A Generation

 Hopeless youth ranting
 On small rectangle machines
 Drinking dark and sweet and musty
 Green tea,
 And the old are fearful
 Of the new
 As they always
 Seem to be.
 Watching old movies
 That make you feel
 Hoping you can
 Write, paint, sing, scream
 A new anti-society
 For people to read.
 We are all disenfranchised.
 Our governments fail us
 And we consume too much
 For our own good.
 But isn’t that just
 Being carefree?
 A generation of people
 Told they were different,
 Each of us
 Doing the same things.


I wrote this poem for my poetry class this semester. I like the idea of internal rhymes that build tension in a poem, I think Poe used them really well.
  I’ve always carried this feeling with me
  Like a dull beating drum or a constant
  Annoying hum, in the back of my mind
  Wherever I go.
  I tried to learn an instrument 
  But the guitar isn’t that eloquent  
  And the chords always deceived me. 
  So I tried my hand at a different brand 
  And watched old movies. 
  Trying desperately to educate myself 
  On everything it is to be human 
  But the answer remained a mystery. 
  Instead, I bought a camera. 
  I thought the study of other people 
  Could somehow enlighten me 
  On my own diaspora 
  But instead I felt indoctrinated, 
  Propagandized by my own mind 
  Clueless to the ways of myself 
  And everything I left... undefined. 
  Silly of me to think I could find
  Anything out about myself
  From the mind of someone else. 


 Home will not let you forget.
 The smell of freshly picked apples in the afternoon,
 My mother soaking them by the kitchen sink,
 Rubbing off the mildew under running water.
 I watched her dry her hands on her bright yellow apron.
 She led me to the table as I wiped the sleep from my eyes.
 Where is that apron now?
 I remember the gentle hum of my father’s voice;
 My head on his chest, surrounded by an infinite army
 Of fluffy teddy bears,
 As he read Around the World in Eighty Days
 Or The Twelve Dancing Princesses.
 And how his smile loomed in the dim orange light
 Of my childhood bedroom.
 To this day, I am reminded of home
 Whenever Neil Young comes on the radio.
 I think of my mother, singing along in the car.
 And her laughter when I told her
 She would be a great singer.
 It all seemed so possible then.
 But those days that seemed never-ending
 Came to an end. 
 That innocent child,
 I wish could have stayed a while.
 Oh, how I’d like to meet the girl
 That lived in the clouds
 (Hidden from the world).