I never understood the hype about memes
But I search for them now
Just so I can tag you and maybe
Make you smile a little more today
Because your smile is the brightest thing
And it makes my heart sing

I know I make everything complicated
I can't promise that won't keep happening
But I will try to take the sting away from pain
Because you deserve the sun
And I'm only human

You excluded me from your world
Because you felt that I was
"Over the Hill".
I had no way of sharing my Magic
With you.
One day,
I spotted you
Shooting Heroin in your arm
Underneath a bridge.
I was too polite to ask you
Why you had refused to accompany me
For Tea

They say we’re crazy
Chasing stupid millennial dreams
Too far fetched they seem and sometimes we agree
But secretly we hope and pray they become reality

Excuse the interruption but does this sound familiar for anybody else?

“Big house on its second mortgage, and a camper for when we feel like downsizing prison.
Cars each on a different loan, manicured lawn because we must show status in everything.
Monday, he cheated with the bottle and she cheated in her heart
Tuesday, sister came home late crying eyes because the arms of her last lover were just like her fathers
Wednesday was surprisingly peaceful, but unnerving, as sunny days were far and few between
Thursday I saw father sitting on the floor his last straw a piece of paper
Friday mother sat in the car for an extra twenty minutes starring blankly at the door
Saturday was fight night
Sunday we went to church and pretended it was all alright”

I’m sorry if my pursuit in life is simply this: Happiness.
If it looks like a retrofitted van and I live like a bum because I never want to fight about little green men
Or, if it was a tiny home that her and I could reasonably afford on land far away from the city lights and temptations that come at night
It’s something about the fights we could hear through thick walls that drove us mad inside
And now we chase peace and calm through any means
Because that’s something that cannot be bought despite our parents thoughts

I started out with a completely different poem but somehow it morphed into this as I delved into my thoughts. The more I think about my generation and our obsession with tiny homes and little joys in life I believe this is what drives us to this way of life.

And yet you will not let that dead man rest his dry bones
In the dirt, in the grave where he belongs.

And yet you speak of him like he sits up north still
In his cabin, smoking his wretched lungs to flame.

And yet despite every beating, every murder attempt
In your mind he was the greatest man to ever live.

And yet even though he never told you what you wanted to hear,
In your head you make up his words: "I love you."

And yet you tell me about the lessons he taught you like a saint;
In your life you repeat his brutalities, his learning legacy.

And yet you are blind to his quirks you repeat, that
In your daughter you have made a new you:

Blind, quivering, trapped, choking on tears
She is everything you were and you try to make her
Everything you wished you were
But in your repression, your denial --
When you cling to his grave and the things you made up about him
Like a leech, like a disease, like a haunting,
You let him live again in you.

And he was not a good man.
He was a hurtful man.
A proud man.
A bad man.
A killer of your precious, finite vitality.

And just like he destroyed you,
You will destroy her.

By Garpal stream the young men came
Decades before the flood
On Garpal field they started the game
Quenching the grass with blood.
Down by the hill, near the copse, they lie,
The first to score was the first to die.

Every year the young men came
Where the roses and dandelions bud
Eager to play the game
Decades before the flood.
Beyond the hedge these young men lie,
The last to score was the last to die.

It rained before Advent, it rained after Lent
The rain fell on pasture and town,
The interminable water did not relent
But poured remorselessly down
By the end of the year, under the thundering light,
The world was a place of night.

A sodden land bereft of men
Garpal field was covered with weeds
As the women waited for the sun again
Spreading a blanket of seeds.
They waited as glorious golden rays
Fell during everlasting unending days.

The sprouting seeds grew tall and thin
Turning slowly into beautiful men
In a country filled to the brim
With cattle, wheat and fruit again.
Beyond Garpal stream where the rushes grew
The youths strolled over the grey diaphanous dew.

By Garpal stream the young men came,
Decades before the flood,
On Garpal field they started the game
Quenching the grass with blood.
Down by the hill, near the copse, they lie,
The first to score was the first to die.

New generations born to fight and die. Neverending, repetitious.

listening to contemporary soundscapes on the radio
I realize I am the  age of my grandmother
when she was terrified that I was
happily howling the latest Beatles  songs
and trying to play them on the piano which
    for her
was a sanctuary of late 19th century music
she liked to play with virtuosity and passion

much of what my culture radio station
calls contemporary music
or pop music stations praise in their charts
does not really catch my ear either

times keep changing

Our parents will become orphans one day -
this is not something you normally choose.

In that moment,
some of them will suddenly find
their inner child,
wondering around life;
will permanently lose it
and bury it
alongside their parents.

All of these grown-up children
are wishing more and more,
with every day that passes,
to become grandparents
for OUR unborn children.

We will become orphans one day -
that's something you don't normally choose.

In that moment,
we'll become the first generation
of children that
don't have a past,
nor a future -
we will only live our present,
till the day we die..

Or, at least, that's what our mothers and fathers believe at this point about us.


My children will wonder, some day when I have them,
why I gave up the glories of city life, why I chose
to labour and toil. They will ask me
“mais pourquoi as-tu abandonné le rêve?”

“Дечица мои,” I will answer, “It was not mine."

I blame men
that tell I'm dirty
that my desires are shameful
and think their touch has the power to defile me
they tell me my wants taint my being
damage my estimated price as a woman
reduce me to a wrongly preconcieved notion of femininity

I was first called a slut by my mother
who was a called a slut by hers in turn
who was called a slut by hers

I still blame men

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