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Ryan Joseph Aug 2018
Millennial is what called in this generation,
Everywhere here and there,
There are always youths who really never care,
And never been worried about their future.

In Facebook, Instagram, Twitter and Messenger,
Are consists of follower, liker, reader and including seener,
Loitering and using fake accounts just to gain a wholesome money,
Even though that it is notorious, they still embark their blunt journey.

Most millennials are undisputedly addicted to social media,
Their lives depends on likes they are going to gain,
They don't care if their faces might be inside of multi-media,
And they don't even care if it will give them a pain.

Some truly go beyond their limits just to have a lot of likes,
Perhaps they are fame *****, but they don't care if someone strikes,
Strikes every part of their body including their faces and such,
Yet they don't care if it will hurt them too much.

However, seeking attention in the cyber world isn't a good thing,
Instead they should focus on things that are essentially free like a king,
Because in this generation, too many people are unaware and careless,
And some they didn't even notice that our environment is already full of fraud either hypocrite and genuine people are less.
millennial nowadays
jack of spades Apr 2016
1995 saw the start of Generation Z,
the ‘iKids’ with a knack for this new-fangled technology,
Millennial 2.0,
caught in the limbo of the World Wide Web development and Rose Gold iPhones.
They say we’re adaptable,
but apparently we can’t make our own decisions about anything.
They say that we don’t care about anything
except for our tiny little screens,
but they forget who put them in our hands,
and they forget who they run to for help
when they forget how to troubleshoot.
They forget what kind of technology we need to keep sustaining life in the Information Age,
Caught in a crossfire because
Yeah, we’re 90s kids—but the 90s never really actually ended until 2006,
the only difference between two decades being
how much neon versus how much chrome,
and just how expensive accidentally opening the internet app on your mom’s blackberry phone was.
We’re nostalgic for all the things we can’t quite remember,
and half these high schoolers weren’t actually born until 2000 or 2001.
Most of us aren’t old enough to even remember 9/11, nothing outside of the news clips that our teachers show us in history class every single September.
I was born in the same year as the Columbine shootings.
The United States has not been at peace for a year of my life.
We are always fighting— fighting for everything.
Human equality,
posing arguments about micro aggressions and refugees, seeing the inhumanity in the past that we’re living.

None of us are older than 21,
under such hard scrutiny while Baby Boomers Wave 2 still run our country.
We inherited the Millenial’s exhaustion,
the generation before us spending our childhood fighting for all the things that we have never really believed in.
Fairytales.

Generation Z.
The ‘iKids’ who are going to one day be making leaps and bounds with technology,
the generation to nurse this dying planet back to health,
Millennials 2.0 who know how to learn from our forerunners’ mistakes,
who know how to adapt from Sidekicks to iPhone 6S Plus in less than a decade.
We’re the kids who have realized that fun is found in safe spaces rather than invading each other’s personal spaces.

They say we’re too sensitive,
but at the same time they claim that we’re desensitized.
And I thought we were the generation that couldn't make decisions.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
.via ghana: i iz welcome the haiku poetic extractionz of the maxim: full-on potentiality of - few words maximum effortz! one wishes to almost die from feng shui minimalism! chinese geomancy and european chiromancy (reading balzac et al.) - but the sigh poetic of pepsi max effort iz wot iz the breaking of the camel bonk and backß... last time i heard from a kenyan bartender... all the timber comes from ghana... as does the wheat from ukraine and the salt from poland... coal is always "elsewhere"... or no coal... wind... the wind comes from: far far away... beyond the language of the seven vowels...

it took much of an effort to have to overcome
a reading of Stendhal...
esp. when you find him in your teens..
almost impossible...

it's enough to visit a brothel:
once a year... perhaps skipping a year...
and there's enough body,
and skin, and warmth...
to contrast... what i'm yet to read about...
otherwise have read, i.e.:

2010s through the 2020 summary...
lucy holden now 29...
sexting, dating apps, bisexual flings
flatmates with benefits...
millenial serial dater...

all the details are already known...
mine? that strip-clup in athens on a whim
with two strippers either arm
burrowing my face solving the mole
in their cleavage...
the goodmayes borthel with the romanians
that said a very bulgarian word, once...

and who can ever forget
the south african cocoon ****-accusation
of: not unde the bed-sheets and please
oil up rather than dry-******* me...
or the thai surprise picked up
in a park and that a little bit of heavyweight
beer and some jazz and a garden shed will allow...
the number of times i've had ***...
well... what are fingers for?

the black girl with a coccyx like an iron maiden
attempting to tattoo itself onto my pelvis...
2nd time round?
i heard she had a child and his daddy
would be bringing him home the morning to come...
and this other black woman,
oh i mean: full detail - woman...
two children sleeping on the bed...
get dragged off...
thrown to the bed...
and i'm there to **** an imitation ******
of... a tight fold of legs...

it's not exactly **** but even with that:
i'm not a best fitter...
so tell her: it's not going to happen...
we pretend to sleep or at least i do...
when this afro-fur-ball with a plucking sound
of a smooch is standing at the end of the bird...
he's naked i'm naked everyone's naked
i pick him up like i pick up maine *****
and lay him on my chest...
i can't allow a river of fingers through
his afro tangles... so i pat them down...
and he falls asleep...

***... oh no ***** word about it monsieur!
just this *******...
oh but i'm glad that some girl nearing
her 30s has made up her mind up...
only recently i've heard that my mother was
attempting to woo a married man
who was part of the Solidary movement
and probably waiting for a greencard...
i heard this... from my grandmother...

i'm still pampering on the sly for
a Mary Antoinette...
Ilona was wrong... i wouldn't become
a child strapped to a hellhole of a teenager's bedroom...
i'd become a leech hybrid...
as along as i have enough excuses
to return for "the word"... and never rap it...
i'm fine fine... best be on my optimal behaviour...
to never find myself in a baptists' church choir...

- there's also a quick fix procedure...
the match of the day is watched
with the mascots on screen...
the ben-hur's not making it to
prophetic status... yes the bread...
yes the circus... and all those cul de sac...
soap operas of parking scenes...

and there's always language...
best expressed when drunk...
never sober because is what delves into
the formality of: dear sir / madam,
kind regards...

the day when i stopped combing my fair
and peered at the beard...
uncombed hair: almost reminds
me of donning a pineapple on it...
an ancient buddhist balancing act...
like performing the act of gravity...
without copernican mathematics...
as simple as finding the CENTER on
a bicycle... or like finding
buoyancy in a swimming pool...
perhaps i am more water than flesh...
but i'm also a fraction of fat...

i can float on water if i can find
the balance... i don't need to play
the drunkard treading water surviving
to stay afloat.... i... relax...
then i float.... or bob-on-the-surface
teasing an unexpected shark-bite-attack...
although: swimming in a sea
is not my thing...
i very much appreciate seeing
the bottom i can dive down toward
and touch... the chernobyl stink of chlorine...
is almost a parisian perfumery...

heat breeds diseases it breeds...
insects...
i abhor the heat...
the zenith of winter is yet,
is yet to arrive... and for the help of god:
i can't arrive at... writing sober...
should "poo'etry" ever be written sober
to begin with?
i mind: that i don't mind...

