The millennials dance until they gotta sit down
and talk of the strobe lights, the pulse of black + colors,
and not of what will happen to ’em, entitled
to tomorrow morning. Don’t waste all your hard-earned cash
drinking. A thirty-five dollar cask cocktail,
lit with a lighter igniting like never give up on your dreams.
Shouldn’t we be saving for
the morning? How many craft beers can you pre-drink
before driving to the nightclub and how can you afford
parking? And a tip for the valet, “Don’t spend it all in one . . .
Fuck it, it’s your life.” In the morning
we blow our savings at the coffee shop
on ceramic coffee cups hand crafted and hand painted
Only two. We can’t afford to invest in a set. But we
aren’t complaining. We were raised to see
beauty in the dream of ceramics
Cast by our own two hands.
(Yes, this poem has been adjusted for inflation. This poem has appeared on my Medium before. I am doing some revising, reposting, and shuffling of my favorites.
(My mind always gets a bit untethered when things repeat, or when the cycle comes back around, maybe before I’m ready, or when I need it most.
(I like repetition so I get another chance to learn; I like when things repeat so they get a chance to come back to me.)
Cut from draft 1:
(My mind always gets a bit untethered when things repeat, or when a person pretends to say something for the first time when it is a repetition, *cough cough* standup comedians *love*
.I don’t want to confuse anyone, or gaslight, so for the sake of transparency,
this poem has appeared on my Medium before
(Repetition is good, as long as you know it is a repetition. Final drafts are good, but know that the rough draft came
first)
