Speak, Poet.

We are alive in amazing times; delicate hearts, diabolical minds.

Ghosts

deadsnaketree:

I recently started calling my parents by their first names

it occurred right about the time I stopped saying grace at the table

instead I just bow my head and silently respect popular delusions

It’s a symptom of an illness that I have

you have it to

this illness is gripping my generation like a heavy weight champion

strangling his affinity for high heeled shoes and feeling pretty

in titty bars and tribal tattoos and overblown machismo

so transparent I feel embarrassed for him because he doesn’t have enough sense not to

his disguise is good enough he’s fooled himself, but no one else

it’s like junk mail, zits, doubt

we all have it

we’re all, despite our noble attempts

growing up

growing old

dying very very slowly

I remember when I was young and I didn’t care if the earth was flat or not

All I cared about was the smell of summer

I had a bicycle, ten dollars generously loaned from my ever disapproving parents

and a collection of Pokémon cards that would make the kids on my school bus weep with envy

and that was all I needed

I was an adventurer

and even now I try to recapture that sense of awe and wonder that made being small so much better

than being big

I remember the pure pleasure of running

just running as fast as your scuffed sneakers would carry you

over cool wet grass as the sun sets rosy red and orange like a slow motion apocalypse

the creak slam of screen doors

and the table is already set waiting for me

tonight we’re having fried chicken, peas, mashed potatoes, and a tall glass of cold milk

and later, after a hot bath

I will find no struggle in falling asleep

nothing haunts

nothing worries

no nothing ever conceived could be as beautiful

as the absence of pain

the sticky world of childhood has been reduced to gum stuck on the underside of a barstool

we raise our glasses penitently to the memory of it

and stumble out into the snow to smoke cloves and wonder

will the future be as beautiful as the past?

I think not

I don’t believe in heaven

but I do believe in ghosts

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