i can find 8pm and 9pm quite:
which implores you to not quit - curb colt...
i was making a sponge apple stuffing
roulade...
after having made some biscuit
with brown sugar and diadems of hazelnuts...
and prior to some sausage rolls...
three fillings...
cranberries with some peppers and
chillies...
fennel seeds with apple...
and the third... the third...
i don't quiet remember...

my head was exploding with a brain being
towed and all was:
i am yet to grieve a passing,
a tax of death...
i am yet to be left half imbecile and half
of any other texas hold-up poker game...
i'm wishing for...
that quarter of a million of a bet
i placed on:
one team wins...
but both have to score...
ergo... catching a mosquito by the testciles
donning boxing gloves chance...
2 - 1 etc. victories...

i don't want to blame women...
the last one i was serious about...
she's on her 3rd marriage or whatever...
and i'm still in woad: in deep blue
coinciding with...
god's roulette...

as a testiment of man...
there's the ambition to find: the void...
to find nothing...
and from that... find the thinking thing...
res vanus: the emptiness
that can be fathomed with more or less
thinking, than a yawn's presence...
because...
descartes doesn't really exact ontological,
whatever...
i can't be and be:
when i churn out a day-dream and
a day-dream is all that is...

thankfuly i have nothing to "work"
with... most women only have boredom to begin
with....
at exactly 20 minutes to 1am...
i'm not so sure...
a mother can say: you stink...
then you go and buy something from
a convenience store...
and the cashier stresses how fresh you smell...
that's quiet something...
a woman likes the way to smell to her...
in between doing these *******
tribunals of sweating over
apple roulades...

and Stendhal... it's only my mother...
i just have to gnash my teeth
and apply the burden of sober...
this canvas... no other...
i drink for the 1 hour pleasure
of disorientation...
a shot in the head in some Ukranian
prison...
stiched to the next to be executed...
chikatilo...
i'm not exactly fond of the company...
but i'm pretty sure...
kurt cobain... and his shotgun antics...

and how the prolonged death appeal
of Christine Chubbuck lasted much longer...
Kafka said it right:
a stab at the heart...
**** colt and boyo... don't aim for the head!
that's how Ukranian convicts die...
shot in the back of the head...
in a cell... never in the open...
it's not like the brain delves into
the automated unconscious of the pump
that's the heart... how do you think
the urban myth of the cockroach that lived
for 2 weeks more was born?
the head didn't have a mouth to ingest
food with...

shot in the back of the head is an execution
that, done in an Ukranian prison cell...
is pretty much all of Dante not visiting
either heaven or a hell...
but two weeks with... in the presence
of death... the body starving...
that magic finger-pointing exercise
of seeing death in movies?

well thank god they did a movie about
Christine Chubbuck's (rage against the machine):
bullet in the 'ed!
i was lied to, no matter...
i'm here to hush and sweep the leftovers...
because why would you march
a man into a prison cell...
shoot him in the head and close the door
and wait... because no: in the open...
with a chance for rabid dogs to feast on...
in the darkened night just shy of Kiev
would ever matter...

Christine Chubbuck was left dying on
life-support machines after her half-high Kiev
attempt to pop the balloon...
psych- myth of the brain as source
of the sigma soul...
my left toe has more soul than this
rubric forever explained as forever to be explored
goose-fat sponge...
come to think of it...
after a haemorrhage that no one believes
beside me, some neurologist and a dementia
riddled grandfather who easily forgot...

what's this brain this brain this nought?!
**** it... kamikaze cockroach!
as ever oh but always so much when
someone has to mention...
has to mention: with no exacting details
of fancy...

also called the drought period when pakistani
gangs are up in Leeds and i'm strapped
to the outlier Loon'don culture:
as ever playing the obedient schizoid...
because that's, just fair game...
centuries behind what the youth
of Denmark have to offer...
the mutterzunge and the l'inglese of:
any future of tourism with Jack's flag...

heavy influences stemming from
st. andrew and all the worth of wordworth
with a tinge of punk...
but never a baron of lexicon coming from
just shy of 4 hours away from
the lisp of masovian warsaw...

what could possibly be wrong?
how about... stemming it down to the root
of... sober people and the lacklustre of
when writing: under no influence at all...
apparently "now" the high moral ground!
the sobers usher in the words
that we are abide by when the football hooligans
their casual Tuesday mundane,
their casual Tuesday mundane custard
splodge of oats in regurgitation...

i can almost but not quiet...
imagine myself being the cameo in this dear diary
of these "free" women of the western world...
give me a feral black woman pulling
two kids from her bed in order
to imitate a ****** by folding her legs to
pretend...

it's still a bullet in the back of the head
for some, minor or major
andrei "cain" chikatilo -
no... with a full crop of cranium of hair...
and a grandmother that says...
well... how busy your chin hairs are...
that you are able to lodge a pencil in there
and it doesn't fall out...
hair here and all other hair elsewhere...
chest and... where the antioch identifier
of achilles ought to be of a six in sixes
packaged...

since who is buddha... or a christ when...
an thích quang duc "oops" happens...
the people will never leave their unison...
their get-together "happening"...
but what's to be celebrated should...
the crucifix be turned into that "other"
torture ordeal of being: piked...
crucifixion the tsunami wave of history...
when one can expect the fate
of being piked by the more imaginative
sorts?
if only the antichrist was gay
and was sentenced to levitate on a pike...
passion and ecstasy via
the Walhalla doing ****... again:
sorry if the pike missed the **** baptism
of ecstasy... and instead aimed
at ripping apart the flesh and bone at:
whatever pivot was made available
to work from reverse ingestion:
beginning with the pelvis...

i'm just tired and cooking and shooing
shadows for the past month and i know that it's
just an exaggerate lounge period...
and all i want is an added arm...
and the serenity leg to take the step to return to...
footsteps... with a bulging echo to command...

it needs to be stressed that these women were black...
i call them ivory beauties of chocolate come
quicksilver moon glistening...
i can't remember... no... "you're" right...
i never managed to **** anything
of an ethno-centric "perspective"...
i'd be arrested for that...
as if starting a hitlerjungen movement or
some other random "****"...

i'd package myself with a mexican strapped into
alcatraz...
the Louis of the Aztecs and some
long lost St. Juan of the Mayans...
leash me... Russian or Prussian or...
what's that third otherwise power of influence
that this body was allowed to morph into?

perhaps i once was allowed to control these words...
but that's how drinking goes...
it's a homocodie when you **** someone
when under the influence of alcohol when driving
a car...
this is a sort of homocide...
i trully gave my hands away to the devil...
and the brain: oh forget that old fabble of a pickle...
what's in brine was always supposed
to be in brine and pickled...

