Technicolor Dreams

3

Are we,
a society-
Not bound to our customs?
I struggle to fathom my future,
It is so tangible,
Yet so unfeasible,
So Real,
Yet so ideal,
And yet,
I feel
Eager-

Eager to delve amidst its depths,
To know of its end,
Where it begins,
As am I equally
Torn-

Buffeted by a feeling of inability

Tho I may be versèd,
Amongst the many tongues spoken,
My reach and insight of ink
Scrawled upon paper
A collection of ideas,
Of concepts bound
By spines,
Spewed from bodies warm
And characters cold

Am I enough?
Have I the requirements to survive?
What are we defined by?
The digits on a screen?
The average of our grades?
What dost it take,
To survive?
To flourish?
'Tis to me unbeknownst,
Much to my dismay

And love,
What is it's worth to us?
To be uncertain of the longevity of a relationship,
To negate the extent of our love,
An internal conflict,
To deny the reality of its frailty,
The fear that it will one day end
An accomplishment,
That sooner we might lament its consequences

Be the bonds torn by incompatibility,
By inability,
By frailty,
Or by paternity

How steadfast is that which is done in the present,
In comparison to the future?

One cannot know for sure,
And that is to the anguish,
The pain of us all

As we walk amongst the hallowed halls,
Of an academia,
A four year loaf,
From which most take merely the crumbs

Dost thy beauty endure
Or will it leave thee?
Dost thy popularity soar,
Or will it diminish?
Dost thy fraternity continue?
Or will it forsake thee for a fresher bond?

I am unable to say

It would be a lie,
If I denied my desire,
To see many in my midst, dissent to the foul creature they are

To yearn for their downfall

To wish for the jock to lose his fame

To hope for the pretty girl's ugly habits catch up to her

For the handsome men I stare at with a fondness and a hatred,
For them to mirror their interior

A wretched beast,
Obscured by a chiseled jaw,
To turn into a blob,
For impotency to set in,
For him to fail

A foul wrench,
Hidden by a flawless face,
For her processed hair to fall out,
Her makeup no longer able to hide her wrinkles

A drug dealer,
His black lungs abused by his product,
His perfect teeth turned to mush,
His massive manhood,
Reduced to the thickness of a pencil

For that is my disposition,
Akin to a court of law,
"Asshole until proven otherwise"

As am I a part of those I ponder,
If my ebony hair will last,
If my skin will ever get better,
If I am any better than those I try so hard to be nothing like,
Yet in my attempts vain,
I am no less than a mirror image

If one day I will look in the mirror and cry,
Because I am not where I wish to be,
And I am incapable of getting there

'Tis the anguish we feel,
And it shan't dilute,
It is our decade's burden