut and chop and mutilate our flesh to become someone's doppelganger
Where heart, honour and respect mean nothing.
Don't tell me money started this
When evil existed before money
Long before we didn't know who we were
We are the lost generation
And though I don't know how to be found
Maybe the solution
Is to find each other.
It was late
And the night was beginning in earnest
When I learned about love.

I sat one night
And eavesdropped without intention
Into the intricate lives of a pair
Creatives, artists doomed to a life of non-satisfaction
Yet they are humans too
They may conjure out (in this case) music out of thin air
Melodic moments and sensuous sing-songs
But they feel pain too
And try to lose it in viscous, pungent, happy-making liquid.
This fellow, bearded and thick spectacles atop his nose
(Is there a more stereotypical artist?)
Would lose his father soon
Intuition and expensive healthcare told him so
What to do?
Well take a sip and another and another
Because drunken words are sober thoughts.
A dog he suggests, so that his mother will not be lonely
Who will care for it? We will of course he says,
And she is lost at 'we', a confirmation of their union
To take over the world, together.
Is this not love?

I sat another night
Encountering two whose sips became gulps
And gulps become swallows
Diving into the pool of intoxication
Rid of all senses they walked, together
Up and Down carriages,
Stumbling in unison
Destination unknown, they would find it together
Matching trench coats flapping in rhythm
Giggles as they rocked to the swaying melody of the train
They may have appeared as two nuisances, inconveniencing others
But they were two foolish lovers,
Holding on for the moment in a night they would forget
Is this not love?

The last night on the last train
A soft pitter-patter of midnight rain
An arctic breeze had blown in
Across me a couple huddled
Not groping and wandering with perverse hands
Subtle sensual caressing
Involving no movement
Just the pair joined in body and soul
Tucked into each others arms
Clicking together as two jigsaw pieces
Slowly slipping into splendid slumber
I wondered
Is this not love?
And when will I find it?
My life is a paradoxical monstrosity
A contradiction in itself
Where to start?
Anywhere, everywhere, nowhere perhaps
I play with words.
How naughty does that sound?
Really, I'm in a complicated relationship with words, terms, definitions, metaphors
Writer by day, storyteller by night
And of course I love what I do
And I hate what I do
How very poetic of you!
Why thank you!
Sorry, the inner child speaks.
Back to writing,
And the moments of fantastic ecstasy
Where this jumble of verbs and nouns and adjectives you're trying to assemble
The bigger picture develops with crystal clear clarity
No fastidious statements
Or meaningless passages.
Just words, feelings, meanings
That doesn't sound so bad you say
For the most I am frustrated.
Stumped to the point where rage overcomes and the only cathartic release is to sleep.
When I do manage to squeeze something out of the depths of my mind, it appears substandard, to say the least.
Zadie told me to get used to non-satisfaction
So I am satisfied with never been satisfied; does this make me satisfied?
Please, I need an answer
I've been looking for answers for nineteen years,
But have I been asking the right questions?
Are there any answers?
Another question
No, that was the question
Confusion and befuddlment ravaging through your mind?
I recently realised there are no facts
Only really good suggestions by excessively knowledgeable and esteemed
I quite fancy being one of those guys
A visionary complete with the stereotypical glasses and overgrown beard
And I'd declare that being yourself is the first step to finding your purpose
But what if finding your purpose is your purpose?
I'll leave you with that.
This is my life.
Complaining would be ungrateful of me; it's a good one really.
I can walk and run and play basketball and see my friends where we laugh endlessly.
Oh and Saturday morning cartoons.
I have problems, enormous world ending problems
But it's all relative.
Some think I'm strange, I prefer quirky.
I wonder how life would be if I'd chose the 'normal' option
Most likely, frightfully boring
Rule number 1: There are no rules.
Are no schools
To this life thing
No wrong thing, no right thing
Only decisions and choices
Which amplify our inner voices
Paint pictures like pablo
Are you a sinner or a saint?
Are you bold or are you faint
Like the lines I use to write these rhymes
Etched with such force they will never fade
Aesthetically brilliant like the everglades

Rule number 2: Why are you still reading?
Did you not see
There are no rules
Are no schools to this life thing
Do you not understand?
You can do what you want.
Do good or do bad,
Make another happy, make another sad
You can hug, harm, help, ****
It's always your choice
Some hesitate, many think twice
Some are reckless, some fear consequences,
Repercussions which can will haunt and terrorise you for the rest of your life
A life shrouded in regret
That you did not get

Rule number 3: What is your problem?
Did you not see
There are no rules
Are no schools to this life thing
Your life is yours to lead
Yet I give you great advice
Which you don't heed
And live a life, gasping for air
Desperate for grip
Gripping at the ledge of the window of the good life
Angling for a glimpse of the other side
Forever wandering, always wanting more
Yet you could be satisfied
Happy, joyous or content
Or a be lost without cause
And the choice is simple
The choice is yours
Who do I trust?
When all of you disgust
With your hypocritical
Analytical dissection
I'm guilty too
I'm just as bad as you
I look at you, you look at me
I cut you, metaphorically
Stick and stones may break bones
But words will destroy you.
And it doesn't matter if you don't know
If I sing a song but don't put on a show?
If a tree falls and no one hears it, has it really fallen?
If I break your trust, and you don't know, is it really broken?