- and what were the chances of me becoming
a sentimental drunk... listening to some
crowded house - weather with you?
the la's - the la's... no... not merely the 1990s
epitome of h'american tourism lodged in london
of myth... as any ******... that myth translated
itself into paris... there she goes...
i mean the whole album...

whale! whale! a beached whale!
Grindadráp...
and some want to go on the Hajj...
and die in a human stampede at the Mecca...
but... well... some want to...
of all of Europe...
Venice, Paris, Rome, Athens,
Amsterdam, perhaps Edinburgh
(wink-wink nudge-nudge)...
Barcelona...
or... Grindadráp of the Faroe Islands...

capture a polyphony in language that is hardly
ever going to be much more
than a chance to... to do that...
shove three fingers into your gob...
expect an elevated volume of sounds...
call the hounds! a mile away!
i was never allowed to learn that
whistling "trick"...
perhaps that's why i never managed
to play the trombone or the clarinet...
the ****-poor leftover guitar...
which is as much as having to read
braille!

reality: i live in england but i'm a ******...
i haven't ****** an english girl...
or a ****** girl...
i was close! a ****** girl licked my face
like a cow, once...
chin, lips, nose and forehead...
i was actually waiting for e.t. when that
happened...
the pakistanis have all the english girls...
sorry... it's sad...
but... the australia...
the fwench... the russian...
it's a decent rubric...
crude... nuanced...
so is buying fwesh meat at the butchers...
the perfect crime is less severe...
fiddling with a tombstone...
then towing it for 2 miles...
to bury the remains of your cat...
after your neighbour "accidently" killed him
when you were away...
and of course they deny it...

after all... i live in a society...
innocent until proven guilty...
said jimmy saville...
it's not the old... european "misunderstanding"..
of guilty until proven innocent...
if not a real story of Tomasz Komenda...
there's the Shawshank Redemption...
or there's... the Count de Monte Cristo...

if all are innocent until proven guilty...
what's that? the genesis story never happens...
it's hardly a moral deterent...
isn't it? people will do as any aleister crowley
would command them to do:
do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law;
this is a naive presupposition of
fudge-packed jurisprudence...
what should have been egg-whites..
it merely some sugar dissolved in water...

statistical counts aside...
i would be more inclined to... fear...
being held guilty... to then be allowed "innocence"...
that to being held innocent...
to then be forced as a doubly-culprit!
how does the double jeopardy paradox arise...
from the high pillar of: innocent until
proven guilty?!
law is at one's own leisure...
should all be bound to an innocence...
revisions of the biblical metaphor...

if we can all be innocent...
wouldn't we at least all fathom an innocent
attempt to break some law?
for a matter of: testing the waters?
even if innocent until proven guilty is true...
there's no narrative of redemption...
why is it that the shawshank redemption
is such a popular movie?
since it adopts the continental motiff of:
guilty... until proven innocent...
it offers... redemption...
it's a popular movie because it's unfair
for the basis of a single individual...
not some amassing of victims of a jimmy saville
recount... that have... none... zilch...
no redemption!
their redemption: ist tod!

because if i were to be found guilty...
with no chance of defence...
i would exercise a double-think in relation to this...
rather than exercise this leisure into
grieving the orwellian zeitgeist monstrosity of
but the one novel...

i'm not convinced of the english model...
this... innocent until proven guilty...
this pontius pilate argument...
i'm not for it! this sinking to the core of my heart
and hopefuly, prevents me from a heartbeat...
perhaps so fewer examples of
the #metoo would come to the fore...
if... one were not so easily allowed
a ststus of innocence...
perhaps... guilty until proven innocent...
doesn't allow...
so readily accessed accusations...
perhaps this modern, english model of
jurisprudence...
is missing a medieval lisp?

as law abiding as would suggest...
i would be much more deterred from inacting
a grievance should i be found guilty...
without a benefit of a doubt of a jury...
than if i were to be given the a priori: innocent
status...

i don't like this: england and greenwich in tow
is the bellybutton of the world
demand of... all else is less than we...
no... did i come from Algiers?!
what has Algiers to do with it and Leeds
shouldn't?!

at least that's how a man sobers up...
while still drinking...
he might focus on sober demands...
of topics that only drunks should speak of...
and since neither of the two meet...

because i have stood as a witness
in a court...
and i was given a photograph to...
"compare" having identified him in a mugshot...
the photograph i was shown still
had a date imprinted on it...
and this was the ******* argument...
the photograph was years old...
i identified the culprit in the police mugshot...
but the case was "won"... for no apparent reason...
the witness said: i...
this photograph is years old...
i can grow a beard and hippy attire in a year's time...
of course i was the witness that said:
note down the registration plate
of the car this camel-jockey jumped out of
and grabbed m'ah fwends mobile...

i've seen how: innocent until proven guilty works...
i'm not conviced...
i can't be... there's something instinctual preventing
me from adhering to this english...
jurisprudent sensbility...
it's hardly a ******* charles dickens novel...
if it were... and i greatly underestimated
charles dickens... no... really...
i shouldn't have read any of dostoyevsky...
i should have read charlie ****'oh'ends...
believe me when i say that is hould have...
since... heidegger's ponderings VII - XI
will retain their shelf-status as... the book most
probably unread...

such is the sobering process...
am i, in no way, allowed to sacrifice my 'ed
on the premise that: innocent until
proven guilty is the right categorial imperstive
to buckle on... since...
the anglophonic world buckles on it...
like a spectacular breakdance feat of
a penguin on steroids...
doing the diving header tsunami
of chore: the crowd goes wild!
it's no operatic applause and being
"superficially" reminded as to how...
find your proper seat...
before the castrato peacock does his
singing bit...
apparently finding one's seat
when it's never going to be a maggot-pit
at a slipknot concert is all that's
about to happen...

come by the butcher's and let's attempt
in finding you some oysters
among the volume of red boisterous...
to replica your genital parts
and sordid caviar letfovers...

perhaps i could be angry...
but la ilah illa blah'lah...
i am... halway bound between
being simulation circumcised
and being castrated...
i never which is which...
notably, given...
circumcised men are not allowed
the impetus of taking up
web-cam Susan on promise of...
also pleasing themselves
without wanting to earn some money...

it's a real problem though:
innocent until proven guilty versus
guilty until proven innocent...
relish...
the english indiosyncratic
wishing they were scandinavian iceland...
no... honey too sweet tooth bear...
this is not how the GMP affair that exends
with its genesis in the jimmy saville affair
looks like...
this quest for: apparently "superior"
is not going to work on me...
kin of a kind-of luvvie dubby...
bon voyage!

the entire continent is listening...
individualistic rights...
innocent until proven guilty...
the more i reiterate these words...
the more i sober up...
because i can't see how...
i am: a thief...
until i am proved to be... a thief...
by having performed the act
of thieving...
or not even an "after"...

sorry... please expose your divine
rational intelligence and tell me
via a reiteration that 2 + 2 = 4...

i am not a thief,
but i am a thief...
only if the act of stealing is proved...
and if "the" act of stealing is not proved...
i'm way more than a thief...
i'm a thief with a baby driver!
this anglican logic *****...
if innocent until proven guilty...
is to sustain the individual flourishing...
i'd rather make theatre of the original,
biblical deterrent...
a queen of this sort of popish claims
and her duaghters of yorkshire because...
the pawns of justitia...

conventionality of continetal thinking...
there's not even a "what if" or
"it would be better" should... allow,
extended into:
guilty until proven innocent...
rather than... innocent until proven guilty...

i sometimes find myself chattering...
in the cold...
but i'm not chewing anything...
i'm pretending to pivot the piano on a ghost...
being played as some per se magician's
excavation of: whatever time...
thus it was spent...

