Incomplete 11/29

It was the winter that ironic posturing finally swept the huddled masses in our bleak city. I stared over the sea of despondent youth desperately mimicking warehouse culture, awkwardly aping a more bohemian aesthetic while refusing to acknowledge, let alone question, the rampant consumerism they'd inherited. I wonder what it felt like to be too late for a movement that refused to be a movement. Slum.Slum.Slum.

It was all too much. None of it was enough. I couldn't muster the energy to hate it.

Who held the first dance party?

Who held the first dance party here? Someone who had read that this was what was now done. Someone who had read that this was how it was done.

Unattended

What he’d done became an ax blade, blunt
A forceful strike making two from one

The divide was not true though
And many smaller pieces lay scattered

Pieces that cannot be fitted back into a whole
Pieces that assure two cannot return to one

Pieces that must now lay in
Splinters, shards, chunks and dust

Unattended but not forgotten
Unattended but not forgotten

From Torment

We who move

Unaided;

Who rip to shreds

All emotion -

Aside from torment -

We shall overcome.

The Cynic,

The Skeptic,

The Sneerer,

The Critic.

The world shall be ours.

Your happiness is no match

For our disgust,

Our distaste.

We will pull beauty,

Bloodied and screaming,

From the hideous face of truth.

We will force you to stare

Directly into horrible reality that surrounds us.

Your smile will melt,

And you will see truth;

And you too will toil

Side by side

With us

To see this mess as beautiful.