53 notebooks filled to the brim
With notes about our friends
Who’s dating who
And who’s fucking you
We have it all jotted in pen
With the whites of our eyes turned red
With tears drown out faces again
We face the problematic fates
Of our diplomatic takes
On what we are allowed to do with our power
And in the meantime, we know that you call her.
Fuck you, shot caller, baller, player
We hate her
Now.
Youth is wasted on the young
The frivolous die before they belong
And we never got to appeal
For the things that could make us heal
Or feel real
After all the abuse
At the hands of the ones who call us
The youths.
And don’t ask
We never questioned their truths.
But we lived.
99 voicemails on the phone
A hundred heartaches on loan
Tell me who you see
When you try and look at me
Don’t tell me, I know I haven’t grown
And the years of our lives begging for dead
With redemption at the sides of our bed
The parental supervision turned in
And we’re already 7 minutes in
So what are we supposed to do with our power
Drinking whiskey, smoking out without her
Fuck you, shot caller, soothsayer
Is it over
Now?
Youth is wasted on the young
The frivolous die before they belong
And we never got to appeal
For the things that could make us heal
Or feel real
After all the abuse
At the hands of the ones who call us
The youths.
And don’t ask
We never questioned their truths.
But we lived.
Dramatic adventures
From the inside of a basement
Filled to the brim
With people like Marvel
Tasting it sweet,
The girls’ power
Ass eating, toy guzzling
Between the sheets
Beeping like pagers
Sweating with ragers
At the end of the ages
We move on in stages
Wishing they’d wager
Their bets
So we can move on wet—
with our lives.
Don’t tell me
That we haven’t tried.
And they said,
“Enjoy your youth”
But they lied.