i call it chattering chopin...
bite marks available... like the multitude
of signature most willing to be...
allocated a collection foreseeable...

the would the artichokes of arabia...
or the fennel roasted roots of Italy...
there's something to be had of a woman
sporting the "cherokee" leopard-skin prints
on something that's...
90% cotton and 10% lycra?!

and the reason why i visited a brothel
in the past ten years was because?
if i want to play poker...
i'll play poker...
easy ***? it's not so easy in the act
and you want to find a kiss and...
she tells you: it's against the laws
of this sort of nunnery...
but you still manage to slurp a lip or two
of a shy pluck of the tulips of the sea...
or however this thing that
language is works...
if it's not going to be a hammer and nail...
forever... this "excuse" to allow nothing
more than YA novels...
metaphors and... pedantry of elswhere
from punctuation?

herioglyphic assumptions of :) emoji?
wink barrel baron! oi!
non-responsive...
black also implies: ivory beauty...
i started to admire their teeth...
since mine were always going to be
custard yellow death grin...
like bone to the rot...

no... i'm pretty sure tonight ends
here; now;
the prodigy - destroy...
given how... keith flint...
and that horse... and it was never a tale
of the stormy badger...
and how the fox is my aid and will
never make it to...
transcend the red coat hunting parties...
because... just because.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2019
.ich! schreibenmann! über oder mann: nein güt! ich! schreibenmann! alles gelb... ja?! entschuldigen (mir) verstecken (hocken).

contra millenial contra baby-boomers
no....
people didn't say much,
all they ever said was:
"we" have no problem with
you drinking yourself
until you reinvent
the yo-yo...
   i so too thought:
   this... "labyrinth reconstruct"?
this is not coming from
a rotten mind,
this is coming from a rotten
head,
the shackles of Brazil...
             good to know!
know what?
the fact that i will drink myself
to death,
iwill never have to be made
compensate for,
i will have a hybrid
choir of ****** overdose
addicts being entombed
in a vinyl collection listening
section / choir...
               ich, diable, ich père....
rob the poor man
of his metaphor,
to make dues of his...
missing quiff, ***** style 1970s
style!
      my *******
miane **** dog qua basset hound
cat..
2H of sleep...
no... i want, to, butcher it;
chose chicken and curry
instead...
but for the ear crsip:
i wish i could:
        
YOU BLATANT DUMB
IDIOT...
that's how we pet
animals in Slavic countries...
children?
you don't want to know,
i already know how they're
"petted"
in post-germanic countries
of England, or France...

only in a wealthy nation...
will you sooner see
a homeless man,
than a homeless dog!

I WANT, TO, SLEEP!
and i don't like being given this
excess of attention!
no!
circa!
       round round
the ******* go!
go! *******!

   i never dated in my life,
o.k., once, speed...
  i didn't like the whole
formality of acting a
pretense of...
whatever never for a fragility of:
no. that wasn't too soon.

     my... "culture"?
it isn't even on your, ******* map...
me white, your brown,
you hiati something
royal or something?
you no go, to the modern variant
of the Hermitage... savvy?
me white too...
but me no go
where your tanned
is already a tanned / non-nigerian
no-go... savvy?
              
i hope to die by toast...
you die:
by hope for forklift
in the ******* ****
of kilimanjaro doing
the black betty sing-along
through & through...
and...
what wouldn't i give...
for a kissing scene with
rooney mara...
esp. her most...
whatever that was
in a girl with a dragon tattoo...

gein: meet bukowski...
bukowski...
meet me...
    necrophilia meet
necrophilia...
i want to be strapped
in such an Arizona
stronghold with only...
a gueswork of tongue
to be given the leash!

i eat off the table that
becomes
the hushed crumble
of... that meme...
                n.p.c....

  which... obviously related
to the mahjong solitaire
and the "whole"
NP-complete-ness...
  
  i know of NP-C...
not that i am smart,
  but in that i have enough
ingenuity to avoid...
what cannot be a furthering
of argument..
    worth sustaining...

too much of unknown
to people geometry has
riddled them
beyond the compensate
of being related to...
what argument is there
to have,
when the people you're
trying to over-shadow,
are un-relateable,
in that...
to have to claim
defeat by having
no simple symbology,
having to perpetually
retort with geometry
that cannot implode
counter-intuitively
for a "sacred" scrutiny?

die kröne überreste die kröne,
als die volk überreste nichts mehr
"ein" der mensch'n;

ja? savoy.
Mary Alexander Jul 2016
My generation is swarming
With new kinds of witches.
Some will be obvious,
Lurking and spitting, throwing
Daggers from the corners of every room.
But on occasion, one will be covert,
With sweet dresses and
Beautiful hair cascading down her shoulders.
Greeting those around her
With a charming smile and wide, bright eyes.
But she weaves a web of deciet and triffling words,
And as she speaks, she clouds your mind, speaking
In foreign tongues which are not
Of this true world, until you
Are caught unaware, for her spell has been cast.
You blink, confused, and look down at your hands,
Trying to ignore the impending sensation of insects
Creeping up your arms
Until you realize.
You realize that her spells are not those of darkness and horror,
They do not come in forms such as toads, dark clouds, or anguish.
Her power, her only power
Is that of one way time travel.
And when she casts her spell, her words take you back
To when you were simple, childish,
12 years of age.
Her words come out in flames,
Painful, cruel flames that scortch your heart,
You fight back, begging her to stop
And realize the pain she is inflicting,
Until you suddenly notice that the words are meaningless.
Words, painful words,
But from a child's mouth.
And you stare at her in horror when your past self
Flees your being while her's remains.
Her words, still shooting from her mouth, now
Small, plastic bullets from
A child's gun.
They sting your skin, but no longer scortch your heart.
She then flies away, charming smile back in place,
Leaving you swaying in utter shock, praying
That her next victim will posess your same
Awareness, and sense the truth behind the flames.
It's terrifying.
laura Oct 2017
No I'm not jealous, you are
millenial me seeing green with that
type of money, I'd hit the cams
if I didnt look ugly in my head at least
for a shot at that kind of money

maybe I should deal drugs instead?
You think you know me.
I think I know you.
We know nothing
As we move forward
Slouched in our office chairs of despair
Some moving full throttle, the others stay still
Still
All in the same place
All at the same level
The illusion of movement
Competitiveness run amok and awry
An experiment gone wrong
An experiment in our endless longing, our search
Our eventual journey
As we seek greatness and perfection
While shattering the thought of it.

We have been taught to question
Questions bring greatness
Greatness is what we long for

Greatness has been subjugated
No longer an aspiration, but a trade
Not a product of inspiration
But a product of greed

Art is dead
Love is dead
All is dead

What once was an abstract concept
Is now concrete
And invisible
Nothing
A black hole
Constructed from the shattered hopes and dreams
Of millenials and those who felt like we do throughout history

What does "millenial" mean anyway?
In every context it encapsulates
Consumerism
Greed
Selfishness
Hypocrisy

Art is dead
Love is dead
All is dead
And we killed it

We dealt the death blow.

