Stumbling under yellow streetlights,
Our livers brined to a pickle,
With the grace of a cow in a tornado,
We are youth.
With crimson gunpowder blood,
Brains and spines drugged with chemicals,
Volatile and susceptible to detonation,
We are youth.
Sleeping to a comatose,
Waking to the devil's hour,
Zombie-eyed at the glow of our escapes,
We are youth.
The numbing blinds slowly shielding our eyes,
We panic, we fight it, we lose ourselves trying,
Some of us never notice, all of us succumb,
We are youth.
Or at least we used to be?
YOU ARE READING
Post - it
Short StoryRevelations, poems, short stories and three a.m monologues, all as tiny as a post-it
