I woke up this morning to the blues
Of the sky, the wind, my nail polish
I woke up this morning to the rancidity of the generation
Ambition has expired
And our faith is victim to fragmentation
Anger, the fuel and gloss on our lips
We are immune to the toxins
Practice makes perfect, like how we are
wringing our throats in bathroom stalls
Painting empty words on empty walls like empty pages
So caught up in the latest
We’ve forgotten our own names
We’ve forgotten that it’s all the same in the end
God doesn’t play pretend
And this s*** is realer than it’s ever been
Playing tag with our virginity
And some girl is still wishing she had hers to hold
What are we really worth?
Stay silent and when we drift in the hallways
Don’t dare to look anyone in the eye.
Intelligence comes with time
But wisdom comes with experience
And I’m curious to see
How much I’ve lived
How much I’ve given
Because I’m trying
And I shouldn’t have to be sorry for not being
everything everybody wanted me to be
And not living up to the phantom of reality
But I’m not here to use big words
And big girls don’t cry over the inconsiderate
Boys will be boys
And girls will get used to it
Big boys don’t back down when they’ve got them feels
And I just want to feel safe
That when I close my eyes
I don’t always have to open them to find skin
On these walls we write stories
Where the heroes never win
But they hope
Because maybe I deserve to never get tired of hearing myself sing
I forgot how to start the first paragraph
Do you put an indent or a bruise before the first word?
We forgot how to have a first time
We forgot how to not be traditional
And that poems don’t always have to rhyme
Remind me where my heart is again
I lost it in the maze of my own rebellion
What keeps me alive these days is the bitter heroin
of daydreams
I wish beauty could be more than a fantasy
So clouded with happiness, with ecstasy
That sometimes, I just want everything to leave
I want to figure out how to stop rhyming
How do we stop lying to ourselves
My favorite color isn’t blue
But every Sunday, I make sure to paint it on my nails
Like empty words on our pencil’s tips
Where do I start?
Because Poetry is an art
that doesn’t know time
Doesn’t smell the expiration
Doesn’t fear the color blue
Or regret our generation
Where do I start?
With a better gloss for my lips or
more non big words or
better stories?
Because I’m just curious to see
How much practice it will take to realize
We are all made perfect in the first place.
How many words will I have to wring from my throat
For someone to get it?
For ambition to last as long as hope.