Who do I trust
When all of you discuss
When my back is turned
I know you speak in hushed tones
Passing the final judgement upon my saintly mind and sinful soul
The paranoia will take it's toll
You'll be the end of me, you'll be the fall
My mind will slowly unwind
until you find
my innermost thoughts
which you sought
to extract,
as if they were facts,
which would **** me forever.
Show my face, this I won't
I fear you will cast the first stone
Irrespective of your flaws which I respected, I accepted
Or did I?
Did you find out
I brandished my sword,
Sliced through your soul, sliced through your ghouls
There was no trial yet I banged the gavel
I dropped a bomb but you were hit by shrapnel
Oh dear me, what have I done?
Who can I turn to, where do I run?

Who do I trust
When I cannot even trust
Stuck in past, intangible present
The future's bleak, like the moons full crescent
The horrors of yesterday haunt me
My evils of today taunt me
My future transgressions daunt me
I promise I'm trying to be good
Promise I'm trying to do what I should
But who's example do I follow
When all your actions are so hollow
And there I go again
Mr hypocrite, judging his friends
But who am I to judge everyone else
When I do the same myself?
I voiced my issues to a friend
That I feared I would never trust again
She dished out a few words which set me free
If I don't trust myself, the who will me?
There was one.
A young man,
Smart, confident, eloquent.
Popular, the leader of the pack
Yet courage doesn't always roar, and neither did he
Strong whispers echo with thunderous force
He is the humble king;
What he says goes.
But he did not mean it this way,
Did not ask.
Such responsibility is a heavy handed task.
He wanders amongst his squires and compatriots
The omniscient light in a realm of darkness,
Bringer of love, and peace and hope.
But inside of him these emotions have been abducted
By the predatory tenebrosity of his own mind.
An everlasting, ****** battle takes place
But who is to be deemed victor if he is fighting himself?

There was another
A young lady.
Smart, confident, eloquent.
Her desperate need to please others saw her relegated to the outskirts of society
Clingy and desperate, when it suited them,
Helpful and irreplaceable another day.
Until she'd had enough
And cast herself away in exile,
From anyone and everyone.
She sought to make herself invisible,
After all, you cannot plunge a sword into the heart of one you cannot see.
This she knew was her blessing and her curse
Her savior and her foe
And just like that she was back to square one
The girl they had pushed and pulled,
Until she was permanently subdued,
A mere ghost of the exuberant being she was before

Then one day
The wandering souls fused in spectacular fashion
His bright beam illuminating the corners to which she had receded
A meeting on extempore, of broken hearts, broken minds.
They looked deep into each others minds,
Their internal recesses open
Showing a continuous film of horrific abuse
Damaged products drawn together
And then

There were two.
A young man and woman,
Whose lives became intertwined like weeds in flower beds
Twisting and wrapping, suffocating and strangling
Choking with a vice like grip
Unable to breathe, having to fill each others lungs
Company was no longer a want, but a need
If they were to survive, it would be together.
This mangled and gnarled love was anything but smooth sailing
But it was worth the struggles and continuous setbacks for those few moments of bliss.
Moments when responsibilities and pain and direction were forgotten
Where being lost was okay, because neither of them knew were they were going
The pain would subside, the revolting stench disguised by the scent of love.
And happiness and hope were tangible.

Still there were two
Yet she knew not what to do
Thoughts raced through her mind in befuddling fashion
Like a horse who hears a gunshot
She panicked.
The distance, her safety blanket was long gone
But she had only just realised her guard was down
White flag waved
That her path took her into the firing range
Where he was behind the gun.
A vow came to mind
A self-promise that she would never hurt again
And if she were,
It would be by noone but her
She ran, knowing it would crush the life out of him
A mother leaving her child in the wicker basket
A father saying he would be right back,
And never returning.
She was all these things and more;
Thief or plunderer would be an accurate description.

And then there was
Well, there was not much
For when she left, she took most of him with her
His shell remained seated, waiting patiently for her return
Even after day three thousand, when he had become a brobdignagian mass of dirt, grime and hope.
That's all he had left; hope.
For nothing else but her reappearance.
Life; he had given up long ago.
But he never gave up on their reunion;
on the opportunity, if only briefly to return to the bliss, the joy,
The exhilaration of his eyes locked onto hers,
Both so broken they could only maintain for a few moments.
He never gave up
Until he too, was gone.

And then there were none.
I am empty, yet I am whole
I burn with passion, desire, hot
Yet I am frozen to the core, cold.
My steps are surer than a Lions,
Yet insecurity ravages my mind like a bad disease.
My thoughts impulsive, extemporaneous
Yet cool, calm and calculated are my middle names.
Sometimes fear makes me weaker than a withering flower
But usually I'm bolder than a boxer, ducking, diving, bobbing, weaving
I can be loud, raucous, unbecoming
or quiet, shy and unwelcoming
I prefer my own space
But I'm your best friend
I can follow with the obedience of a dog
But I love setting trends.
I am an honest liar
A well read idiot
A losing champion
A logical creative
Beautifully ugly
Perfectly flawed
What I'm saying, is I'm human.
A walking contradiction
I'm an Oxymoron,
Yet I am not.
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