but be wary,
it is a silent killer.
The Internet has this amazing way
of making art
feel so accessible
yet so demeaning.
Realizing that we expect far too much from one another.
Where are the Kerouacs?
Riding the highways and railroads to dreams unseen, even by them.
Clashes of ideas, like bright lights in the dim daybreak of an all-nighters.
Fueled by cigarettes and philosophy.
Now everyone wants the same thing.
A boring spouse.
A boring job.
A boring house.
What happened to the generation of lost souls that once searched the open plains and the cramped alleyways?
For nothing more than a beautiful moment.
Slipping into consciousness
exploding with pain.
So much time spent, praying to this porcelain god.
Begging for a break.
Those rare moments with the pain fades, and the absence feels like the strongest intravenous drug ever plunged into your veins
late night ER visits that have become ever too familiar.
With sheets for walls.
And Judges for Doctors.
And cries from children echoing off white sanitized walls.
And you slipping out of consciousness
and into drug induced escape.
As the ceiling panels become beautiful,
and the scratchy sheets become cozy,
You breath a sigh of relief
I want you to lie to me.
I want you to tell me that in your dreams
you wear an ugly polo and khaki pants.
And that you LOVE tucking your shirt in.
I want you to tell me that flipping burgers
is a step in the door to reaching your life-long goals.
I want you to get on your hands and knees.
I want you to beg.
I want you to plead.
I want you to say you'll never be as successful as me.
I want you to accept you'll never be free.
*You'll earn the right to make minimum wage.
are the peace seekers for the souls past.
This will be transformed into a longer poem.
It is too beautiful an idea to let go in ten simple words.