"millennial" poems - Hello Poetry

"millennial" poems

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.

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Aug 9, 2018

Aug 9, 2018 at 4:50 AM UTC

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.

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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.

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Apr 11, 2016

Apr 11, 2016 at 9:21 PM UTC

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.

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‘I am…’ 'Or am I’? Who can say? ‘A posteriori’ leads the way For the extra and the ordinary Axiomatic sway, In the gravity of corollary, ‘A priori’ interplay Ataraxic overlay of anxious automation, As the innocence of dissonance delay. Practicing semantic contemplation, In willfully prevenient interpolation, Civilly disobedient in expediently seeming disarray, Forecasts in vague extrapolation Contrasts the millennial contagion Already underway, Filling nihilistic voids with particles in waves, To interpret dreams of Freud to free Oedipus’s slaves, A degreeless scholastic who never misbehaves, Simulated humanoid dramatic in the affect that he craves, Inflating linguistics in acrobatic raves, A thespian who plans conation with legacy engraves. The probabilistic determiner of cosmogenous debates, An apperceived inquirer of qualitative states, Inspiring proprietor of dismality abates. Challenging aporia as epistemic oscillates, Stoically, heroically, ‘one’ who amalgamates, Circling the infinite in hermeneutic calibrates. An escaped prisoner from depressive disillusion, Of an introspective extrovert who finds solace in confusion, The personable recluse fighting an illusion Breaking down the nuances of every institution. Calculating consequence as time goes to infinity Revolutionary commonsense of principal utility, An opinionated adversary, to the realist without evidence, Theorizing in futility, Stipulating every sense leading to the virility of the pretense that dominates community. Divergently converging all the efforts we’ve personified, Inadvertently submerging old traditions that unethically were codified, Hastening the urgency for purging that which cannot be modified through the merging of the certainty that will no longer coincide, Stationing the levies to finally stem the tide, Of periodic enmities disguised to be necessities so blatantly deified. Observing moral sentiments, perched upon eternity, As consequential regiments are expounded universally, To unstratify the residents indiscriminately And identify quantum elements spiritualistically, Changing collective behavior individually, Socializing constructs in joint ventured logo therapy.

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Nov 16, 2018

Nov 16, 2018 at 8:07 AM UTC

Ballads-of-a-philosopher-poet

Paradoxical Tendencies

‘I am…’ 'Or am I’? Who can say? ‘A posteriori’ leads the way For the extra and the ordinary Axiomatic sway, In the gravity of corollary, ‘A priori’ interplay Ataraxic overlay of anxious automation, As the innocence of dissonance delay. Practicing semantic contemplation, In willfully prevenient interpolation, Civilly disobedient in expediently seeming disarray, Forecasts in vague extrapolation Contrasts the millennial contagion Already underway, Filling nihilistic voids with particles in waves, To interpret dreams of Freud to free Oedipus’s slaves, A degreeless scholastic who never misbehaves, Simulated humanoid dramatic in the affect that he craves, Inflating linguistics in acrobatic raves, A thespian who plans conation with legacy engraves. The probabilistic determiner of cosmogenous debates, An apperceived inquirer of qualitative states, Inspiring proprietor of dismality abates. Challenging aporia as epistemic oscillates, Stoically, heroically, ‘one’ who amalgamates, Circling the infinite in hermeneutic calibrates. An escaped prisoner from depressive disillusion, Of an introspective extrovert who finds solace in confusion, The personable recluse fighting an illusion Breaking down the nuances of every institution. Calculating consequence as time goes to infinity Revolutionary commonsense of principal utility, An opinionated adversary, to the realist without evidence, Theorizing in futility, Stipulating every sense leading to the virility of the pretense that dominates community. Divergently converging all the efforts we’ve personified, Inadvertently submerging old traditions that unethically were codified, Hastening the urgency for purging that which cannot be modified through the merging of the certainty that will no longer coincide, Stationing the levies to finally stem the tide, Of periodic enmities disguised to be necessities so blatantly deified. Observing moral sentiments, perched upon eternity, As consequential regiments are expounded universally, To unstratify the residents indiscriminately And identify quantum elements spiritualistically, Changing collective behavior individually, Socializing constructs in joint ventured logo therapy.

