In the time of darkness, The light remains. Perhaps a flicker, Almost in vain. The hope it still gives, The path it shows; Even on the dawn of new eve, Where the world nearly froze. Neither can survive, While the other dies. The double-edged sword lives, Thrives in deceit and lies; But no one can stop As the worlds collide.
Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise
I saw the best minds of my generation congested and polluted overdosing on irrelevance
Abandoned abused replaced Fed to the thought police Corrected corrupted Declining the potential to be heard in exchange for the opportunity to be documented
Lives being lived according to unfeasible standards You either make it or you don’t there’s no in between there’s no maybe there’s no equal
Left to meander through the conceived thoughts of others decisions being made moves being made eulogies being made
nothings real nothing’s right nothing’s honest nothing thought up matters
Who in the safety of their homes were taught respect are told to mask their emotions Identities saved for the weak Only to be showcased when conducive
Who pump iron into their veins looking for an angry fix of acceptance Sweat streams surge down their backs Failure prominent in their thoughts Motivation blessing their features the Devil clever in disguise
Who see little white fields of fairy dust a never ending landscape of courage giving them superpowers beyond belief
Nothing beats the freedom of being told You can fly
Who dream of equality behind closed eyes But render to imposed birth rights when open The upper hand implying more than height and executing more force than necessary to move them
It’s all about the cause until you’re indubitably the effect
Who tuck monsters into their beds Forgetting to check closets for skeletons not quite left behind in the path of carefully chaotic self destruction Conveniently purging themselves of words whispered in the throes of passion Forced upon the ears of all naive enough to listen
Who carelessly expend countless hours playing with condescending pawns disguised as adults All grown up with no where to go Replacing quality with quantity Leaving long dull trails of breadcrumbs leading to hearts long since lost Never to be recovered again
Who follow sexuality by the book doing this to get that for this him them who what when where Why does the finish line have to be covered with brightly colored lace and muffled drunk cries chanting no
Who stare dead straight into the soul of love but never Never into her eyes Told she is not worthy of being addressed directly Fingers itching to cop a feel Only to discover the body is but a passage to her straight dead soul
Who trade in their voice mind and individuality for half assed smiles and superficial men As the face of a leviathan nicknamed acceptance hands them a paycheck they’ve worked too night day night night hard to refuse
Who idolize the feel of phantom limbs of lovers past Twisted words convoluting their heads Forcing on masks of pure heroine at the sight of scars left on the soul Scratching at the need to feel wanted But cowering at the ability to truly be heard
Who have perfected the art of parallel painting Elegant red streaks hidden beneath layers of choppy dark colored hate covering pretty pale limbs Seeming to fade as colorlessly caked on insecurities susurrate bitter-sweet nothings that curl themselves just inside her mutilated skin
Who scavenged their looks from the bottom of holes they’re expected to clamber out of Smiling pretty smiling Being treated to complimentary meals Only to be served plates full of disappointment.
Who crave companion’s flaws in ruthless attempts to satisfy their hunger for compassion Selfless beings dedicated to less than noble attempts at vanquish The call for heat too satisfying to refuse the trade off forever uselessly launching themselves into razor sharp blades aimed at ***** sleeves
Who see soft lips as cushion enough to fall from towers built of fear Dragging moist palms across pavement thighs Tearing at the seams holding their hearts together
Who cower behind brick wall appearances fruitlessly clutching on to ideas reserved for the most fortunate Scaring away potential with claws that seemingly only come out to play in the face of acceptance
Who’s sick stick thin limbs trail their worn down fingernails in an effort mar skin no one can see Streaks titillate their bright red scalps A reflection of their underlying journey
Who disgorge yesterday's meal from stomachs long before empty Blood spewing from the mouth an open wound Continuously sewed up but never stitched tight correctly Wiring shut opinions but never gorged enough to muzzle their Howls
Ideas, calm and collected have long been hijacked and invaded by Hestia
Hestia! Consent! Content! Acceptance! Long nights and roid rage men! Two faces fighting a losing battle! Girls playing mom! Boys playing war! Ill ridden parents still pledging to the United States of Controlling Media!
Hestia! Hestia! Overall reign of Hestia! Hestia the beautiful! Incarcerated Hestia! Hestia the ******!
Hestia twisted and shaped to form the voice of conformity Hestia constantly watching over and monitoring Hestia being told what to ******* think
Hestia seeping creeping sneaking into the darkest crevices of our minds Hestia when least expected coming out to say Hello
Too late! Hestia’s already made herself at home Wedged between the rooks of your biggest fear and burrowed deep into the folds of Your Worst Nightmare
Stuck in a constant battle between rejecting Hestia, and accepting her.
This was obviously inspired by Allen Ginsberg's "Howl." Considering it was, at the time, the voice of that generation, Welcome to Generation Y. This is a work in progress.
I’ve learned a lot of things in my eighteen years of life and one of those things is that people can change like seasons I didn’t find it quite surprising when his beautiful oranges and reds turned into whites and grays but I must admit I never have had someone expect me to change with their seasons and go from a loose sweater to a whole fireplace
here is something that mother told me about god complexes:
“everyone believes themselves to be gods among men: even that hideous monster from your half-remembered Hellenistic dreams will retreat back to his craggy hideaway and continue with his hedonistic ways. the poor creature: he will don a halo, iconize himself in caricatures pretending that if for a moment his veins flow ichorous that Icarus may have envied when his wings beat in tandem with the footfalls of the sun chariots’ horses.
“the sun shines upon hallowed ground, though Polyphemus will avoid Helios’s scornful gaze. he herds sheep––his only acolytes–– an unabashed king in his realm, like a god plays war, or as a child would play house, humming hallelujah, veins running gold-blooded. when moon rises, he will hang his weary shadow at his door and retreat to his fire-pit. perhaps this will be the closest he will be to the gods, basking in the heat of Hestia’s humble hearth.
“in the end,” mother said, “Nobody will end up deified. Icarus may have rained down wax and feathers in godlike fury before tilting his head to Helios once more; Polyphemus waded into the sea, eyes clouded in godlike fury before resigning himself to fate, head bowed.”
Rage and roar upon your thrones, Love, loot and hate, be disparate, But not for me are bawls and blows; I’ll tend the hearth, the heart, the grate. In the shadows I rest, my face a-glow – Not plagued by fury as hot as fire, Nor ambition, wrath, desire, Nor revenge as cold as snow. Quiet yet not dormant, Docile though not all compliant, You may scoff and scorn my choice But I still hold the eternal fire – My flame keeps Olympus alight, I keep all safe throughout the night And though I am not in your sight You’ll always find me through your plight. For I am Hestia, First-born goddess, The softest star.