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To Be Young

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Being young has its hindrances through the eyes of those who have their hands and noses pressed up against the frozen window pane that separates them from what they’ve known and what they could be. Out there in a world crawling with human souls who have something to claim something to accomplish, goals, a great discovery; a means to plunge themselves into the mind numbing, fist clutching, lip biting, jaw dropping, lengthy destination so many find themselves at, only after to realize they’ve been asleep the whole ride.

To be young is to ask for it; tantrums of firey passion, fistfuls of hair followed by excruciatingly painful sore throats and mazes of inward confusion.

Who can stand the tallest; shout the loudest, cry the hardest:

An onward continuum into a blackened void, where the waves of angsty revolution crash, thundering at the doorstep of humanity asking for more, pleading for a legitimate pathway into the stream of moth-eaten thought we’ve become used to, its scripture already hanging on the faces of old men. We just want to make it. We want to tackle the bear of a universe that only sees the whites of our anxious eyes.

The swiftness of our feet makes us dance, the velocity of our minds makes us spin and the mockery of our Youth; that shimmering trophy up high on the shelves ‘hard work’, turns us into messes of reckless restlessness. 

We jump into pools of hypochondria, convincing ourselves victims of brain tumors, blindness, or some trivial sickness, displaying all the characteristics of something incoherently wrong. We work our conscious down to its raw interior where nothing is left but the cinder ash existence of our fears. We stand strong against the old creviced antique of hypocrisy. It’s furrowed brow trembles and quivers as it hears our loud knocks on its great hollowed doors- bruised from years of long, thin, deep seated marks from those who had enough strength to take a swing at it, even mocking bird’s drill long piercing holes to try and get in. The sound of empty ended “hellos?” and “is any body there’s?”

echoes off the reverberating chipped wood, spellbound from years of dormancy.

We strip ourselves clean naked, checking for boils, burn marks or anything invisible to our wide eyes that wound tell us, give us a clue into the mystery of living this horror as it unfolds the edges of broken history and releases it into the sidelines of our pathways.

We have no tools of magic to fight off these ghostly steps of time, so we surrender deeply into the caves, corners and cracks of our only salvation- imagination, beyond anything we can outwardly express to the world that seems to only want a show. It is the birthplace of peace, love, but more importantly a universal understanding of what is. We get it.

Just as the suns light not only stretches around the entire Earth, but the pearly dark sides of the moon, so our inward contemplation strives to light everything that nourishes our green, plant like bodies to grow and in doing so; lights the entire world in flames.

Comments (2)

This comment was minimized by the moderator on the site

Brilliant. You're sentence patterns are complex and rhythmic. They were like induldging in pieces of chocolate you've been forbidden to have.

a
This comment was minimized by the moderator on the site

this is good. however, i think it would be better placed in the form of a prose poem. i would do away with the paragraphs. plenty of strong imagery and metaphor to keep the imagination buzzing, and the sentiment is stinging without being overly...

this is good. however, i think it would be better placed in the form of a prose poem. i would do away with the paragraphs. plenty of strong imagery and metaphor to keep the imagination buzzing, and the sentiment is stinging without being overly preachy. nicely done.

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