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The artichoke of delicate heart ***** in its battle-dress, builds its minimal cupola; keeps stark in its scallop of scales. Around it, demoniac vegetables bristle their thicknesses, devise tendrils and belfries, the bulb's agitations; while under the subsoil the carrot sleeps sound in its rusty mustaches. Runner and filaments bleach in the vineyards, whereon rise the vines. The sedulous cabbage arranges its petticoats; oregano sweetens a world; and the artichoke dulcetly there in a gardenplot, armed for a skirmish, goes proud in its pomegranate burnishes. Till, on a day, each by the other, the artichoke moves to its dream of a market place in the big willow hoppers: a battle formation. Most warlike of defilades- with men in the market stalls, white shirts in the soup-greens, artichoke field marshals, close-order conclaves, commands, detonations, and voices, a crashing of crate staves. And Maria come down with her hamper to make trial of an artichoke: she reflects, she examines, she candles them up to the light like an egg, never flinching; she bargains, she tumbles her prize in a market bag among shoes and a cabbage head, a bottle of vinegar; is back in her kitchen. The artichoke drowns in a *** So you have it: a vegetable, armed, a profession (call it an artichoke) whose end is millennial. We taste of that sweetness, dismembering scale after scale. We eat of a halcyon paste: it is green at the artichoke heart.

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16.7k

Ode To an Artichoke

The artichoke of delicate heart ***** in its battle-dress, builds its minimal cupola; keeps stark in its scallop of scales. Around it, demoniac vegetables bristle their thicknesses, devise tendrils and belfries, the bulb's agitations; while under the subsoil the carrot sleeps sound in its rusty mustaches. Runner and filaments bleach in the vineyards, whereon rise the vines. The sedulous cabbage arranges its petticoats; oregano sweetens a world; and the artichoke dulcetly there in a gardenplot, armed for a skirmish, goes proud in its pomegranate burnishes. Till, on a day, each by the other, the artichoke moves to its dream of a market place in the big willow hoppers: a battle formation. Most warlike of defilades- with men in the market stalls, white shirts in the soup-greens, artichoke field marshals, close-order conclaves, commands, detonations, and voices, a crashing of crate staves. And Maria come down with her hamper to make trial of an artichoke: she reflects, she examines, she candles them up to the light like an egg, never flinching; she bargains, she tumbles her prize in a market bag among shoes and a cabbage head, a bottle of vinegar; is back in her kitchen. The artichoke drowns in a *** So you have it: a vegetable, armed, a profession (call it an artichoke) whose end is millennial. We taste of that sweetness, dismembering scale after scale. We eat of a halcyon paste: it is green at the artichoke heart.

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The only proper way to be a conversationalist is to convince yourself that you’re boring. If you can strip back the hard shell of the ego, and look down on yourself from the eyes of an apathetic God, you will likely (and hopefully) see just how boring you really are. It isn’t a sin to be boring, in fact there are many advantages to honest self-depreciation. The main advantage, is the way you approach a conversation. “Interesting” people find it difficult to silence the affected score-keeper that dominates their internal dialogue and ruins any chance of an honest and engaged conversation. It is the voice that reminds you to show interest with your body language, and keep a dumb happy gaze laser pointed into their eyes. This dialogue is obsessed with authenticity and genuine conversation, and therefore a natural sociopath. Luckily, you are the stunning definition of boredom, an extracted dictionary cut-out of un-interesting, and nobody could possibly give a rats-ass what you have to think—least of all the Voice that controls the inner-dialogue. That Voice has packed it up to find a more interesting vessel…maybe the person standing across from you in conversation.   Because you are so boring, and they are the Oxford personification of intellect and fascination, you should pay careful attention to what they say—no time to worry about how they’re perceiving your reaction to whatever it is they’re saying. You are too busy to notice what sort of body language you may or may not be using to validate their half of the conversation. Instead, your time is spent carefully hanging on their every word, digesting it and projecting the whole bit into a colourful scene in your imagination. Instead, you’re too lost in the excitement of their infinitely more interesting life and impossible wealth of knowledge offered to you with each word that they speak. Instead, you are actually listening to the words that come out of their mouth and not the ones that speak to you from the inside of your own mind. This is what it means to be in conversation. This was the point of our social nature. And in a world of needy social-media junkies grabbing at the cuffs of potential ‘followers’ and ‘likes’ and trendy passer-by’s, the last thing anyone needs is the high-pitched whine of another “interesting” millennial. Lucky for you, you boring sack of yawning sloths, that you aren’t interesting too.

