A Burst Cry,

Location

At the bitter age of 23, I am cursed

to wonder of the afterwards

when Social Media, the false golden calf

that even I find myself prostrate before.

has determined for the Millenials

what success shall shine bright in our eyes.

 

I want to find myself amazed

at the glory of a poem that I meted out,

word by bloody word, its form

breaking loose from my hardened clay mind.

 

It's hard to be creative

when the chemicals in your brain

mix as well as lit gasoline

and stagnant water.

All I can think about are lines

stolen from the page, imprinted,

ready to spring free from my pen

but they are not mine -

no, they were never mine.

 

It's hard to be original

when Reddit has determined that there are no more OP,

just faceless boys twisting words and images

into humorous, meaningless distractions.

I post my battered poem down;

I scream out to the online world:

"HERE IT IS! NOTICE MY EFFORT! PAY HEED TO MY SACRIFICE!"

 

One person ends up clicking -

the mothers, ever supportive,

willing to treat their young as fragile eggs;

never shall we endure harsh reality

(if only they understood that our shells were meant to be hatched) -

as for my poem,

it quickly disappears from the page -

"An Ode to Tard's Grumpiness"

(complete with said cat at her misunderstood foulest)

has beaten me yet again.

 

Meanwhile, while I fight against the 

mindless allure of my computer screen,

the bills and worries threaten to drown me.

My college loans are tethered to my ankles,

and they're not going to pay themselves,

though my first two schools only succeeded

in draining me of my ambition, as my broken wallet

resulted in nights spend in sleepless terror

that I wouldn't be able to come back next semester

despite my grades and hard-won awards;

meanwhile, the few yet proudly ignorant aristocrats of our time

slid their way through school and are the first

to settle into careers:

Ah, the demi-god of Nepotism -

the love and abuse of family power.

 

My first working experience in the "real world"

almost stole away my love for writing.

For $150 a week at a marketing firm, I was ordered to:

write 20 articles and 5 blogs, study SEO, follow social media trends, learn Google Analytics, hire interns, answer dozens of emails, barely sleep, ignore the scrupulous nature of our clients, throw up every morning at 9 a.m sharp after I received the daily assingnments, consider seeing a therapist, and ultimately reject that notion as I wasn't paid enough.

 

Business is a succubus:

She lures you in with dreams of our ultimate success

only to steal your soul and enjoys taking tender bites.

 

I stopped writing for my own necessity -

It was the loneliest year of my life.

 

Our time is a hypocrisy!

Snowden reveals the corruption eating away at our society, and is forced to flee for his freedom - 

Congress has only passed 18 laws before the August recess, one of which was to name a bridge in St. Louis - 

A. Rod and dozens of other atheletes fail drug tests more often that they hit balls, then go back to playing with their millions -

Meanwhile, millions of college graduates have defaulted on their loans, while that same Congress from above contemplates doubling rates -

Soliders come home from tour after tour, only to sit in PTSD rehabs, walking away if they're able to on the limbs they were born with!

 

In the face of all this, it's no wonder I feel like a complete failure:

at 23, these are the realities of the world I live in and

the vast majority have grown content from this bullshit

thanks to smart phones, apps, and all of the free games we can play.

For me, my reason to live is to cut back on funeral costs,

which are rising, just like everything else.

 

I am the newly coined term "Quarter-life Crisis"

I am the product of toxins, hormones, color dyes, and steroids.

I was corrupted since before I was born

with an altruistic, artistic, autisitic brain that doesn't work.

 

I've been framed!

Who set me up to fall like this?

Was it my mom, for leaving my dad as she found out I was wallowing in utero? 

Only to take him back, but never to give me his name?

Maybe my brain really is out for blood,

as specialists and therpists run uninsured pockets dry,

while my dad's ex-wife demanded more child support

to spend on cruises for herself and spaghetti for the kids,

and my siblings stare at me with haughty eyes

waiting for my Jekyll's black woolly head to arise.

I could blame the media's focus on Catholic scandals

whle my oldest brother dressed up his fantasies 

as he tucked us both into bed.

Let's blame my first boyfriend - or my last boyfriend -

Hell! Add the ones in between!

 

It's everyone's fault and yet mine alone.

 

I have suffered enough to make a Youtube video

using index cards to gain a millions views

- but I am not here to entertain the masses - 

and though I sometimes contemplate the sweet song of the night,

I refuse to let the dusk creep on me, ever knowing.

 

In all of this darkness, I want to find my own light.

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