Where do you see yourself in fifty years? I have absolutely no ******* idea. I don’t. I really don’t and for the longest time I thought that was something to be ashamed of. It probably still is but I certainly am no longer on that boat. I can tell you where I would want to be, if that makes it any better…
The proper or more common way to answer this would probably be to describe my future employment of choice or the amount of little Julie’s and Tommy’s I plan on having around the kitchen table. Yeah, that would be ideal but then again, there is no substance in that. There is no honesty in that type of answer, only social norm. Or our need to go against it.
In fifty years, I hope to be sane. I hope to have developed the capability of living with my sins and not let my anger and poor decision crowd my mind. I hope to see that behind every stupid act I’d done in the past, were hidden good intentions and not just a broken window where the frigid wind of teen rebellion would flow through. I hope to be able to sit on my front porch, watch my grand-Julie’s and Tommy’s run around freely, knowing that the life they have is much better than the one I wanted.  
In fifty years, hopefully, I’ll have learned that grey hairs don’t mean wisdom but experience. That instead of guidelines to live by, I’ll have stories to share. I hope that my skin will have become creased with tall tales like a vase molded by life’s hands.
In fifty years, I hope to be young. To be filled with vibrant energy and to resonate love. I hope not to be the answer to problems, but a set of hands that’ll hold a loved-one when nothing can be done because that is when we truly need saving.
In fifty years, oh, how I will have lived. I will have fulfilled my most wanted wish from childhood.

In fifty years…I will have lived.

When I was a kid
I spent time alone
Probably more than my fair share
But it wasn't bad at first
It was liberating.
At first, I discovered myself
I discovered the universes that existed
At the pinpoint of my imagination
A true world of wonders

I remember tiny snippets of freedom
Long walks in the park with my hands tucked into my pockets,
Or my hair getting soaked from the rain when I'd walk home

Back then "on my own" was somehing I fancied
Like a childish crush
Where I only wanted it because,
Hell.
It made me feel good
It made my heart pound
When I could spend just a second listening to my breath

But now. I've learned the consequences
The damage I've done to myself
From spending that much time
Alone.

We like to decorate the female body
To disguise it with some metaphor in order to prove its validity
To see a woman as a flower that needs to be picked
To see a mother's arms as shelter for our souls
No, my friend.
Do not think that words will come to tuck you in at night
We are flesh and we are bones.
That is beautiful enough

When you are in love
Write an ode comparing your emotions to the weather
But do not speak of her as the fallen leaf of the auburn tree
Do not speak of her as the wind that cracks your window open at night
Do not speak of her as the blood your veins need
Do not speak of her as anything
Other than who she is,
A woman

If you were to compare her to anything
Tell her that her smile, that the life in her eyes
Does for you what love does to the human mind

Do you ever hear a song and less than a minute in, you already know it’s going to be your favorite?
You were that to me.
And much like a song, from you I could not flee.
You were chords and melodies I had never thought of putting together: and you were beautiful all the same.
If only you knew the way your heartbeat has become my favorite sound.
And much like the song, I could listen to you over and over again and each time fall more and more in love.
Because in a world of chaotic noise, you were my lullaby.
I would forever hear you in bits and pieces of other songs,
I would hum your tune absentmindedly as I go down a street I once walked with you,
And if I ever forget, I am sure my mind will wander to the songs we once made and remember,
Remember the beats and sounds that brought me to you,
and even if the melody has faded or become outdated,
I will always want to press repeat.

Millenials.
The world ******* hates us.
We whine for a living
We feed ourselves with Xanax and Prozac
To remind the world that we are broken
Problem? I don't think so

We accuse the world of being awful
We accuse life, a life we have not lived yet
Of being too cruel when we are the ones
Who cut ourselves open for a heart we long to love

We look for the kiss that will heal our self inflicted injuries
Well, dear millenial, "there is no tyrant like a brain"
We will keep cutting ourselves
Keep drinking ourselves to sleep
Keep poisoning our mind with this "Golden Age Thinking"
Until we understand that
We are stuck here.

And life does not need to be good to us
Life owes us nothing.
Poetry and Paintings won't save the world.
Do it yourself