Hopeless youth ranting
On small rectangle machines
Drinking dark and sweet and musty
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
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).
SAOIRSHE O NEILL