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Dec 17, 2015

Dec 17, 2015 at 6:13 PM UTC

The Optimists Guide to Conversationalism:

The only proper way to be a conversationalist is to convince yourself that you’re boring. If you can strip back the hard shell of the ego, and look down on yourself from the eyes of an apathetic God, you will likely (and hopefully) see just how boring you really are. It isn’t a sin to be boring, in fact there are many advantages to honest self-depreciation. The main advantage, is the way you approach a conversation. “Interesting” people find it difficult to silence the affected score-keeper that dominates their internal dialogue and ruins any chance of an honest and engaged conversation. It is the voice that reminds you to show interest with your body language, and keep a dumb happy gaze laser pointed into their eyes. This dialogue is obsessed with authenticity and genuine conversation, and therefore a natural sociopath. Luckily, you are the stunning definition of boredom, an extracted dictionary cut-out of un-interesting, and nobody could possibly give a rats-ass what you have to think—least of all the Voice that controls the inner-dialogue. That Voice has packed it up to find a more interesting vessel…maybe the person standing across from you in conversation.   Because you are so boring, and they are the Oxford personification of intellect and fascination, you should pay careful attention to what they say—no time to worry about how they’re perceiving your reaction to whatever it is they’re saying. You are too busy to notice what sort of body language you may or may not be using to validate their half of the conversation. Instead, your time is spent carefully hanging on their every word, digesting it and projecting the whole bit into a colourful scene in your imagination. Instead, you’re too lost in the excitement of their infinitely more interesting life and impossible wealth of knowledge offered to you with each word that they speak. Instead, you are actually listening to the words that come out of their mouth and not the ones that speak to you from the inside of your own mind. This is what it means to be in conversation. This was the point of our social nature. And in a world of needy social-media junkies grabbing at the cuffs of potential ‘followers’ and ‘likes’ and trendy passer-by’s, the last thing anyone needs is the high-pitched whine of another “interesting” millennial. Lucky for you, you boring sack of yawning sloths, that you aren’t interesting too.

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Disconnected the more we’re connected Our children are affected and feeling neglected While our rights to privacy are no longer respected An idea our ancestors never projected The transgressions of technological progression An obsession creating social oppression A Millennial’s iDol, a prized possession

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Sep 6, 2015

Sep 6, 2015 at 1:12 AM UTC

Disconnected the more we’re connected Our children are affected and feeling neglected While our rights to privacy are no longer respected An idea our ancestors never projected The transgressions of technological progression An obsession creating social oppression A Millennial’s iDol, a prized possession

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We were promised Glitz and glam Love and security Never the beating down Of our own Never the feeling Of an unlovable soul Waterfalls into the night We all know something ain't right The nonsensical millennial Smokes into the night The harder we work The harder we fall to our dying depths And you wonder why We haven't slept yet We were promised And now we are ****** off

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Nov 25, 2014

Nov 25, 2014 at 12:01 AM UTC

We Were Promised

We were promised Glitz and glam Love and security Never the beating down Of our own Never the feeling Of an unlovable soul Waterfalls into the night We all know something ain't right The nonsensical millennial Smokes into the night The harder we work The harder we fall to our dying depths And you wonder why We haven't slept yet We were promised And now we are ****** off

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I wished to explore all parts of you, The gentle sway of your torso The ***** words falling from your lips I was inspired by your movement, The profanity It was a romance between millennials, One fueled by intoxication and lust Sparked by passion Ignited by jealousy We might even share words, Stories of our past Hopes for the future But they'll always be just that These moments won't last Youth and spontaneity comes with a price A price we must pay, And a love we must sacrifice.

