january first MAG

September 23, 2015
By Anonymous

we write songs about long pipes
that bring us laughter and dreams
white, pillowy smoke and small ovals
show us the way, tell us we’re alive
scream the ugly names of those we love
out a sunroof
moving so fast we should be dead
and the liquid fire gets us through
a light at the end of some foreign tunnel
the heavy bass of a band we can’t pronounce
let’s us cry without being heard
we vandalize and break,
vandalize and break,
underdressed, malnourished, and bleeding out
it’s hard to detect anger from joy
we tear our hearts from our chests
and laugh at the sound of splintering ribs
smiles tattooed, we don’t know how anymore
we jump out windows, off bridges
the young the reckless,
the starving the perfect
and there’s a girl over there,
who reeks of smoke,
holes in her jeans, her heart
her wrists long since shredded, her eyes empty
begging, pleading, save me
the radio’s on,
we are bottomless, falling
and it’s too dark
the young the reckless,
but I’m starving, imperfect.


The author's comments:

I wrote this poem while going through a pretty tough time. Looking back on it, I think that it captures the essence of what I was feeling pretty nicely, and I hope that others find it relatable. 


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