Parenthesis

A Study on Modern Youth and How It Affects Poetry

What a beautiful day to die,
and be cremated
– spread my ashes on every single song
you shiver to, feels like you fly,
elated, dilated pupils
not functioning correctly,
what you see, can't believe.

Feet tapping, nervous sweating,
electric hugs and fired up dances,
needles knitting your heart back,
new chances,
                            recreating,
radio play for two: "Break-Up",
by acclaimed playwrights Causes & Circumstances.

cigars, cigarettes,
girls, brunettes,
– brass section –
brain dissection
new life lesson:
nothing as poetic as a stupid decision.

And the glances you've exchanged,
and the smiles you've pretended
                                                                     and the ones you've not,
and the dripping blood from change,
evolution, transition, be a better man
and become what you've always fought,
but maybe momma was right and you were wrong,
so you fall and fall, eyes and tongue,
and you can't love anymore nor hate nor fuck
– automatic mode –.

Remember hiding under sheets, vulnerable to shouts and bombings?
Remember hiding under honey desserts and self-induced pleasure?
Existing as a simple, frightened son,
as dadda leaves, as momma drinks,
remember when crying nights were almost a fucking time measure?

Fork to his shoulder, hair on fire,
running in circles and you in the middle,
wondering if God even exists or if he does
then why doesn't he ever stop,
why is "miracle" a word
when you've never even seen one.

A comedic dinner and an existentialist crisis
all in one scene in your head,
played to soft music and green décor and smelling of semen
when you were just twelve and thinking hot it'd feel
to be dead.
But that's what we call a memory,
so keep it close for when you finally find out, ok?

a bed of roses.
way too many doses.

a blending of skins.
reasons justify the means.

everybody sings along to the countdown,
from 1000 to a funeral,
from A to Z, from you to me,
collateral damage.

there's one last waltz left to dance,
in the bathtub with bathing salts,
hand-holding with the ghost of what you've lost,
splashing all the bubbles against the corners of your memories,
under what gravedigger buries,
scratching stone and yelling "help!"
with a big dumb grin on your big dumb face,
watch me jump, watch me learn that after death
there's a new spark in your soul
asking for a lover to love
and an inexistent event to be anxious for,
and a new person built his escaping of
distant memories kept in the safest vault,
but we're one and the same
even if you left with your brain in flames
to walk under the toxic rain
and live a life that's just a participation contest
losing every 24 hours just
to try again.

Remember when you used to think less about life and death?