Youth

Sometimes I wish that I still felt as I did in my youth, struggling for identity and acceptance but sill innocent nonetheless. This one is just for fun...

Youth

I was a punk
And now I am just a hipster, semi-wanderer
Who sometimes forgets youth
Those guys, I'm flashing back in time to, running around in circles
On dirt floors of the Seaman's Lodge in the hills
With trench coats harming no one but punching each other nonetheless

It was mad, innocent fun and the energy
Was something out of an indie film that my parents wouldn't let me see,
And that's why I liked it so much.
Anarchist sheaths who sat on the grass
Waiting for mediocrity and brilliance
A beat up bass amp used for a regular guitar instead.

Freedom and rolling and rolling down the slope
Like it would never end and there was no end.
I wished that I had a Mohawk
Or that I did drugs.
I wanted a nickname.

You can call me Smalls
Killer
Duct tape
Falz
Money
Stitch
Snake
Brawls

I wanted a cigarette but I was scared.
The other 16 year old kids were doing it
But what would it mean for my soul?
I wanted to be remembered
But I was a good kid and rarely did anything wrong.

This was so un-punk.
The music squelched to deafening levels
And the circle of pseudo violence commenced again.
Yelling at my comrade for the night over the sweet noise
I said, “Punch me!”

Without hesitation, I flexed my stomach muscles
And with even less hesitation, he hit me in the gut.
I wheezed and he marched with a crooked smirk.
“Oh!” He yelled at my neck, “What was that for?”
“Punk rock, baby, punk rock,” I screamed back.

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