generation me,
the selfie generation,
lazy,
selfish,
going nowhere,
mean,
reckless.

but what the 'great generation' and those who came before us don't understand,
is that we are a generation all our own,
akin to the hippies,
and radical youngsters in the 60s,
fighting against our parents in our own way.

we are owning ourselves and our bodies.
we are breaking free from their grasps
through our sexuality
our selfies
our words and our actions.

we are a generation who is owning ourselves and how we feel
we are revolutionary ourselves.

We live another complication everyday,
Adding another thread to bind us.

It's been so long...
Can't move my wings, my limbs--
How did I get stuck?
Did I do this to myself?
The *puppeteer is pulling too hard!
I want to move,
But I can't
I'm twisted up,
The thread is too tight;
I can feel the dread of suffocation on the horizon.
I'm trying, I'm fighting,
I want to be free!
But I can't move anymore...

The thread won't let me,
The strings are being pulled too tight--
My prison, it cuts into my skin,
I can barely breathe enough to live on...
I want this suffering to end!

Aah! Yes...
I remember now,
I took the thread of my own free will!

It started that day...
When I heard them speak,
I did as they asked,
And the thread wound around me.
I didn't ask for answers and didn't speak of my questions;
I kept on going where their path lead,
And I ended up here:
Suffocated, stranded, in naïve ignorance.

Even though the puppeteer wants me to move,
Even though I can feel his anxiety to help;
He can't do a thing.
The thread has been wound too tight,
*If the thread won't snap soon,
I will.

Some days are hard.
I wake up with weeds growing in my chest,
rooting me to the bed beneath me. They are
chains, constrictions on my breathing and the
butterflies in my stomach, and those moments
remind me that I have never felt more caged
than I do right now.
There are picket fences in my ribs, sporting
chipped paint and broken wood, and I find it
comforting that something is as damaged and
destroyed as I am. I do not cry. I have not cried
for six years and yet every time you look at me,
I feel the tear drops pool in my lungs, drowning
me with romanticized suicide and bleach. You left
me for alcohol and cigarette butts and I think that
is what hurts the most. Every third degree burn on
your arm takes away a part of me, stripping me
of my own ambitions and identity. I do not find comfort
in the fact that this is what you have always wanted.
I sit on a swing that is older than my veins and I wait
for you to come. You do not, and I do not cry.

I saw my toes the other day.
I hadn't looked at them for months.
Indeed, they might have passed away.
And yet they were my best friends once.
When I was small, I knew them well.
I counted on them up to ten
And put them in my mouth to tell
The larger from the lesser. Then
I loved them better than my ears,
My elbows, adenoids, and heart.
But with the swelling of the years
We drifted, toes and I, apart.
Now, gnarled and pale, each said, j'accuse!--
I hid them quickly in my shoes.

I sometimes fear the younger generation will be deprived
  of the pleasures of hoeing;
  there is no knowing
how many souls have been formed by this simple exercise.

The dry earth like a great scab breaks, revealing
  moist-dark loam--
  the pea-root's home,
a fertile wound perpetually healing.

How neatly the green weeds go under!
  The blade chops the earth new.
  Ignorant the wise boy who
has never rendered thus the world fecunder.

Black queen on the red king,
the seven on the black
eight, eight goes on the nine, bring
the nine on over, place
jack on the queen. There is space
now for that black king who,
six or so cards back,
was buried in the pack.
Five on six, where's seven?
Under the ten. The ace
must be under the two.
Four, nine on ten, three, through.
It's after eleven.

I've had enough of winter
I've had enough of snow
I handle freezing weather
Just like an eskimo

My snowblower is finished
It's blown more than it should
It's blown more snow this winter
Than the whole **** neighborhood

Spring....when the hell you coming?
When will you be here?
I'll close my eyes and I might miss you
That is my biggest fear

Last summer we set records
With the **** oppressive heat
We did the same with snow this winter
We had nearly 7 feet!!

I saw some grass last Tuesday
But, by Wednesday it was lost
Buried by a fresh snow dumping
Preceeded by a sudden frost

The sidewalk plow has torn up
Ninety square feet of my lawn
I won't find all of the damage
Until all the snow is gone

I promise that next summer
I will not once complain
Because I'd rather have the heat way up
Than shovel snow...or pump out rain

Spring...when are you coming?
When will you be here?
I'll sleep with one eye open
So, I'll be up when you appear!!!