Y (a poem)

They think us strange,
we who don’t venture
into sunlight.
Scientists, Creators, Genius
bred in studios and labs–
strong-minded products
of a well-constructed mess,
we set ourselves apart
from yesterday’s beliefs.
We do not mold.
We do not bend.
We resist,
labeled stubborn
by the older generation,
self-styled mentors, our judges.
We question authority,
push out to sea,
bricks in that wall of defense,
seeking a seed of self-awareness
inherent in each of us.
Some might have died,
ripped open at the seam,
now broken, scarred.
We do not cry.
Our generation stinks
of death—
a sapling withered,
corroded by chosen elements,
leaving a stench
of lust, gluttony, dishonor,
rancid blend of blood like ours
and everything we’re not.
Mistakes clot in the vein.
We do not mourn
but smell the rot.
We do not mourn:
We live.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s