O, you are a success. You are a living success. You are a success, that have unearthed the chaos and unrest in the minds of a generation from baby boomers to millenials from the east to the west.
O, you are a success. You are a living success. you left a lasting memory and unshaken legacy filled with utter hypocrisy and bureaucracy shrouded with the cry of everlasting demand and accomplishment.
O, you are a success. why should you be worried. You are a living success.
Listening to jazz, in a blue haze of smoke, each note like a lounge lizard scribbling along the wall looking for shade, and you, so sultry in that dress, winding your way down the boulevard like a princess without a crown, can't you see this music is a trombone filled with glitter, and music men only love you when they're high?
All along that grey draped zig-zagging shoreline The men sat or stood in resolute silence Each trying to reach back into minds Scrambled like eggs by the fear of impending violence
Soon the hard faced men will open the gates As the race will start as hearts will change pace Then by push and twist they load like cattle Into great grey hulking hearse's barely floating Plunging through grey roiling seas toward thunder Echoing across the channel quotation marks of the battle
That rages ,engages not turning ÷ripping out pages of history When the water turns red punctuated by the floating dead.... ........The question marks and periods Exclamation marks in the book thats still being written ... ......to what end? That is what makes any plot a vagrant thought With a premise being an unresolved mystery Such are ..... The vagaries of the ever repeating chapters of human history!
It never fails. All hail Generation Tongue In Mouth. Let them go. For they don't want you now. It's a shame, A weak man's game. Let them go. Don't you know Generation Tongue In Mouth? Go ahead, Break connection now. That's just how it goes sometimes, Don't take it personal.
That's just how it goes sometimes, don't take it personal.
No sacred book, Or talisman, No prayer, Or synagogue Or mosque, Can ever change this truth, Ancient and antiquated: When two are in love, No matter the gender, Culture, Or identity, The earth moves in wonder; The mountains bow down in awe.
I wasn’t joking when I said we ran along the train tracks The muscles in our legs contracting Splitting Turning into something entirely new It’s like waiting for a punchline that never comes Though so many of us wish we could pack a punch Boys cry More than we’re comfortable admitting We’re born being taught to cry like little girls But when you’re painting your face in blue, pink, and white you may as well let the tears streak through What did they do to you Sticking needles in your body to get the right hormones What did they do to you Getting cut into yourself or binding your chest This isn’t a trend This isn’t a trick This is cold hard wearing six layers in summer hot as dry ice Shopping in the boy’s section as a 20 year old ‘cause you can’t fit in men’s sizes poetry And it’s all some of us know how to write It isn’t easy being someone who’s going to get their rights taken away This is our voice This is our announcement of some kind of triumph The day they said my brothers couldn’t fight in the military I knew it hit someone I knew it hit him He turns bullets into butterflies I turn ADHD million mile an hour burden of a brain into poetry We’ll fight whether they like it or not Words or weapons We are the boys who cry And don’t you ever forget it It’s a nail biter It’s taking nail clippers so close they’re cutting your skin so nobody sees your very hands as female Oversized clothes and I haven’t swam around people since I was nine We are the boys who cry Who weave our suffering into blankets for our brothers and sisters Who turn laments into luxuries Because for the first time we are fighting back So cry into your ******* liquid paradise Because if you’re my brother You’re the boy for it
I am running out of time To figure out what it is I want I get chills listening to the line Because I write like I’m running out of time I’m running out of time I need to to survive I am writing every second I’m alive Shakespeare contributed over two thousand words to the English language So far I’ve contributed nothing And I don’t think I ever will But I’d like to believe history is mine for the rewriting I want to take a boy wearing shiners to the deli And teach him to shine his shoes Youth is supposed to be an individual history We are turning it into a world history He will shine his shoes and give the world black eyes on his own We are a generation built on marching and a reputation for trouble We are the generation blowing off our homework to plan first walkouts and then our suicides in strokes of pen The marching is a slow ache And a channeling of our voices We are determined to fight back I was told teenagers are too young to understand true love A definition still debated But do you want to know what I think True love radiates throughout us It is a fight for our voices to be pushed through And an affirmative nod Of all different kinds True love turns into war in the next ****** The love of my generation is both It is joining hands with strangers Because it's still the same cause I would consider myself an introvert But there’s a unity in every throat raw from screaming Every foot sore from marching Every knuckle white from making a fist And if you think this is getting old So are the people making the laws we fight against We’ll get better at our cursing with time But our youth brings ethics and creativity So good luck getting yours back