We are the product of a failed generation,
Residue of our parents latchkey degradation.
They wonder why the youth are quick to die,
But can't look the truth directly in the eye.

They deny the fact, saying we turned out alright.
Downing another Xanax to avoid the urge to fight.
Complaining that drug use is destroying the kids.
Ignoring the irony with the bliss under their lids.

We're out of control, they're out of excuses.
Not willing to conform to what the propaganda produces.
An image we've produced, of danger and fear.
Not knowing what impending generation draws near.

But not lost on us, is the ability to care.
Believing everyone should have to play fair.
Finding common ground is what our age does best.
And that trait shall remain when our past dies with the rest.

I prefer winter because the cold air reassures me,
the way it caresses my skin and holds me,
until ripples appear on the surface of my trust,
I know not to give in to it's cool, light touch.

"Write with your eyes like painters, with your ears like musicians, with your feet like dancers. You are the truth sayer with quill and torch. Write with your tongues of fire. Don't let the pen banish you from yourself."

I  read  a  obituary  in  the  newspaper.
Of  a  long  lost  friend.

It  hit  me  off  the  page.
Like  an  arrow  through  my  heart.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

Drains  overflowing.
Manholes  spouting.
Water  bubbling.
Rising  and  leaping.
Through  front  doors.
Swelling  and  sweeping..
Th en  turning  and  twisting.
All  through  the  house.
Furniture  ruined.
Carpets  all  sloppy..
Then  it  goes  gushing.
Out  the  back  door.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.