first comes the quiet hushes,

the soft words,

the silent pain

when day fades into night

and you’re lost in a sea of black-leather jackets

you open your mouth to scream

and only air comes out

then comes the soft melodies of the guitar

that twist and morph into a sound

so fragile you swear it will shatter

like glass

“bad noise” blares out of old microphones

that distort the sound but never

take away the beauty,

worn out from decades of use

third comes the rain

pouring down like diamonds,

cutting through your skull

all the way down to your soul

where they all fall into an empty, black pit in your stomach

I have been told can only be filled with God

they fill me up nonetheless

and I live off a steady diet of red paint

and old alleyways

and the ashes of burnt memories

next, up ahead,

there’s a rest stop waiting for you

where you can wallow in your teenage angst

as you are repeatedly chastised

to just, for the respect and integrity of the older generations

let it go

and what comes fifth?

your first real scream

gnawing and gnashing at the feet of the patriarchy

and the walls and foundation of society

your voice echoes through city streets

as you let out the burden that’s been

forced upon your blackened soul

and you scream your throat raw,

burning with same pain

that stings your eyes in the darkness

and you shout

until you have nothing left in you

until you have nothing