Rocks At Your Window

Teenage wasteland incarnate,
we were.

Far as firm rejections go,
founding principles
were no longer invincible but
windows
we were,

inclined to colour with a
thousand cracks

(crayons fucking
broken glass)

but the only colours I accept
are shades of skin and
a bloody mess where
the shards sank in

living with
corporate welfare
kids,

capitalist romantics
and praying mantis
politicos.

When we were young, yes, windows were fragile and the fire was our most affable face.

Teenage headcases,
emotional
carnage
bulls through a China shop
we were.

Somewhere in all of us
is a little arsonist
looking for love in all
the wrong places.

They all just happen to burn to the ground.

 

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