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Apr 5, 2017

Apr 5, 2017 at 9:04 PM UTC

I wished to explore all parts of you, The gentle sway of your torso The ***** words falling from your lips I was inspired by your movement, The profanity It was a romance between millennials, One fueled by intoxication and lust Sparked by passion Ignited by jealousy We might even share words, Stories of our past Hopes for the future But they'll always be just that These moments won't last Youth and spontaneity comes with a price A price we must pay, And a love we must sacrifice.

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They hate the shadow of the bird over the high water of the white cheek and the conflict of light and wind in the salon of the cold snow. They hate the bodiless arrow, the precise handkerchief's farewell, the needle that keeps the pressure and the rose in the cereal blush of the smile. They love the blue desert, the swaying bovine expressions, the lying moon of the poles, the water's curved dance at the shore. With the science of tree trunk and street market they fill the clay with luminous nerves and lewdly skate on waters and sands tasting the bitter freshness of their millennial spit. It's through the crackling blue, blue without worm or a sleeping footprint, where the ostrich eggs remain eternal and the dancing rains wander untouched. It's through the blue without history, blue of a night without fear of day, blue where the **** of the wind goes splitting the sleepwalking camels of the empty clouds. It's there where the torsos dream under the gluttony of grass. There the corals soak the ink's despair, the sleepers erase their profiles under the skein of snails and the space of the dance remains over the final ashes.

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7.5k

Federico García Lorca

Norm and Paradise of the Blacks

They hate the shadow of the bird over the high water of the white cheek and the conflict of light and wind in the salon of the cold snow. They hate the bodiless arrow, the precise handkerchief's farewell, the needle that keeps the pressure and the rose in the cereal blush of the smile. They love the blue desert, the swaying bovine expressions, the lying moon of the poles, the water's curved dance at the shore. With the science of tree trunk and street market they fill the clay with luminous nerves and lewdly skate on waters and sands tasting the bitter freshness of their millennial spit. It's through the crackling blue, blue without worm or a sleeping footprint, where the ostrich eggs remain eternal and the dancing rains wander untouched. It's through the blue without history, blue of a night without fear of day, blue where the **** of the wind goes splitting the sleepwalking camels of the empty clouds. It's there where the torsos dream under the gluttony of grass. There the corals soak the ink's despair, the sleepers erase their profiles under the skein of snails and the space of the dance remains over the final ashes.

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A simpler life No more anger and strife In the yard, in the sun Spinning in gardening fun A big floppy hat Sunglasses acrobat Crisp, refreshing mint juleps When I finish planting these tulips Owning a house is dream A capitalist scheme Millennial bravado When you choose avocado

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Feb 3, 2021

Feb 3, 2021 at 11:11 AM UTC

MadBunnyScientist

Millennial Bravado

A simpler life No more anger and strife In the yard, in the sun Spinning in gardening fun A big floppy hat Sunglasses acrobat Crisp, refreshing mint juleps When I finish planting these tulips Owning a house is dream A capitalist scheme Millennial bravado When you choose avocado

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we were millennial lovers spending too much time drinking coffee always talking through our phones sharing ear buds with strangers and standing up for things we barely understand -k.j.c

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Oct 6, 2018

Oct 6, 2018 at 9:40 PM UTC

millennial lovers

we were millennial lovers spending too much time drinking coffee always talking through our phones sharing ear buds with strangers and standing up for things we barely understand -k.j.c

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Millennial Millennial Millennial Some idiot coined that for those of us that weren’t born yet What happened? To the baby boomers Groovy hippies Manson getting married, what about me? Generation X Generation Hipster Assassin **** yourself Nobody said that I was a millennial until I read it from the internet Something that should be shot dead like those on TV “Everything was better when we were young” No it wasn’t It wasn’t me it wasn’t me I didn’t mean to die because you hated me for what I was Are you still racist? Prejudiced in America? Millennial Millennial Millennial Narcissistic who are you calling self-obsessed when you were always dangerous we didn’t want to live from the womb which was like our tomb Catastrophe Legacy ( I spat out some computer wires today and I’m not going to apologize for it as I’m a millennial, we got to call Frank Black tonight) Millennial Millennial Millennial Millennial I’m in over my head We speak in acronyms and random slang She had a baby and the baby’s going to be apart of the next and final generation We’ll be dead we’ll be dead we’ll be dead Millennial Millennial Millennial Millennial

