I give in... I give in...
I wear my sweaters thin
because nothing ever feels
hyper-real
I know kids who get raw experience
yet call me the wiser
for not getting any.
No one who sits at their dinner table,
pretending to have something to write,
deserves to be tired
and so I don't catnap
under the constipated clouds
waiting for the rain.
I grow old--I grow old
I don't like my trousers rolled
as I walk down the street
watching young people
who don't give themselves a break
from hyper-living
Just keep kicking.
Not to generalize,
but it must be said
that a barbarous youth doesn't give in
until their metal beams split
and their windows come down
and their doors can't open
because of the debris
and their admirees
stand before the pile still not knowing
who they are.
(It won't make them shiver
to think you've opened up
listening to their music
unless they open
their ears for you.)
After dusting themselves off
will all the newborn adults shake hands
look back on the skyscrapers that surrounded them
and be friends?
I give in
I relax over my comfortable,
blank lines
with nothing to write
because I'm the only one
with nothing to fight.