We lack heart
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with greatness
Greatness comes from accomplishments
Accomplishments come from knowledge
Knowledge comes from aspiration
Aspiration comes from inspiration
Inspiration...
comes from the metaphysical heart

The hollow men had no soul
and neither do we

We lean together
We do not embrace
We do not take the next steps
Only leaning
We lack what we need to see it through

We are incapable of maintaining relationships.
For our stamina is gone
In its place, divorce, infidelity,
shallowness
relationships based on looks and dreams
dreams of perfection
based on the wrong definition

We are the hollow men

We are hollow
We are... despairing

Despair
why would we despair?
if we did not care?
are we then hollow?
if we worry,
is that not out of concern?
is concern
not out of love?
does love...
not stem from the heart?

Sometimes I wonder
Can you still have a heart
If you have a mind in the way?
I myself am a huge fan of The Hollow Men by T.S. Eliot.
My use of the term "greatness" mocks speakers like Jordan Belfort, who claim that they have risen to it.
My use of the line "Art Is Dead" references the song of the same name by Bo Burnham. It's brilliant, and I would suggest you check it out. The line "You think you know me" references Bo's song/piece "We Think We Know You," as well.

This poem was written 'all at once,' meaning that there were no edits made. This was simply my stream of consciousness.
Kaitlin Collide Mar 2014
I don't think that I love you,
But I think you're the one.
I think that I'll love you
****, don't jump the gun
Shut up
Shut up.
SHUT UP.
Just chill.

3/20/14, 3:04 AM
Alice Baker Feb 2014
We are the generation
With our sorrow etched into our skin
And swallowed down with the morning coffee
Fingers crossed that tomorrow will be better.

We are the generation
With our lives plastered on screens
And written in the history of our web
Desperate for affirmation.
Kara Rose Trojan Jul 2015
I don’t write about my Dad or God so
I will write about how
Moses told all the Jews to slay a lamb, take the blood, and paint its blood around the doors
so that the Angel of Death may Passover the marked houses.

The story goes that Dad (or God) was
Wobbling down the street with heavy breathing like a deflated walrus washed on shore,
kneaded jowls bouncing beneath his jaw with each bouncing step,
Because he had to order special shoes for his diabetic feet.  
When he stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and collapsed beneath
The L train and curious stares blurred against a man’s fight to live.
Fiddling with either his rosaries or toolkit or pants or
Phone or newspaper or lungs or shoes or inhaler
And I’m sure they’ve seen him before,
But I’m sure this time it was different –
They would have a story to tell to their co-workers and loved ones
About their walk on the sidewalk by the hospital
Where an old man collapsed
And they would echo the words, “Count your blessings,”
But have no idea what that means.
He was dead for two minutes and had bleeding on the brain.

This is about more than just myself
And him
And the way he made me feel.
This is also about the man next door to him
And how I came to learn to never talk about my Father or God.

It is a Saturday morning with snow on the ground
And there is guilt frosted on my back
I have not moved in a few hours (perhaps years)
And there are tubes like translucent octopus straddling his mouth and mounting
His chest
As it rises – and breaks – rises – and breaks (so romantically)
With each second beep of the heart monitor.

In the general waiting room, some men and women arched in their seats with gleeful excitement
And balloons and footies for newborn babies
to deposit
Something hopeful and crisp into the umbilical residue.
So as to mask the horrors of what human health really is.
Staring at what is truly written as if the “I” myself
Is too special to suffer.

And, then, there is the man (stranger) with a smile
Too transparent against the masks bouncing robotically in the foreground
The man (stranger) –
he asked me if he was ready to
Make count with his major failures and major contradictions,
Thereby ready to vacate (physical) body (earth)  
up to the Lord. He spoke to me about The Lord as if I never knew him,
never knew his stripped promises of salt statues
never knew the bent knees and heads during Mass
stripped away the infallible memories of people
of people
who knew no better
yet checked each other
to thank him for their
chosen suffering.
never knew the responsive sweat dotting HELP along new mother’s brows
never knew the elegance of bliss/love during *******  
never knew the muddy feet of a wretched child clambering between belts.
never knew the frantic swerve of hurried fury from a coat’s hem.

my brother said he was going to
time how sporadic, chaotic, hypnotic
My three-year-old haunches switched up the stairs –
Animal-like, on all-fours,
swiveling from one grimy patch of
cement-splotched carpet patch to
the frozen barbecue-sauce colored tile at the front door to
another grimy-cement colored carpet patch to

the tacky, stuck-together carpet-hairs hardened by dish-soap calligraphy –
combed the S.O.S. message I crafted one hot, sticky June evening
after slapping the ***** of my feet into mud
then tracking pawprints through the kitchen door,
transcribing my help-yelps as Dad’s belt cracked –


Climbing then freezing at rage’s zenith,
His face contorted like gargoyle-wrinkles deepened with sweat
broken peals of thunder-skin splitting like a river’s delta through the house
Flooding pockets of silence then bursting with a child’s sniffs
since crying never helped me, anyway;
undeniable red-shame pooling split skin after each crack-smack
doubled back then cooled its buckle on his thumb.

With comfort, Aunt Joan assured me: “Love is
the second most mispriced of human goals.”
What’s First? “Liberty.”
So I’d lie amongst the dishsoap-doodles
     like Alice in the daisies
Limbs outstretched --
          like DaVinci’s Millenial Man
     or
           Jesus on the cross  
     or
           hopeless girl losing her virginity
     or
          Ma reaching towards the door lock
     or
          McMurphy post-lobotomy
     or
          Santiago dreaming of Lions on an African beach
     or
          fireworks blossoming against an emptied sky --
And trace the cracks in the ceiling with the blue veins on my arm,
like
       roads on a map;
I'd mouth the names of places I'd never seen/heard of but
       I would go in my mind –
The mountains I’d climb steady on all-fours, switching my haunches
As if Escape was the warm, fuzzy world only children would dream of -- then linger with their eyes shut to return there -- hidden beyond the garden of Love and Liberty –

No, sir,
        No, man,
        No, stranger,
                I never knew there was such a way.
-- how could I go undone?
He hogged the conversation – I hogged the facts
Everything I’m leaning toward is a cut in the conversation, sir. How could I go undone?
He asks me what his name is and I tell him, Ken. His name was Ken.(Or God.)
He asks why he is here and I tell him
You don’t need to know that. I don’t know why I am here. Why are any of us here?

He then prays for him and invites me to as well.
I tell him,
When you come undone, I come undone
We’ll all come undone in the end
We were doomed to die the moment we are born
So who will pray for you in the waiting room, sir?
No thank you, sir, I’m just fine, since who
Knows the way or what somebody says
All I know is that I can put you away. But, I will not.
So why don’t you sit your excited *** down?
If only he could understand the joke.
May the man learn the dead man’s float and seek solace in the cadence of Charon’s poling of his ferry.

What valor. What courage. You all turned out so well.
The leading man is dying.

Escape is the erased movement where the sinewy lights and colors behind dark eyelids stand steady long
after the first disturbance, then usher those that were hurt
into Charon's ferry
because anything feels better than everything that was taken.
Ev Aug 2018
Bifurcated, broken thing,
longing to belong again,
hangs with hangmen from a string
along a wall of wallowing.

Speak of pain, he speaks no more
but rasps his voice against the door.
Save me, sir, what is in-store?
Salesmen smile and take the floor.