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Nov 19, 2014

Nov 19, 2014 at 8:39 PM UTC

Millennial Millennial Millennial Some idiot coined that for those of us that weren’t born yet What happened? To the baby boomers Groovy hippies Manson getting married, what about me? Generation X Generation Hipster Assassin **** yourself Nobody said that I was a millennial until I read it from the internet Something that should be shot dead like those on TV “Everything was better when we were young” No it wasn’t It wasn’t me it wasn’t me I didn’t mean to die because you hated me for what I was Are you still racist? Prejudiced in America? Millennial Millennial Millennial Narcissistic who are you calling self-obsessed when you were always dangerous we didn’t want to live from the womb which was like our tomb Catastrophe Legacy ( I spat out some computer wires today and I’m not going to apologize for it as I’m a millennial, we got to call Frank Black tonight) Millennial Millennial Millennial Millennial I’m in over my head We speak in acronyms and random slang She had a baby and the baby’s going to be apart of the next and final generation We’ll be dead we’ll be dead we’ll be dead Millennial Millennial Millennial Millennial

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the beauty of nature is lost on a piece of millennial **** like me what's a tree? who knew the air outside could be breathable. I'm utterly lost without the artificial glow of my iPhone. if I don't know who is eating Chipotle at any given moment I will lose my mind. what do you mean you "played outside" and "talked to each other" before the internet? I call ********

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May 19, 2015

May 19, 2015 at 10:54 PM UTC

**** millennials

the beauty of nature is lost on a piece of millennial **** like me what's a tree? who knew the air outside could be breathable. I'm utterly lost without the artificial glow of my iPhone. if I don't know who is eating Chipotle at any given moment I will lose my mind. what do you mean you "played outside" and "talked to each other" before the internet? I call ********

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millennial generation got a little beaten down and miserable. But i'm glad to see gen z frothing at the mouth and out for blood.

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Mar 30, 2021

Mar 30, 2021 at 1:16 PM UTC

millennial generation got a little beaten down and miserable. But i'm glad to see gen z frothing at the mouth and out for blood.

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we love a guy with a black eye blood shot those cute five-finger dimples in his jawline up in millennial graphs of x-time and y-self worth increasing steadily in units knuckles and palms lips and prods in a smooth arching crescent down-facing hieroglyph of his swollen socket as the plane descending for Cropper and kudos touchdown

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Jul 4, 2014

Jul 4, 2014 at 6:29 PM UTC

we love a guy with a black eye blood shot those cute five-finger dimples in his jawline up in millennial graphs of x-time and y-self worth increasing steadily in units knuckles and palms lips and prods in a smooth arching crescent down-facing hieroglyph of his swollen socket as the plane descending for Cropper and kudos touchdown

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I’ve never quite lived up to the expectations that bombard every millennial these days, the ones knocking and gnawing at my skin until they find their way in and search through each crevice in my brain until they find the right residence to lay their bed and plant the insecurities that end up destroying my self-confidence and gifting me with the inability to succeed until I have to scrape every piece of residue from the inside-out just to get myself to a place where I can breathe again. Yeah, I don’t let those in anymore. I’ve always been a little bit of a question mark, a strange child who danced to my own beat, even when I tried to walk in time with those surrounding, and there is a small piece of me that - when a new life event of someone my age visits my newsfeed - wants the same, tired story for my own life... and then I remember I wasn’t made for this. Sometimes I’m not sure what I was made for anymore, and I just keep waiting and waiting until it’s my time to be on my own, or catch my heart on fire, or simply take a step forward, and, yet, it never happens. There are things I know about myself that I will never explain, and I shouldn’t have to. I have a key-shaped hole in my soul that aches to find its perfect fit, but I’m not allowed to twist it yet, though my fist has been ready for years, and all I can do in the meantime when someone asks me why is answer with one simple phrase that stings each time it passes through my lips: It’s not my time yet.

