I’ve found my battle cry and it sounds a lot like acceptance.

Today, our tragic youth is the face our mothers make when you don’t move your ass from the couch you’ve been sitting on for hours holding your not so smart phone, feeling like you’re part of something large and infinite. It feels like freedom mostly, because the masks you wear, the personality and life you just created with a bunch of pictures you tried too hard to perfect makes you feel like anything is possible and you can be anyone you want to be. But in all this openness and imposed rawness of it all is a sense of loss and the tragedy of love that’s not kind or true . We are sitting on the edges, our feet dangling and laughing with death in our minds, hoping sooner the better because the living is tiring us. I’m crossing a busy road with looking no left or right but to a screen that said |”I hope you’re okay”, to a screen that shows six missed calls from my mother but none from my father and I’m convinced it’s reason enough to carry my heart unprotected on a busy road. I’m walking the streets like I owe earth an apology, that I need to run to finish line and prove my worth and hoping that is “finding myself” and in that I’ll find happiness. So? we figure out we like poetry, you find your soul mate, you find clarity in the face of a child you taught, you see meaning in discovering places or human bodies , but does that make difference? Do you love yourself better? Did you stop taking those pills? Did you look both ways while crossing that busy road?
Our generation is taught to treat every emotional need as a disorder. And we are treating a poison that never stung. Most mornings I watch myself slip into sedation of the obsession we have of running till our lungs are bleeding, till our hearts are aching of a grief that is bigger than us, bigger than life. We have mothers and fathers that worry and are ready to hold us, but we are convinced they do not understand, we are convinced we cannot be fixed. We are so caught trying to lift our heads in the heaviness of a shame without a sin, we forget to take the hand that try to help. Our youth is spend believing if our hearts aren’t heavy, unless our eyes brim with water and lashes grow dark , you wouldn’t find happiness. And we’ve chosen a fight of numbness, we’re fighting feelings and emotions with pills and alcohol and mostly our bare fists. We are the people we talked about over cigarettes and pending college work “Did you hear what happened to that kid down the street?” ” Did you hear what happened to that girl?” We are pills for teeth, line-breaks for scars, overripe, peeling fruits for hearts.We are sitting homeless on the corner of our own faith, palms outstretched, lips bruised and begging for change.


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