Cauterized with spit 'til dry
lies the spider with the fly.
Of one, blood made two one-alike.
Awry, awry, what's left is right.

Lonesome at last what alone begins,
ten hundred is but ten handfuls of ten.
The hunted, hungered will soon bends
as all are lost as all will end.
rusty shacks Feb 2014
surely I must realize
this is all about deceit
the buildings fall, I've seen it all
insert, press play, repeat
the shadows from our future
fall on the gentle and the meek
the buildings fall, we've seen it all
insert, press play, repeat
surely you must realize
this will all lead to defeat
the buildings fall, you've seen it all
insert, press play, repeat
its all been read and seen and heard
there is no one left to meet
the buildings fall, I've seen it all
insert, press play, repeat
Mae Dec 2015
Millenials.
The world ******* hates us.
We whine for a living
We feed ourselves with Xanax and Prozac
To remind the world that we are broken
Problem? I don't think so

We accuse the world of being awful
We accuse life, a life we have not lived yet
Of being too cruel when we are the ones
Who cut ourselves open for a heart we long to love

We look for the kiss that will heal our self inflicted injuries
Well, dear millenial, "there is no tyrant like a brain"
We will keep cutting ourselves
Keep drinking ourselves to sleep
Keep poisoning our mind with this "Golden Age Thinking"
Until we understand that
We are stuck here.

And life does not need to be good to us
Life owes us nothing.
Poetry and Paintings won't save the world.
Do it yourself
Try to see my point of view and sorry for cursing
Your Name Here May 2017
Why create me?
Do you love me
or hate me.
Whats the purpose?
I feel fckng worthless.
Why so serious?
This addiction has me feeling delirious.
This seems so wrong
For I don't belong
Hopeless traveler
Ruthless scavenger
Lonely warrior
Fruitful courier
Im at the end
cant comprehend
im a fake
i pretend
to be a man
just a phony
faux
spec of dust
grain of sand.
But yet....
i understand.
Why?
she's no deva of mine
no caterpillar concubine
no cocoon consort
no butterfly  courtesan
she's four tigresses in one
suckling, wandering, denned and leashed
And I'm following the track of them all
She's my white tigress of Nanjing
and though I haven't ever practiced kungfu nor qigong
I have applied to be her jade dragon
Or at least one of her green dragons
In order to help her to reach one of her nine illuminations.
So I fused my qi and ching and  shen
and turned myself into a Knight of the Order of the Porcupine
and offered to gently tatoo with my quills
Her *******
with a motto of invisible yet immortal ink saying :
"Qui s'y frotte s'y pique"
Written phonetically [kisifrotsipik].
I thought because I sat just like a buddha
I was at that moment a buddha
I thought that if I breathed like a green or jade dragon
She'd let me have a bite at her immortality.
No way, my tigress said :
You just can't be and have been
Stop asking for medical advice on Facebook,
Your superglue stitches and peroxide mismanagement
Will cost you more than a doctor's visit.
Stop asking for medical advice on Facebook
If you want to keep your limb.
I've found more competence on the "interweb."
Stop asking for medical advice on Facebook.
An oxygen embolism and cellulitis will
Have you putting out more than the Urgent Care.
Please, stop asking for medical advice on Facebook!
-Sincerely,
The EMT student who is constantly preventing disaster
For people with minor injuries who think 50's era first aid advice
Is a suitable alternative.
BrandonCantu Sep 2017
My phone dies slowly.
But I rush to get chargers,
so I can die fast.

-Leo Cantu
of legendary origin
encroached upon
throughout the centuries
by human fear
   seeking protection
   near some venerable shape

you stand

aloof

   silently balancing
   symmetrical circles
   of roots and crown

patiently oblivious of parks
and buildings made by those
who vainly walk in awe
to grasp the mystery
   in touch, in picture, meditation
   of otherness unmoved

plantlife millenial
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dracaena_draco
The Jolteon Jul 2017
The love of your
Life
Is just one swipe
Away

Swiper no swiping
Now
Your love's gone
Away
mumu Jun 2018
They call us "Millennials"
The internet dwellers
Post and make your status
Hey! Have you read the rumor in campus?
Facebook
Twitter
Instagram
Snapchat
We live with these app
Faking ourselves and crap
Sharing your pictures so happy
Though your mind are so ******
Insecurities
Intimidation
Jealousy
We know it by every "Liked"
I want to be her by every "Share"
Why I can't be her in every "Love"
Anxiety
Depression
This is what we suffer
Millenial Fever
A post can overwhelmed our feelings
Living scratch into us until evening
"What's on your mind?"
"What's happening?"
This is our struggle
To be me but also not me
Welcome to our generation
We are Millennials
Disclaimer: "Millennial Fever" is a term I come up with on how Anxiety and Depression became so common in this generation. With every post we read in our social media accounts can overwhelmed our feelings and trigger our emotions. I'm not saying that "Fever" and "Anxiety and Depression" has the same level of illness and treatment, the commonality is what I'm talking about. But, if you still feel that it is inappropriate or the whole poem, please tell me and I can delete this. Thank you. :)
Lucky Queue Apr 2014
Sometimes wonder if I have synesthesia
Or something like it
Cause for me I associate colors and animals with people
Cause I see time as a map in my head of memories and images of greenery and snow and memories of my life instead of seasons so that I can cycle through the hours of a day in class periods on weekdays viewed as memories of the class, and walk through the past which takes a sharp left at the year 2000 and from there on the flatness of the millenial years drops off into a sloping textbook
Cause sounds and words have textures on my tongue, notes tickling my taste buds as they spill out
Cause I can taste electricity which has a surprisingly dead flavor
Cause I can describe colors with texture and it makes perfect sense to me even though my friends say it cannot be done
Because if I don't, I don't know what the hell to call this
4.5.14

7.3.15
finally got around to correcting the spelling of synesthesia. I know now I have spatial-sequence and number form synesthesia for sure. Very cool.
Jacobo Raymundo Jan 2014
An acid raindrop
Burning the last of the crop
Dusty barren soil
Marks the end of the millenial toil

Work until your hands are cracked
And you're crippled and broken backed
You work to pay to be free
The new whips of slavery

Mr Taxman comes to your door
His theft I do deplore
All I have to spare is change
And he acts as if deranged

A continent fractured for greed
A little more ivory is what we need
While sickly babies wail and perish
Without a moment of life to cherish

But do you shed a single tear
No, only hate and fear
You are an enemy
To my country and to me

As atomic rainbows cross the sky
In warring peace, we all shall die
This is a piece I feel strongly about and have tried to get out for a few weeks now amd just have been able to do
Glistening sea ****, eye contact - infinite intensity
Filling the gap in between our fingers, stuck in millenial concordants
Taking photos on your polaroid of ravens and maple leaves
and black and white silhouttes of you.
Not, Clicheing//Different Socks on each foot
Watering Daisies on the pavement where we brushed past each other
Criss crossing parallel rail lines paved across the universe
Lost Stars.
Biting our lips to the blistering cold weather,
gloved* hands stitched together.
Me loving you,
You loving me,
in *naturale.

as of now, as of forever.
I'm the ragged, plain white canvas and
you're the most supercalifragilisticexpialidocious painting.
We
Every time we, as people...as a group, think of a new category, a new classification, a new label, we further our own separation from each other. Every new name gives us a pre-conceived notion for us to pre-judge other people with.