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May 29, 2017

May 29, 2017 at 6:06 PM UTC

I’ve never quite lived up to the expectations that bombard every millennial these days, the ones knocking and gnawing at my skin until they find their way in and search through each crevice in my brain until they find the right residence to lay their bed and plant the insecurities that end up destroying my self-confidence and gifting me with the inability to succeed until I have to scrape every piece of residue from the inside-out just to get myself to a place where I can breathe again. Yeah, I don’t let those in anymore. I’ve always been a little bit of a question mark, a strange child who danced to my own beat, even when I tried to walk in time with those surrounding, and there is a small piece of me that - when a new life event of someone my age visits my newsfeed - wants the same, tired story for my own life... and then I remember I wasn’t made for this. Sometimes I’m not sure what I was made for anymore, and I just keep waiting and waiting until it’s my time to be on my own, or catch my heart on fire, or simply take a step forward, and, yet, it never happens. There are things I know about myself that I will never explain, and I shouldn’t have to. I have a key-shaped hole in my soul that aches to find its perfect fit, but I’m not allowed to twist it yet, though my fist has been ready for years, and all I can do in the meantime when someone asks me why is answer with one simple phrase that stings each time it passes through my lips: It’s not my time yet.

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Parents Front seat Complaining They think I can't hear them But I can "Too expensive" "Didn't want" "Technology addiction" Siblings In the back With the New tech Sometimes fighting Grateful But are they Addicted? Me In the middle Is it good Is it bad How far to go Who to side with Sitting in the crossfire Between X and Z Borderline Millennial Without an army

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Dec 26, 2018

Dec 26, 2018 at 8:46 PM UTC

Thoughts_of_an_Introvert

Parents Front seat Complaining They think I can't hear them But I can "Too expensive" "Didn't want" "Technology addiction" Siblings In the back With the New tech Sometimes fighting Grateful But are they Addicted? Me In the middle Is it good Is it bad How far to go Who to side with Sitting in the crossfire Between X and Z Borderline Millennial Without an army

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I hooked Sophie up to her red leash and we quickly descended the short staircase and out the door. Up in the sky to the left was a hot air balloon. The classic rainbow canvas. As Sophie pulled me from grassy spot to grassy spot I kept my eye on the balloon and noticed it was going to land. Because I'm a millennial I pulled out my phone and took a picture. I watched it float steadily in front of the setting sun, cotton candy clouds behind it. Must be nice to have a bird's eye view on a hot summer evening.

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Sep 3, 2018

Sep 3, 2018 at 8:38 PM UTC

Hot air balloon

I hooked Sophie up to her red leash and we quickly descended the short staircase and out the door. Up in the sky to the left was a hot air balloon. The classic rainbow canvas. As Sophie pulled me from grassy spot to grassy spot I kept my eye on the balloon and noticed it was going to land. Because I'm a millennial I pulled out my phone and took a picture. I watched it float steadily in front of the setting sun, cotton candy clouds behind it. Must be nice to have a bird's eye view on a hot summer evening.

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The Kraken by Alfred, Lord Tennyson Below the thunders of the upper deep; Far far beneath in the abysmal sea, His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee About his shadowy sides; above him swell Huge sponges of millennial growth and height; And far away into the sickly light, From many a wondrous grot and secret cell Unnumber'd and enormous polypi Winnow with giant arms the slumbering green. There hath he lain for ages, and will lie Battening upon huge seaworms in his sleep, Until the latter fire shall heat the deep; Then once by man and angels to be seen, In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die.

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Alfred Lord Tennyson

The Kraken by Alfred, Lord Tennyson Below the thunders of the upper deep; Far far beneath in the abysmal sea, His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee About his shadowy sides; above him swell Huge sponges of millennial growth and height; And far away into the sickly light, From many a wondrous grot and secret cell Unnumber'd and enormous polypi Winnow with giant arms the slumbering green. There hath he lain for ages, and will lie Battening upon huge seaworms in his sleep, Until the latter fire shall heat the deep; Then once by man and angels to be seen, In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die.

