Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Amanda Bird Jun 2018
Welcome to the generation of revolution,
Millions and counting, in a few years you’ll be counting on us.
While some of us still use a pass for the bathroom, we’ve been programmed
Much like the devices you tie us to,
To look forward.
The skills you instilled for GPAs and resumes have made us unafraid to say
That something needs to be done, and from that you run away
If we don’t agree we’re immature, uninformed, need to be kept quiet more.
You say we’ve become slaves to the almighty “I”
But we scourge for information
Because we’ve seen a tweet change lives
We’ve seen a hashtag bring millions into the fight,
Artists, victims, protests blow up overnight
We are the first generation with the world at our fingers in such a real way,
Here we are, standing stronger than you’ve seen us,
These kids; you cloth, shelter and feed us,
Just to call us lazy and insane for using the very brains that you instilled,
The “common core” you used, because you didn’t want to build a generation of robots,
Fear not, guess what, you didn’t.
Amanda Bird Jan 2018
Maybe, maybe, maybe, if you say sorry enough they’ll believe it, know you mean it.
I think your heart could use that kind of break.
right now it’s breaking.
For some small comfort there’s the night, the silky smooth night, the moon and stars.
For the hopeless romantic and pragmatist- for we’re but a second in eternity, a speck in infinity
But what a privilege it is to be so.
And what a burden it is to be so.
To be so….what?
Because here, for the first time in a long time it’s not my poison.
It’s his and hers and theirs.
Regardless, I’ll drink to my place in forever and infinity, and in regards to how my throat burns holes in my heart as it goes down, I’ll make do as I’ve done before.
Down is where it mixes with the roots,
With the ashes from which this sort of deep pain burns in the embers of my own broken glass
That’s right, I’m filled to the brim with bottles of what used to be stale beer, scorched purple in the sun of some far off desert.
They’ve been lathered in hope, rinsed with cynicism, dried with the same snot ridden shirt sleeve that dried my tears.
From them, I’ll drink poison until their pain is gone and my wish washy smile resurfaces, blood in my teeth from a war not mine.
When the straight laced meets the twisted, who bends and which way?
For better or worse, or shall I stay here in the numb, sweet and cool embrace of neutrality?
No, because I seek warmth.
It gets more than warm, hot enough to bend steely figures into what seems human.
Don’t touch. Too hot.
Proximity is a dangerous game here, where you risk skin and bone bubbling, dripping into the fire.
Burns leave scars, did you know that?
I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.
Contradicting, questioning, quizzically,
I’m making my way through this like a blind man through a labyrinth of the social species.
Say maybe, so you don’t land in concrete, before you freeze from waist down and can’t breathe.
Say maybe, so time moves quickly; or stay here and bear their moment, heart and soul rough and bare.
Say maybe, so you don’t have to be sure you’re forgiven.
Say maybe, keep on holding their sins so the weight can pull you away from your own.
Thanks for reading! This is my first of hopefully many posts and I greatly appreciate feedback!

— The End —