All of us will be familiar with generational categorization. Millennial, Boomer, Gen X, Y, and Z...etc. We all say, "Millenials are spoiled and have it easy and complain too much," or "The Boomers ruined the economy because they're greedy," or "Gen Z is lazy and never knew anything that wasn't on a screen..."

These sayings, are all just easy ways out... lazy assumptions we can use to generalize one another so that we don't have to put in the effort it takes to actually care...

And yeah, caring is hard.
Truth is, we've all gotten lazy.

Every single "group" of people, has some of the most amazing, loving people you will ever meet, regardless of age, or anything. Love and hatred have no bias as to who you are, where you live, what you think, or when you were born.

Think about it.
It's so easy to see one person doing something selfish to us, and we immediately look at them, and label them according to our own biases, but we never stop to look at the many more people that don't do us wrong; Perhaps even the ones that help us out. When that happens to us, they're just...people.
When we're transgressed, those people become "they." **** them blank, **** those blank, Selfish blank.
And every time we allow these little events to affect us, we become more selfish ourselves... and the cycle goes on.

This doesn't just go for generations. It goes for political separation, gender identity, race, etc.

Every,
Single,
Name,
is an excuse for us to hate each other.
Fuel for the pyre that we ourselves, you and I are tied to.

We are all human. We are all kin. Every single one of us will bleed the same blood, and cry the same tears.
That ******* that cut you off in traffic may have been on the way to the hospital to catch the dying breath of his wife, son, daughter, father, mother, or friend just in time.

We need to stop seeing each other as they, or them.
We,
Are Us.

We,
Are the only people on this tiny little rock in space,
And if we allow ourselves to hate our kin, surely we will destroy everything we know and love.

We live in the age of being overfed with information no one asked for, and we allow this information to divide us as a people.

I don't care if you are Gen Z, Republican, Democrat, Millenial, Man, Woman, or anything in between...you are just like me. You bleed red and you have a heart and a soul that wants to be loved and to feel important and that you're doing the right thing.

There's a very simple solution to this epidemic of social divide.
Next time you feel like someone has wronged you, or done something wrong. Take a step back. Stop and think.
Benefit,
of,
the Doubt.

We need to love ourselves,
but more importantly,
We need to love each other just as much...
Because in the end,
Without each other,
we would just be alone, and lost.
We are meaningless without each other.
This isn't much of a poem, but It needs to be seen.
c quirino Jan 2011
In another life,
I built several great palaces
by two hands,
brick unto brick,
until they sat
pristine and shining,
in their halcyon
newly millenial bliss

until the caretaker took ill,
and vanished.

so my great palaces stand, still
though in disrepair,
the whitest of elephants this side of le petit trianon.

their windows adorned with spider-leg-cracks,
vines twisting and caressing the parquet in replica Halls of Mirrors.
the royal apartments long ago looted,

pipes burst,
and a river flows into a third story drawing room.
© Constante Quirino
a vision of youth
as blind as a bat
shouting into the darkness before it
only heeding the echoes bouncing back
self fulfilling prophecy
doesnt know that it doesnt know that
continues to be what it believes that its seeing
ignorance becomes fact
Wendy Jan 2015
When I wake on the steps of humanity,
I see the peril, the plotting, the running and the hasty implementation of torture.
For your children, we shall give them a crate and bowl and force them to live amongst their own feces to mold them into the industrious working class we so desire,
anything looking like upward mobility from the ditches we cry in.
For your animals,
we shall embalm them richly on your wall for you,
to gaze on with fond memory the corpse of an animal you never knew wholly,
merely the discipline you enacted on it to conform to your standard.
Never knowing the child without the work,
unable as a society to accept the being as what it is beyond all the standards and labels and cross-references of psychological history used to define your character and your place in this plane of existence.
At no time capable of committing to validating the true nature of the beast in every single conscious being on Pangea,
because, listen, listen closely,
in this jazzy age of deep beats and lack of swooning amounts of emotion,
you need validation to exist.
Confirm, tune in, download your inner interface to the great program,
and you shall forever be condemned to role of worker, or corporate  building block, you lucky duck.
Feed the system as it so graciously has fed you access to knowledge,
filtered and just the right temperature for complacency bred by millenial laziness and hopelessness.
Or drop out, and matter to none.
What is it going to be?
GingerHound Apr 2019
Sometimes I don't belong.
"10 things all women do",
screams the headline
Not me, I think, scrolling along.
"every man should try this", demands the caption.
And I just sit here thinking, not for me.
Do they even understand a fraction
Of what it's like to be
Here, in the middle, in between?
"just another queer millenial"
Is that what they see?
Can it really be that they reduce me
To that? Because I know
That I am so much more
But still, this is a blow
That strikes hard
And it hurts.
Am I allowed to cry?
Under which of society's odd rules should I
Handle my feelings about this?
Because men, as it is,
Are unmanly when they let tears flow.
Women, however, are expected to do so.
Now what do I do?
I could lose myself in thinking this through
Over and over again.
My circling thoughts never come to a halt.
There's just this one thing I know:
It is not my fault
That I can't seem to fit in.
That's the way it has always been.
One gets used to it, you know?
Just keep fighting and grow
up to be who you want to be.
I try avoiding emotions.
I'm a criminal,
and they're bounty hunters.

I fear my mind.

They chase me down.
Syrens echo from behind,
pinning down thoughts
with "love" on their badges.

God forbade happiness.
I took a chance
and ran through the storm.
He threw lightning and fire down the road
but didn't stop me.
I said,"To hell with it";
the clouds finally parted
and bade,"Amen."

The sun was brighter.

I talk to an owl
who's more than a friend.
Our youth's gone with the wind.
He doesn't know how much this means.
****, it might be too late.

That never bothered him none.

Visions come and go
with Hollywood scandal and rumor.
And I envision peace
like the millenial I apparently am.
I ask myself,
"Who do I think I am?"

Another man gets shot
and services air on the news.
The uproar gets absurd.

We burn dinosaurs
and holes in Purgatory.
Now we live in digital Hell
but there's no place like home.

Confrontation takes zen
and throws it to the dogs.
It runs through my mind like,
"Who do you think you are?"
Must it come to this
every time I think?

My afflictions may never be heard.
One of my more honest works.
Ottar Apr 2014
lines like these
not necessarily logical,
nor biological,
could be the edge,
that you hedge,
your fund,
you bet,
places with names,
that explain history,
but add to the mystery,
of crossing,

naive before the
millenial age,
turned fully two,
if I don't know you
I won't trust you know who,
borders,
now armed and ready,
steady lads steady,
barbarians at every gate,
then silence the critics,
if asked politely, peace?

fingers following a raised edge,
contours, that sweep from
mountaing tops, that have
never been seen by theses eyes,
shadowed valley, holds surprising
refresment and all this so far away,
along the ridge line
slow to descend,
until we see that this beauty
borders on brightest city of hope,
borders on the mystery,
borders without ends,
of desire.
Maybe to obtuse??
Michael Marchese Sep 2023
Don’t think you can sell me
On more than needs-based
I don’t think you can tell me
I’m wrong
To my face
That the price justifies
What the world lost to make it
To take it to market
For product replacement
Of nary apparently
Valueless cogs
With the e-commerce
Metrics
Of new money gods
Mike Adam Jul 2016
Methane bubbles from lake
floor to surface.