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I am the first born millennial grown in the digital garden from transplantation. The data stream flows along with my bloodlines, Divided, interspersed, like a lava lamp of my own identification. A bloodline that once worked the fields, and now works the fields of existence, A bloodline that made its pilgrimage to new land in order to satiate the body, has now grown to satiate inquiries within the self. I reflect upon those occasions where I have been told: “why do you care about the state of affairs for them, you are not of them, you do not act like them so you can’t be one of them” and I clench my tongue, forgive them father, they know not of what they speak” “Perdonalos padre, no saben nada de que dicen” The climate of academia is both inviting and yet marking, I feel connected to both intertwined bloodlines, and markedly separate in a way neither will ever know “mijo, él esta ****** no dice nada que él no entiende” But I understand, my name, my appearance, my lineage, they all mark a separation of that cultural heritage, a combination, a divider, that lava lamp burns hot from the up down theatrics of where identity will lie I am the new millennial Expect us.

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Sep 19, 2012

Sep 19, 2012 at 3:01 AM UTC

I am the first born millennial grown in the digital garden from transplantation. The data stream flows along with my bloodlines, Divided, interspersed, like a lava lamp of my own identification. A bloodline that once worked the fields, and now works the fields of existence, A bloodline that made its pilgrimage to new land in order to satiate the body, has now grown to satiate inquiries within the self. I reflect upon those occasions where I have been told: “why do you care about the state of affairs for them, you are not of them, you do not act like them so you can’t be one of them” and I clench my tongue, forgive them father, they know not of what they speak” “Perdonalos padre, no saben nada de que dicen” The climate of academia is both inviting and yet marking, I feel connected to both intertwined bloodlines, and markedly separate in a way neither will ever know “mijo, él esta ****** no dice nada que él no entiende” But I understand, my name, my appearance, my lineage, they all mark a separation of that cultural heritage, a combination, a divider, that lava lamp burns hot from the up down theatrics of where identity will lie I am the new millennial Expect us.

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We're just a bunch of 90s babies, sniffing coke like it's the 1980s In the night we're popping Molly like we're the ones that made it Calling it a new summer of love, like this time was always fated Making fun of everyone that isn't turnt, because we never waited Leave the club with ratchet girls when the sun goes down much later I'm just having my fun, why do you have to be a player hater? The greatest generation has gone, do we have what it takes to be greater? When the weekend romance ends, return to love thy mater and thy pater xoxo, imagine being strung out on dank bud with the grand creator

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Oct 27, 2013

Oct 27, 2013 at 4:13 PM UTC

The Profound Ponderings of Millennial Teens, That Have One Life and Have Reasoned To Live It To The Fullest

We're just a bunch of 90s babies, sniffing coke like it's the 1980s In the night we're popping Molly like we're the ones that made it Calling it a new summer of love, like this time was always fated Making fun of everyone that isn't turnt, because we never waited Leave the club with ratchet girls when the sun goes down much later I'm just having my fun, why do you have to be a player hater? The greatest generation has gone, do we have what it takes to be greater? When the weekend romance ends, return to love thy mater and thy pater xoxo, imagine being strung out on dank bud with the grand creator

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I smile when my profile picture gets 50 likes but would it mean more if I liked my face without the assurance of others? Maybe not, I'm a millennial, after all. 1994, born and raised a "90's kid." I tweeted that...it got 12 favorites. Too bad I can't favorite my internal thoughts in order to validate them without sharing them. I sent that as an iMessage to my friend who responded "#deep." I'm posting this poem on the internet so that people I don't know can read it. Maybe they'll even leave a comment. I say what I feel, via text message, followed by an emoji and a hashtag as a sort of millennial footnote, minus the APA style. I'll use LOL style or FML style or the style of ironically using texting lingo to prove that I'm not #basic. I, Lex the Millennial, wrote this poem on my iPhone 6.