In winter hang
suspended in ice,
waters block.

Millenial fermentation
of leaf, fish
filtered through
pristine crystal

And what emerges is
hot air and gas,
aroma of
subconscious musings

Mind whiskers
picking up on
preternatural meanderings

Unfurling the chromosomal
flag

Read, write and deepest blues
if you could make her think
you'd be ****** her mind
a glance in her direction
marks you out as one of "those" kind
romantic suggestion
will be remembered as a hate crime
the only dating you'll be doing later
is with your name on the dotted line
in the *** offenders register
The only way to get through everyday
without incinerating your soul
is by sending multitude of messenger pigeons
to drop millenial post cards
at fluctuating frequencies at the juncture
of the mail box of your heart;
as a wick to a flaming reminder.

Soul reads the post card sonourous,
sitting on a wooden stool with a gashed crack
running through the middle
beside the dimlit green forlorn bedside lamp.
Heart ardently listens while laying silently
beneath bereft layers of warmth.

It read  *"You can't be the only moon that revolves around the Sun/You can't be important to someone all the time."
Rose Oct 2015
Ya ever read a book
N think
"**** I'm in this book"
I am Sarah Grimke
Sally from A Nightmare
I am Jodi Picoult's
version of a heroine
But it isn't much a nightmare
But a life so much like mine
Just lacking uncertainty
Regarding fear
Anxiety
These women knew what to do
And I

I feel your mission
I know why you did what you've done
It was so clear, but
for me,
who is my enemy?

I want to hide
Under or in a tub
So long as
You can't find me

Is this my millenial
sloth, gluttony?

We try try try
Nothing becomes of it

You are so drunk and you say that
You're dying
I ask you,
*What is your insurance policy?
ivory Apr 2018
you tell me i am a bleeding heart in place of
an insult, a slap, a swift shove into a bathroom counter
say it like it's easy, too easy
to be this way, like i
crawled out of my mother's belly
begging for my veins to turn into highways that travel through the cities of
hard-working men and women hardly making it work
your freedom for greed comes at the greatest cost, and we are all
paying for it
the children hiding under classroom tables are
paying for it
the one choosing opiates over antibiotics because the
pain is intolerable and it is cheaper to die than to stay alive is
paying for it

and yes, we write so much about dying,
we serenade the dark side with guitar riffs and cannabis
call me a bleeding heart because i want to scoop all of us up like fragile eggs
in an abandoned bird's nest
and whisper softly
i know, i know it hurts to live
like this but we have to keep going
we have to keep trying
Tom McCone Oct 2015
it might be easier like this. lull, time, old notions. i
tell stories, not for any kind of living - save a richer
internal monologue - but, instead, to know that our
thoughts suffice to change the world around us. to
weave fiction so tightly into the earth, that it cannot
help but become truth. the longest story, the one i
could never put down, will always unfold:

most of the time, it was dark. without corners
to sweep this dark into, the world decayed into
modes of static blips. fumbled sparks, outside,
where i felt lawn between my toes, but knew not
of collections of blades. cold, a shade merged with
the remaining ripples. its exterior product, a
binding over my skin. one often knows not that,
sometimes, they cast their own snares (wrote that
a while ago, though. my own cruel traps.), and
sit and wonder who was so thoughtless as to
leave them out. dream of wakefulness. spend
days without movement, spent-up significance.
and there i was, collection of nested shells in the
backyard. concentric. so elated in the safety. my
sweet guardian, the embrace of stillness. left
wondering why i felt so alone, in crowded
hallways and streetlamps.

it was millenial, or epochal, sleep that kept me in there,
so long. the sparks spun under creation and annihilation.
and i, omniscient and blind, slunk out under a grin to
acknowledge the efforts. the pains of a sudden and bright
world. the fleeting hand of sweetness. and i stood, stone,
and knew to feed a fraction of it was only the more painful,
but that my crumbling surface was still too rough to give
it all away. always too early in the game. and i saw lakes,
from afar, and ached for all time, or just enough to lose
breath. i saw dazzling pinnacles and wished i were the
rain, for at least when water freezes, it is beautiful-
not chaotic and terrified. i had no facade of ice, though.
through to the roots, i was always
the same as the sun;

fissuring warmth, upon small bands.

it was just a single sliver of all time that
split every wall, though. i was at rest,
as eternal. the sound was impetuous, yet
left a permanent ring in my unfurling ears:
i heard your song. heard it ring out, forever.
awash with new & unfound oceans, i stretched
my wingspan wide and tugged at the seams
in the wallpaper. i pled, and cried out to
this new universe. to have known everything,
but only of a tiny & compact void. and, then,
i understood the shade. with bright light,
we see into darkened corners. the world is
a slipping tether.

i hold my eye up close, to the window,
and now know the majesty of my
so-called eternity was a ripple in a
footpath puddle. i grasp at the cracks
in the walls. i tear at them 'til my hands
bleed. i am but a small bird, stuck in
a nest of my own construction. but, i
have plans. but, i'm learning to fly, to
get back to the great glowing
shine, up above:

to bring back all the warmth, and lay, gently,
by your side, in new nest; this vast world,
and to never stop humming.
Reverberations resound,
Airwaves surround,
The Holy Ethereal
Transcribes my Soul Sound.

I yearn for freedom,
I sing for heartsease,
I beseech the firmaments,
That musicality conceive
A New Dawn; Millenial Fawn;
Material-Realm Transcendence;
Spiritual Efflorescence,
O, my Spirit is hearkening unto
The Holy Dove's cathexis.

Write from your heart,
Sing from your soul,
Unravel the Perdition
Until The Vestibule of Lightness unfolds.

Dream in stratosphere;
Achieve upon The Terraqueous Plane;
Ascend The Earthen Spire;
Know we each bleed the same.
What is music without love?
What is Heaven without Hell?
The Elemental Legacy beckons you higher,
Legion fatidic arbiters conspire
Rendering self-sovereignty a liar.

Open your eyes,
Unfurl your heart,
Sing to the Aethers
That The Spirit never depart.

This is Musicality's Manifesto,
This is Destiny's Diminuendo;
Therefore,
Know the blaze, fathom the burn
Of unquenched ardor, unyielding zeal;
With passion within, ye
Shall never fail,
So pilgrimage Life's Mecca
Bearing its sacral travail.

(Se' lah)
Excelsior Forevermore,


Sanders Maurice Foulke III
jerely Jun 2018
The evolution of our era
called it millenial
bright colors, wild, free
it’s unpredictable
though wide variations of collection
could find their different angles;
picture memories
you’ve witnessed
it in moving dreams
of hope
through the new clique of it’s statuses
update here in a single minute,
second or hour
We can’t suspect how big
is the impact of social media;
technology that we’ve been
attached in our whole life
do we really need to breathe
in this kind of level
of revolution?
I use a 5 random word generator see if I could write a poetry out of this five words.
evolution
collection
update
suspect
level

It’s been a long time since I write here
6.5.18
11pm
Jerelii
Copyright

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