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Jan 4, 2015

Jan 4, 2015 at 9:02 PM UTC

Lex the Millennial

I smile when my profile picture gets 50 likes but would it mean more if I liked my face without the assurance of others? Maybe not, I'm a millennial, after all. 1994, born and raised a "90's kid." I tweeted that...it got 12 favorites. Too bad I can't favorite my internal thoughts in order to validate them without sharing them. I sent that as an iMessage to my friend who responded "#deep." I'm posting this poem on the internet so that people I don't know can read it. Maybe they'll even leave a comment. I say what I feel, via text message, followed by an emoji and a hashtag as a sort of millennial footnote, minus the APA style. I'll use LOL style or FML style or the style of ironically using texting lingo to prove that I'm not #basic. I, Lex the Millennial, wrote this poem on my iPhone 6.

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Two billion years ago the river we call Colorado opened a **** in the Kaibab Plateau sculpting sandstone, granite, and limestone spectra on the rugged canyon walls - reflecting the seering Arizona sun. Millennial torrents scoured the surface. Juniper and Aspen, torn from the expanding banks, ****** into the river's red-stained vortex. All the while the restless Colorado, obedient to gravity's law, scoured its bed a mile below the rim. The last dinosaur perished - choked by volcanic soot. Pangaea rumbled, groaned and split and an eye-blink ago our African parents stood to take their first faltering steps. Their progeny crossed the Bering bridge roaming south to build stone shelters tucked against these canyon walls. Did the Havasupai huddle in fright of the jagged firelight searing the skies - pounding the air across the hollows? And emerging at storm’s end did they gaze at the rainbow mist spread over the buttes and valleys? After dusk, with fires withering to embers, did they rest supine, heads pillowed on their arms, pondering the jewel case universe above? November, 2006

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Jul 4, 2015

Jul 4, 2015 at 10:51 AM UTC

robert-c-howard

Two billion years ago the river we call Colorado opened a **** in the Kaibab Plateau sculpting sandstone, granite, and limestone spectra on the rugged canyon walls - reflecting the seering Arizona sun. Millennial torrents scoured the surface. Juniper and Aspen, torn from the expanding banks, ****** into the river's red-stained vortex. All the while the restless Colorado, obedient to gravity's law, scoured its bed a mile below the rim. The last dinosaur perished - choked by volcanic soot. Pangaea rumbled, groaned and split and an eye-blink ago our African parents stood to take their first faltering steps. Their progeny crossed the Bering bridge roaming south to build stone shelters tucked against these canyon walls. Did the Havasupai huddle in fright of the jagged firelight searing the skies - pounding the air across the hollows? And emerging at storm’s end did they gaze at the rainbow mist spread over the buttes and valleys? After dusk, with fires withering to embers, did they rest supine, heads pillowed on their arms, pondering the jewel case universe above? November, 2006

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Two antagonists joined and evolving... prevailing scarcity far rarer abundance a forked pattern through millennial time new century visions holistic... technology sightings viewing through lenses holographic wholeness appearing in parts... promises of science now simply profound clear water and plenty hungry billions soon fed innovations cropping from the boisterous crowd... standing robots astute heavy labor performed... global nervous system growing and formed by the web... residue and waste becoming power transformed... optimism breaking long history's confines questions large and looming give pause... the antagonists mentioned are they soon to transform? abundance and scarcity new parents new consciousness birthing... awareness with awe in one simple moment? ancient spiritual light is it now flowing holographic vessels to fill? what might the newborn be named? should she simply be called... enough? this name also naming a bright center glow... daughter scarcity now absorbed and lining her abundant light... new strength new vision a new fork in our road?

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Jun 2, 2012

Jun 2, 2012 at 11:27 PM UTC

Two antagonists joined and evolving... prevailing scarcity far rarer abundance a forked pattern through millennial time new century visions holistic... technology sightings viewing through lenses holographic wholeness appearing in parts... promises of science now simply profound clear water and plenty hungry billions soon fed innovations cropping from the boisterous crowd... standing robots astute heavy labor performed... global nervous system growing and formed by the web... residue and waste becoming power transformed... optimism breaking long history's confines questions large and looming give pause... the antagonists mentioned are they soon to transform? abundance and scarcity new parents new consciousness birthing... awareness with awe in one simple moment? ancient spiritual light is it now flowing holographic vessels to fill? what might the newborn be named? should she simply be called... enough? this name also naming a bright center glow... daughter scarcity now absorbed and lining her abundant light... new strength new vision a new fork in our road?

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